#this isn’t directed at anyone really I’m just

[daisymbin]

wrong direction? - jeon wonwoo

warnings: none

pairings: jeon wonwoo x reader

genre: friends to ???

wc: 1.2k

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wonwoo's fingers gripped the steering wheel as he watched you slide into the passenger seat, the weight of exhaustion clear on your face.

“worst date of my life,” you huffed, buckling your seatbelt. “i’m never going on another date. that guy was such a prick.”

wonwoo's eyes shifted to you, searching for any sign of humor, but there was none. “what happened?” he asked, voice low but laced with concern.

“where do i even start?” you sighed, leaning your head back against the headrest. “he talked about himself the entire time, barely let me speak, and when i finally did, he interrupted me to say how he ‘didn’t see me as smart as i looked.’ who even says that?”

wonwoo's jaw clenched almost imperceptibly. “he really said that?”

you nodded, eyes narrowing as the memory replayed. “and to top it all off, he didn’t even bother to walk me out or make sure i got home safe. he just said, ‘better luck next time’ and left.”

a tense silence settled in the car. you glanced over, noticing the way wonwoo's gaze had darkened, the muscles in his jaw working like he was trying to hold back words.

“why are you so quiet?” you asked, curiosity piqued.

his eyes met yours, a softness replacing the tension. “i just can’t believe anyone would say or do that to you,” he said, each word deliberate. “i would never do that to you.”

your heart stuttered at the quiet intensity in his voice, leaving you momentarily speechless. the way he said it; so genuine, so unyielding, sending a shiver down your spine.

“you wouldn’t?” you asked, a small, hesitant smile forming, half-joking to break the sudden tension.

“of course not.” his eyes flicked back to the road, but you caught the hint of pink dusting his cheeks. “you deserve better than some guy who makes you feel small.”

the car fell into silence again, but this time it was warmer, almost comforting. you stared out the window at the passing streetlights, their glow blurring into a soft, continuous line. it was always like this with wonwoo: quiet moments that spoke volumes.

“i guess i just always think it’s going to be different, you know?” you murmured, eyes unfocused. “like, maybe this time, i’ll find someone who actually listens, who makes me feel seen. or just someone who understands, really.”

“and you didn’t feel that tonight,” he stated, more than asked.

“not even close.” the bitterness in your laugh stung, and you felt the weight of disappointment press down on your chest.

wonwoo’s hands tightened on the steering wheel again, knuckles turning pale. “it’s not fair.”

“what isn’t?”

“you putting your hopes in people who don’t deserve them.” he pulled up to a red light, taking the opportunity to turn and face you. the streetlight cast shadows across his sharp features, highlighting the worry etched in his expression. “they don’t see you the way they should.”

you swallowed, throat tight. “and how should they see me?”

wonwoo hesitated, eyes searching yours, as if measuring the risk of his next words. “like someone worth more than half-assed dates and careless words. like someone whose smile is worth protecting.” he let out a breath, a self-conscious smile flickering at his lips. “like i do.”

the green light washed over the car, urging him to start driving again, but neither of you moved.

“wonwoo…” you finally whispered, your voice barely audible.

he looked down, fingers flexing on the steering wheel as if to ground himself. “sorry. that was… a lot.”

“no, its-,” you said quickly, feeling a surge of courage rush through you. “i needed that.”

his eyes met yours again, hope softening their usual intensity. “yeah?”

“yeah,” you said, a smile breaking free as the tension dissolved into something sweeter, something hopeful. “maybe the problem isn’t dating itself. maybe it’s just who i’ve been dating.”

a soft laugh escaped him, the sound easing the last of your doubts. “maybe,” he agreed, a hint of a smile tugging at his lips. “or maybe you were just looking in the wrong direction.”

the hum of the engine filled the silence as you sat there, words caught in your throat. the night outside was quiet, the city lights casting shifting patterns on the windshield. wonwoo’s gaze drifted to you again, his expression unreadable but open, waiting.

“i guess i never realized you thought that,” you said, voice small. “about me being worth…more.”

he let out a soft, humorless laugh. “i’ve thought it for years. it’s not exactly something i could just say out of the blue, though.”

“why not?” you asked, curiosity replacing some of the earlier nerves. “we’re friends, aren’t we?”

“yeah, we are,” he admitted, a shadow crossing his features. “but sometimes, when you care about someone that much, being just friends starts to feel like a lie.”

your breath caught in your chest, the words hanging between you like a delicate thread, ready to snap or strengthen?

“a lie?” you repeated, the weight of it sinking in slowly.

he glanced at his hands, fingers tightening briefly before he forced them to relax. “yeah. like i’m pretending that seeing you smile after a terrible day doesn’t make everything feel a little better. or that it doesn’t mess me up to watch you walk into places hoping to find someone who sees you the way i do.”

his confession hit you like a wave, warm and overwhelming, washing away the disappointment of the evening and leaving something new in its place. you hadn’t expected tonight to end with anything other than frustration, but here he was, peeling back layers of himself you hadn’t even known were there.

“wonwoo…” you trailed off, eyes searching his for any sign of hesitation. there was none, just an unwavering sincerity that made your heart ache in the best way.

“im sorry,” he added, a nervous chuckle breaking the silence. “i just couldn’t keep quiet when i see you hurt like this. you deserve to know you’re worth more than one bad date or any guy who makes you feel less.”

the smile that broke over your face was small but real, a spark of hope igniting in your chest. “thank you,” you whispered, the words carrying more weight than they ever had before.

he nodded, the corners of his mouth lifting slightly as relief washed over him. “anytime.”

you sat in silence, the warmth of his words settling around you like a comforting blanket. after a moment, you turned to him, a question hanging unspoken between you.

“so, what now?” you finally asked, your voice barely louder than a breath.

wonwoo’s eyes softened, a mixture of relief and vulnerability passing through them. “now, we go home,” he said, his smile gentle but certain. “and maybe… we stop pretending that we don’t know what’s been right in front of us.”

your chest tightened at the honesty in his tone. a smile tugged at your lips, small but hopeful. “i think i’d like that.”

he chuckled softly, the tension easing out of his shoulders. “yeah,” he said, looking at you with an expression that promised more than just friendship. “me too.”

[godmadeaterribleerror]

Dying’s Up To Me - No Love Love Prologue

Series Masterlist

Read on A03!

Author's Note: This is just straight sad angst. I’d apologize, but I’m not sorry.

Title from Dog Years by Halsey

Word Count: 4k

Summary/Warnings: A Prologue. Takes place 6ish months before Chapter 1. All the warnings. Mentions of suicide, isolation, and SA without depiction (not by Soldier Boy).

Tags: Soldier Boy/Supe!Female Reader, canon divergence, angst.

You escaped. You’re looking up and down the highway, at the green trees, all reaching up to the warmth of the sun, and you’re free.

You’re really, finally fucking free.

There’s soot and ash and grime covering your body, but you’re fucking free. You’ve been running for almost a day, and you’re about to collapse, but Homelander isn’t going to find you. He’s not allowed to find you. You’ll burn the whole world before you go back to the lab or the white room. You’ll figure out a way to kill yourself before you go back.

Right now, though, is about going. Just keep fucking going, until you find somewhere that hurts a little less. Not home—you don’t think you’ll ever have home again—but shelter. A place to figure out what comes immediately next, and nothing beyond that. Somewhere empty, where you can’t hurt anyone.

You really don’t want to hurt anyone. There are still the screams and pleas of the scientists and guards ringing in your ears, and their callous, arbitrary expressions had haunted your days, but their melting, flame-twisted faces would follow you into nightmares for the rest of your life. But there hadn’t been another way. You have to keep reminding yourself that there really hadn’t been another way, and you’d never do it again. If you have to, you’ll lock yourself away to never hurt anyone again.

At least this time it would be your choice. And Homelander wouldn’t be there. Nobody would touch you, and that would be fine. Anything would be better than these past few years. Loneliness would be simple, compared to eyes on you always. Cruel blue eyes, telling you that you should be lucky and grateful and to stop fucking crying. Red hands holding you down, and a cold body-

No. You won’t think about it. You won’t let him have that power over you. Another rule, nobody is allowed to have that power over you again. To consume your life like that, and tell you a single fucking thing about yourself.

You find a rest stop, and the sign on the side tells you that you’re still in upstate New York, but the highway markers say you’re at least 30 miles from where you started. And you need some food, and water, and clothing, but you don’t have any money. You don’t have fucking shit, except a foreign, painful itch under your skin and scorched cloth covering your body. You don’t even have shoes, but the heat of the pavement doesn’t hurt you, and if you’ve stepped on glass at any point, there’s no evidence of it.

But you’re still so hungry. And tired. And you just want to sit down and wear something that doesn’t smell like smoke and guts and sanitizer.

And there’s a car with the windows open, and a wallet in the cupholder. No owner in site, the lot itself practically empty.

You take the risk—only forty dollars, and the car is a Tesla, so you don’t feel that bad—and shuffle into the rest stop. You can afford some chips, and a water bottle, and so much New York themed clothing someone would think you’re a sponsor of the state. A hoodie, sweatpants, and a baseball cap and sunglasses that you wear indoors for safety. There’s a Wendy’s in the building, so you get the largest, most disgustingly greasy burger on the menu and drop yourself at one of the food court tables. Ignoring any stares in your direction, you focus on the news—playing on a high-mounted TV without sound—and eat.

Things have changed since you’ve last been outside. A lot of things have really changed. That blonde supe, with the light powers who’d only just joined the Seven before you’d died in every way that mattered, has renounced it. Vought, the Seven, the whole supe-kebab. The newscasters are talking about how she’s accused Homelander of being an abusive, manipulative psychopath, that’s a danger to America and everyone alive.

You could’ve told them that. You have three years of testimony to that very fact, plus a little more you never want to think about again.

Queen Maeve is missing. You’d take a safe bet Homelander’s got something to do with that as well, because when you’d seen him last he was sneering at you about how the only people he respected always fucking betray him, and made you promise once more to never lie to him or hurt him or pretend to know better than he did. You had, because you didn’t have a choice, and the rest of that day was locked deep inside your brain, in a place you’d never open.

Someone who’s apparently very infamous named William Butcher—you’d heard that name before, but you’re not sure where—is working with Soldier Boy, who’s somehow alive and also a threat to America. That’s interesting. Not the threat to America part—you’d take a pretty safe bet than any man with V in his body and sparkling TV persona is dangerous and shouldn’t be trusted—but the alive part. It explained Homelander’s complaints of nobody is stronger than he is last time, and his joking, menacing order to the scientists to not make you too powerful.

You didn’t care about powerful. You didn’t really care about most things anymore, and you’re not sure where you’re going from here, but it’s never within a million fucking yards of Homelander, or Vought, or anything else that might trap you and hurt you. Hopefully this William Butcher guy and Soldier Boy will kill Homelander, and he won’t be your problem again. Blondie can deal with the whole those guys are a threat to America thing after, because right now—as long as they’re only targeting Homelander—you just need it done. A dead Homelander, fast, and quick, and done, so nobody ever had to hurt like this again.

From the rest stop, you wander for a long while more. Down the highway, scratching at your skin to keep the fire in your body, never touching anyone, and stealing money out of cars to keep yourself alive. At one point, you find a public library in a small town—hidden deep in the Berkshires with tall trees that shield you in green light from anyone in the sky—and google yourself.

You’re dead. Very dead. Three years ago you’d died by suicide, leaving a note that said you were jumping off a bridge, and nobody had looked into it further beyond that. Your father had written your obituary, calling you smart, and kind, and determined. And that was it.

Nothing left to go back to.

You make two rules. One, you can never touch anyone again, because you can feel what they feel and it’s not fair.

Two, you’ll never be peaceful again, and that’s fine. You’re too broken to live any sort of normal life, and you’ll be alone, but it’s for everyone’s safety. You’re a danger, Vought’s a danger, and Homelander’s the worst danger of all.

Because Soldier Boy and William Butcher had failed you—they didn’t even fucking know you, but you were still annoyed about it—and Homelander was still fucking alive. Soldier Boy was dead himself, Queen Maeve was dead as well, and even though the news said Homelander was on trial for killing someone in broad daylight, you don’t think that will go anywhere. He was pleading innocent, like a fucking cunt, and a jury would buy it. He had—allegedly—killed that guy for his son, Ryan, who was a very sweet looking boy that you’d heard some very confusing things from Homelander about. How Ryan was strong, and he was proud to have a son, even if the son’s mother was a bitch who’d died like a fucking cockroach. How Ryan was still too human, and was being so mean to Homelander, siding with William Butcher over his own father-

Oh. That’s where you’d heard the name Butcher before. He was the guy that Homelander was always complaining about being an annoying inconvenience, ruining his perfectly good life, always trying to kill him when that was impossible.

Killing Homelander was impossible. Soldier Boy hadn’t done it, and even Blondie—you’ve learned her supe name was Starlight, and her real name is Annie January—had said she thought he could. To be fair, every news report you could find said that Soldier Boy went insane at the end, trying to kill everyone around him without remorse, but it really doesn’t matter in the long run, because Homelander is still alive, and unkillable.

You should leave. You should run and never look back, find somewhere far across the ocean with sunlight and grass and a sky that won’t ever be watching you. But you need to see your grave first. It feels important, for some stupid fucking reason, to sit at your grave and ensure that there’s some evidence you existed. Some proof that, at least before, you were loved and safe. A remnant of that part of you, that will never exist again.

It’s not a fancy gravestone. When you find it—after another week of walking and stealing and trying not to scream at the sky in case it hears—it actually looks a little pathetic. It has your name, and your birthday, and the day that you “died”. It says loving daughter and sister, and that’s it. No real epitaph, just loving daughter and sister.

And you can’t bring yourself to leave. You think you might rot away here, because you can’t actually die, but you can stop being alive. In every way that counts, you’re not alive. You’re alone and cold and the wind is biting at your ears at night, despite the suffocating heat of the day. It rains, a heavy thunderstorm that lasts two nights, and you don’t flinch or catch a cold. So you’ll stay here, and try not to think about how you weren’t a loving daughter or sister. Your mother hated you, and you saw your father once a month but barely spoke outside of that, and all your siblings might have loved you, but you’ll never forgive yourself for leaving them.

Your whole life before this had been about helping people, and all that’s left is a gravestone with a lie about how good you were. No legacy, no flowers resting on the grass in tribute. Only you in the dark, staring at a name that might not be yours anymore, and watching the pine trees in the graveyard sway in the wind of the night.

“You knew her?”

You almost jump out of your skin—nobody visits this place, and you’d come to expect solitude—whipping around to see a large, dark-skinned man with an Outkast shirt, gold chain, and leather jacket standing at your side.

“Sorry?”

The man says your name, nodding to your grave stone. “You knew her?”

“Yeah,” you sigh, keeping your face bored and tone neutral. You don’t know who the fuck this guy is, or why he’s at your grave, and you don’t trust it. You don’t trust anything anymore. “Not well, though. You?”

“Never met her.” The man shrugs. “But I’m a true crime fan, thought I’d look into whatever the fuck happened to her.”

Your nails dig into your skin as you force yourself to remain completely fucking indifferent. “I thought she killed herself. Not much true crime in that.”

“Please.” The man makes a dismissive gesture, and you blink. “Nobody ever found a body, and that’s the first fucking rule of death. You always need to see the body.”

“She jumped off a bridge-“

“Or something else happened.” The man is watching you now, studying your face carefully. You’re going to bite off your tongue. “Something more true crime. You knew her. She seem like the type to kill herself?”

You don’t hesitate to answer. “Yeah, actually. She did.”

The man gives you a frown of light surprise. “Really?”

“She wasn’t exactly a happy person.” You mutter, trying not to choke on bile. “I mean, her life was fine, but she was lonely. History of mental illness, maybe she snapped.”

You wish this man would leave. Just fucking leave you alone, so you don’t have to think about this. You had been lonely, but not like you are now. Things had been getting better before, you’d been getting better before, and now nothing would ever be better again.

But the man hums, still watching you, and stays. “Tragic shit.” He extends his hand. “Marvin Milk, by the way. You?”

You recognize that name. You don’t have a fucking clue from where, but you do. And you hesitate too long, because you can’t shake Marvin Milk’s hand, but you won’t tell him your name. So when you finally speak, you see his face twitch, and you have to get out of here.

“I’m nobody,” you say, and cross your arms. A clear, plain signal that you won’t shake his hand. “And I actually have somewhere to be-“

“Fuckin hell, that’s it.”

Whatever painfully British voice said that came from behind you, and Marvin Milk’s eyes widen.

You haven’t fully turned when something large and explosive hits you, launching your right through your own gravestone and yanking any control over the fire away from your grasp.

You’re burning. The whole fucking world is flame, and there’s no purpose to it. It’s just pain and anger and fire. Trying to find what hurt you—or tried to hurt you, you don’t have a scratch on your body—and hurt it.

You don’t want to hurt it. Your hand has moved to your throat, and you’re gripping yourself with white-knuckles, trying to yank all the fire back into your body. You hate this, and you don’t want to hurt anyone, and people are yelling around you and you’ll never be safe again-

You have to run. Try to get around them, away from them, away from everyone. If Vought, if Homelander, sent them to collect you, you’ll bury yourself so deep in the earth they’ll have to spend a lifetime digging to find you. If they’re the government, they can choke on the fire and smoke—rushing from you like a hurricane, scorching the dirt and grass and night around you—and pass out until you’re far, far away from anyone who will ever know you.

Third rule. The world is burning around you, several voices are shouting Anomaly and it’s making the fire slip further from your grasp, and nobody will be allowed to know you again. Just to be safe, nobody will be allowed past the layer of your appearance and the words that you calculate before they leave your mouth.

People who know you call you weak. And you can’t afford to be weak anymore. There’s so much fucking pain in your body, and you can’t let it control you. You’re moving on pure instinct, trying to just go, fucking run, get away and hide for a million years until this heals itself, but these people are trying to stop you. Through the haze of flame and smoke and pain you can count six of them, but their features are blurred with the rest of the world. They seem to be yelling at each other more than you, scrambling around to try and keep you in the graveyard but away from their bodies. Three of them are running at you, two smaller women and a man, and all of them shouting at the man in particular.

He’s raising something you’re not lucid enough to recognize, but you know it’s aimed at you, and everyone is screaming and shouting and everything hurts-

Something crashes over your body, and the whole world starts to hiss. It’s water—ice-cold fucking water—that’s steaming off your still burning, almost naked body, and it’s brought you down.

But you’re still angry. Everything is sharp and in focus, and now you’re fucking angry. You can see the man clearly before you—Hawaiian shirt, black trench coat, bearded face in a crude smirk that you want to punch—and you’re going to get out of here.

“Pleasure to meet you, Love-“

The man—he’s the British cunt who blasted you through your grave—never gets to finish his greeting. Your punch to his jaw is weak—wrath and a bitter, hollow hole forming in your body from the contact—but your whole body is still alight with flame so it does the trick. You manage push down the guilt that eats you from the twist and sizzle of his flesh, he’ll live, hopefully, and fucking run.

You’re halfway to the graveyard gate when someone tackles you, knocking you to the ground. They’re strong—filled with determination and focus—and you’re burning but they’re not moving off of you. You’re screaming and thrashing, you need to go, this person is touching you and people can’t touch you, can’t hold you, can’t be near you to keep you under them ever again, never fucking again-

“Mon Coeur, you are burning-“

“Unless you got a better plan to keep the human fuckin wildfire down, Frenchie, Kimiko’s gonna be sittin on her until she calms her bloody tits.”

That gets through. They’ll let you go if you calm down.

You don’t know how to calm down. Everything is burning and you can’t calm down, so your hand creeps back to your throat. That’s helped before, yanking yourself down by a brutal anchor, but the fire is out and you can’t pull it back in.

The person above you is suddenly gone, and you think the world might be ending. Everything is burning, but you can’t control your legs or body or brain. Your own screams are hollow in your head, exhaustion settles in your bones, your body aching, and the fire goes dark with your consciousness.

When you wake up—the world a blur you have to blink away—that determination that doesn’t belong to you is still all over your skin, and someone is pinning your arms behind your back. You’re still in the graveyard, kneeling on the grass as dawn cracks the horizon, and there are five people with varying levels of weariness on their faces before you. Watching as you shake yourself awake, their bodies braced as if you might attack them like a feral animal.

You won’t. Right now. You’ll find out who they are, and what they want, then adapt to whatever the situation calls for.

In the breaching daylight, it’s easier to see their faces. Marvin Milk is still there, his jacket slightly scorched—you feel a little bad, it was a nice jacket—and he’s standing next to a shorter, twitchy and wild-eyed man who’s mostly looking behind you. At whoever is holding you. Next to the shorter man is another taller, skinny, anxious looking man, who’s running his hands through his hair and looking around the rest of the group with a nervous expression.

And his side is Blondie. Starlight. Fucking Starlight, in normal people clothing, studying you with a drawn focus and glaring at the man right before you.

William Butcher. You hadn’t recognized him in the haze of your fear and the flame, in the shadows of the night, but that’s him. His face is twisted with a burn, but you’ve seen enough of the news to recognize the fucker.

They’re not with Vought or Homelander. And you still don’t fucking trust it.

You cough, forcing yourself to speak. “What do you want.”

“Look who’s gotten up from her fuckin nap-“

“Shut up,” you mutter, looking over their odd group with narrowed eyes. “I know you idiots, I’ve seen the news. What the fuck do you want from me.”

“That depends,” Marvin Milk crosses his arms, looking you up and down. “You want to tell us who the hell you are, without any lies?”

“Are you going to hit me with a rocket launcher again?”

William Butcher looks like he’s going to sneer something at you, but Starlight cuts him off.

“We won’t. We shouldn’t have,” she shoots Butcher a glare. “In the first place. Please just tell us who you are.”

You chew on your cheek, still not ready to show your cards. “Who do you think I am?”

“We don’t got the faintest idea-“

“Wrong.” You snap. “You clearly have some idea, if you’re bringing weapons and making someone hold me down.” You twist around, and find the owner of the alien determination crossing your skin—a dark-haired, pretty asian woman with an unwavering face—watching you. “You don’t have to restrain me, by the way. I won’t run, and you shouldn’t touch me.”

The woman looks over your shoulder, and Butcher scoffs. “You just tried to bloody kill us, Love, forgive us for making sure you ain’t able to do it again-“

“If I am who you think I am,” you drawl. “Then we both know I could kill you if I wanted to. I’ll talk, but she shouldn’t touch me.”

The wild-eyed man swallows, and speaks with the heaviest French accent you’ve ever heard. “Why may she not touch you-“

“She may,” you shrug best you can with the woman still gripping your arms. “But she shouldn’t. I can feel you,” you turn to the woman once more. “And I can’t help it.”

“The fuck you mean feel her-“

You cut off Milk with a flat look. “I’ll tell you if she lets me go.”

They all exchange looks, Starlight nods to the woman, and when she lets go you’re left alone in your body once more. Empty and tired and alone.

“Awesome,” you rub your wrists, remaining on the ground as the woman rejoins her group. “So? What’s up, cunts?”

They all stare at you, and the tall, nervous one speaks first, rubbing the back of his neck.

“We’re, um, looking for you? I think?”

“And who am I?”

They all exchange frowns again. It’s starting to get annoying.

“You’re the fuckin Anomaly,” Butcher grunts, looking over you and saying your name. Your full, real name. “Dead three years ago, clearly bloody alive in front of us, escaped Vought captivity a few months back.”

“Wrong.” You mutter. “Wasn’t Vought.”

Starlight frowns. “But-“

“Was Vought funded. But not Vought.”

“Homelander, ain’t it?” Butcher smirks. “Maeve said you got an agenda-“

“I don’t have anything,” you snap. “What do you want.”

They want you. To fight for them. To kill Homelander.

You can’t kill Homelander. He needs to die, but you can’t kill him. The sky is becoming blue, and you’re becoming cold in the sunlight, and you can’t fight or kill Homelander.

But you can help. You tell them—almost—all your powers. Fire. Feelings. Fucking healing. You even display that last one, placing a light hand on Butcher’s face and manage not to flinch at the hatred and unending fury in his body, or the way everyone faces curl into disgust and horror as your own face morphs and contorts into burn scars, healing within the same second.

You flinch back from Butcher, and they exchange another set of fucking looks before offering you something. You don’t have to fight Homelander, but that healing thing will be useful, and they don’t want to just leave you for Homelander to find. You can go with them—provided you tell them what happened to you and work with them—and you don’t have to decay into a hollow vessel of pain and fire in the graveyard.

You look at your grave, and it's only ruins. Someone might repair it, but you think it might just stay like that. And you don’t want to stick around to find out. There’s birds singing in the trees, and the sounds of life waking with the day, and you won’t fail yourself. You won’t go back, but you want to be the last person who is reduced to a broken grave by Homelander’s hands.

It’s not like you have anything else to waste what might be immortality on.

So you dig your nails into your skin, and agree to their terms. You leave the graveyard with the Boys—that’s a stupid fucking name for a team, but you don’t tell them that—and make a fourth rule. The first three can be inherent. Don’t touch anyone, never rest, and never let anyone know you are all for survival. They’ll ring in the back of your head without reminder, because they’ll be instinct. Stay free, keep breathing, don’t stop moving or lose control. You don’t have to be alive, but you need to survive. At least until you’ve played your part, you need to keep going.

And that’s the fourth rule. Whatever it takes. You’ll never be alive again, so you need to do whatever it takes. You’ll be whatever you need to be, and Homelander will die. Homelander has to fucking die, and then you can go back to wasting away in the lonely, hollow cold.

But for now, whatever it fucking takes.

End Note: Very silly of me to publish the prologue over halfway through the series.

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[thebookworm0001]

Spoilers for the end of veilguard and specifically how solas’s story is handled under the cut

And seriously I do mean the very end of the game and I’m gonna talk about stuff that happened before then too

You have been warned

I felt satisfied with the ending.

I was able to collect all the solas memories/regret murals and very much felt like the way the ending unlocked by that was handled well.

Solas has always been a man bound by his regrets. And this game spent a lot of time establishing is primary regret is Mythal. Yes, he cares deeply about helping people and wants that world restored, but it’s less to do with the elven people and more to do with him feeling like he’s made mistake after mistake.

He’s been living in a sunk-cost fallacy for millennia and cannot see a way out. He really, really doesn’t want to do this - he knows how many people he’ll hurt to do it, but can’t see another way because if he stops now he feels like it’ll be just another betrayal of mythal when he’s already betrayed and failed her so many times. She’s the reason any of this happened.

That’s why it has to be mythal telling him to stop. He wanted to stop for a romanced lavellan - his letter says that explicitly. But he regrets mythal’s death (and his resulting actions) so much he just. Can’t let it go. What does his life mean if he can’t fulfill the wishes of the goddess that called him to service, to a body? The friend he murdered, in the end, to make up for the first time she as killed.

He was a spirit of wisdom mythal corrupted - it’s another version of Cole and the Templar who killed the human Cole. That confrontation has to happen for him to move in any direction.

And the way he absolutely crumples when he sees her? Damn if that didn’t sell me on how deeply he cares for her, beyond the murals that show how ashamed he is of what he did with and for her.

He’s always needed someone to tell him there was another way, but nobody besides mythal could absolve him of the actions he took, because they aren’t her. It’s not a matter of the nature of their relationship, rather that he cannot untie himself from the way his spirit was warped by her and the actions he took in response to her.

Idk I know people will have very different feelings and opinions on how that went down, but it made sense to me.

And my solas-romanced lavellan acted exactly how I expected her to. Granted, Ellana is the kind of lavellan who would immediately forgive him and would, no questions asked, go with him on his journey to atone. I had a whole fic planned out where she did that exact thing - even if the details weren’t what happened here.

If you have a lavellan who isn’t as sad as mine and who wouldn’t join him, yeah this ending may not work for you. But I went from being pissed at him for trapping my rook and lying about killing varric to immediately being back on my ‘fuck you’re just a deeply sad and broken man please let yourself be happy’ lament when he talked about how he failed both the world and mythal in different moments.

It worked for me. I’m satisfied by how it was handled and think the ending makes sense for the read on Solas I’ve had for the last several years. He’s just a deeply sad man who thinks he has to make up for his failures - and the one person he’s failed more than anyone tells him it’s not on him. She’s the one person he could never get forgiveness from - and he got it. And that’s why it had to be her.

[mxmorbidmidnight]

Does anyone else have their animalistic instincts suddenly activated just in everyday life over normal situations?

My goose instincts tend to go mayday over random events for example; for my birthday last month my friend got me a dancing goose toy. The second it was in my hands and it started moving I suddenly felt a deep sort of motherly drive? The same happened the other day, I was watching videos of geese. One of which was a gosling walking along a car park, I had to turn the video off because it was genuinely so stressful watching an unsupervised gosling walking around cars (parked cars but nonetheless).

When I feel threatened I flick my head to ruffle my feathers, a behaviour geese do to make themselves larger and therefore more intimidating. I often find myself doing sentry behaviours whenever I’m with people I care about (as in constantly watching for threat). When people are threatening me I find myself directing my face up at them similarly to how geese will point their beaks as a sign of aggression.

At certain times I feel a strong call to migrate as well oddly. If I ever disappear in a target you know why (tHe miGraTiOn cALLed). I can be quite the pain in the winter as I spend a considerable amount of time staring wistfully at the sky.

This is just instincts in general for me, not really from a particular one of my forms, but I don’t allow things with “incorrect” scents into my sleeping space. Sometimes when I’m holding food and water I get the sudden urge to go hide them somewhere. I am also very particular with my nest building and the people who can touch my nest.

Instinctually I feel the need to provide for people. I always carry food in my bag so my friends are never hungry. Which isn’t something that is entirely nonhuman in its nature, rather the reasoning behind it is very much connected to animalistic aspects of my mind.

[zeebreezin]

[Writing “I will not get sad about how characters of colour get handled in media & in fandom” over and over again on a blackboard, Bart Simpson style]

[marimbles]

i miss carpisuns sometimes </3

[kizzington]

Not aiming this at anyone specifically, but I’m genuinely so disappointed & annoyed at the fact no one in my real life circles bothered to reach out to me to check up on me regarding the recent Liam Payne/One Direction news.

[jimothystu]

This is fucking ridiculous. G’s been in the league for about 15 years now, so he knows what the fuck he’s talking about. People on X saying the team “needs” all this negativity and “needs” to stop whining clearly are not fucking listening to what any of the players are saying. They’re tired of it. They hear it, they understand the fans are frustrated but so! Are! They!!! They’re frustrated! They’re tired! They are trying!!!!

And Brady, a 24 year old, needing to delete the social media apps from his phone because the negativity is so much?? Fucking disgusting.

Harassing the team and staff needs to stop. Get frustrated sure. Be annoyed. But remember these are people too. They have fucking feelings. And at the end of the day IT IS JUST A SPORT. IT IS SUPPOSED TO BE FUN.

[danielnelsen]

so if you romance and ascend astarion you can kick him in the balls when he tries to turn you and it’s just very funny, he’s so pissy about it. so much for the most powerful vampire of all time or whatever, he stamps around like a toddler and then leaves forever

[elderdragonblu]

more people should be in fandoms that people consider “weird” or “cringe” bc so what? it’s fun to make headcanons, fanfics, and fanart and if you’re not hurting anyone or yourself and having fun then that’s awesome. society has a wide range of weird and cringe and it’s mostly people just expressing themselves and having fun

[my-fall-from-grace]

thinking about how more of the grid spoke to ollie in one race than to logan during the entire last season

[ntaras]

i think a lot of people coddle kuai liang too much. yes he’s good and a tortured man etc. and people see that he has struggled but don’t really see that he still is struggling and has faults. even in mk12 people aren’t really talking about how he did in fact try to kill bi-han- which yes, he would have regretted, but that is still a fault you have to see in him. he’s susceptible to fits of blind rage that will make him do things he’ll regret. his anger was justified (obviously) but he’s also capable of murdering his own brother (which once again, i am sure he would have regretted).

[freewayshark]

Something something Buck’s partners always thinking he’s too much for them and leaving only to come back after they’ve had time to convince themselves to love him vs the family who always unconditionally loved and accepted him from the get go

Yeah. Gonna be negative for a minute though and just ask if that’s the case why do we have to go through it again though lol

[jynersq]

something something the further we get from ww2 the easier it is for younger star wars fans (who are several generations removed from the war and people who lived through it) to think of the empire as an outsized, ridiculous and fictional villain and divorce it from the direct representation of the nazis that it originally was…

like i have a lot of thoughts on this which maybe i’ll organize better at a later date but i think it’s unfortunate that because we’re further out from the war and maybe also because of star wars’ massive continuing commercialism representations of the empire feel sanitized sometimes… whereas a lot of people in 1977 would have been chilled by the feldgrau and the jodhpurs etc in an an visceral way that most of us can’t access.

[elevenfifths]

to my past self: all the rejection you feel for censoring yourself to be more palatable is something that you get to finally integrate and express in adulthood in ways you can’t even begin to imagine. if you can find ways to love your own weirdness and have compassion for things that make you “”””deviant”””” you’re gonna get rewarded in such beautiful (and hot) ways.

Posting again-weirdness is the best part of us

[moon-goggles]

I miss sixteen year old me who cranked out my episodic FANFICTION one after the other and had a blast for a couple of years what happened to them. Legit hope she’s still there inside me I just need to wake her up right? o7