#vault key??

[the-cpu-system]

Do you like my vault vault vault my Eridium vault vault you can not afford ford ford my Eridium vault vault

[peeweekey]

8:05 | SAM

word count: 3.2k

summary: sam’s ten heart event with a twist.

tags: winter, developing relationships, fluff, swearing, cuddling, hiding from his mother in his bed lol

a/n: this spiralled out of my control and into 3k words… enjoy!

it’s cold.

the fleece coat you’ve bundled yourself in cannot protect goosebumps from forming from the biting chill of the valley’s winter nights. your breaths come out in cloudy puffs of air, the heat slowly draining out of every exhale. it’s dark out, poorly spaced lampposts providing the bare minimum amount of light to navigate.

you got sam’s letter earlier, a clumsily written note that was stuffed haphazardly into your farm’s mailbox—the yellow lined paper he used, all crumpled and ripped.

meet me in front of my house! at 8 pm, i’ll be waiting. there’s something i want to tell you.

the ending sentence is somehow even more sloppily written compared to the ones before it. as if he was debating whether or not to add it in, but ultimately decided for it—it’s funny to imagine him hunched over his desk, stressing over what to write to you.

well, you won’t deny feeling excitement over the possibility of whatever sam has to say. if the subtle skip in your step is anything to go by.

you walk through the silent night of the town, it seems like everything’s frozen in place during the colder times of the year—everyone’s safe at home, toasty under their covers and you’d imagine thoroughly enjoying going to bed at 7 pm.

you do too, sometimes. there’s less to do when the ground is too frozen to plant any crop.

there’s a lot more free time out of the farm during the winter. you’ve really started integrating yourself with the townspeople—helping haley find her bracelet, befriending sam’s prickly coworker shane, and even discovering a shadowperson named Krobus in the town sewers. it really is starting to feel like home.

walking, you cut the corner passing by emily and haley’s house—and there he is.

he looks devastatingly handsome all dressed in winter clothing. his regular denim jacket switched out for a dark woolen coat, his pants are unripped and, surprisingly, not smeared with dirt.

though what you like most about his winter attire is his hair. those wild golden locks are laid flat under a woolen beanie—a stark difference from the spiked updo he usually does (though you like that one too). the tips of his hair are slightly curled upwards, revealing that family trait of curly hair.

you creep closer, just watching him wait for you—the way he folds his arms in an attempt to warm up, and the little shuffle he does on his feet. you laugh softly, he must’ve been waiting a while—just like you have for him.

sam turns at the sound of your laugh, his body unconsciously tilting towards you, like a magnet’s uncontrollable attracting to metal. “you made it,” he breathes, his nose, ears and cheeks pinkened by the cold.

you nod, unable to stop a bashful smile from forming on your lips. “i made it.”

a big grin splits his face, mimicking yours. underneath the lone lamplight he looks jaw-droppingly handsome. you feel yourself become warm just in proximity to him.

“i wanted to talk to you in private,” he says. sam’s buzzing with energy, surveying the dark streets before meeting your gaze with his. “it’s kinda cold out here though… i, um—i can sneak you into my room…”

your heart skips a beat, like you’ve skipped a step on a staircase. “what?” you croak.

your eyes catch onto him wringing his fingers, a nervous habit you can’t help but always notice (not because his hands are nice and interesting to look at, not at all).

“you don’t wanna?”

“no!” you inhale, trying to alleviate the twisting sensation in your gut. “i do wanna, ahem, lead the way.”

sam smiles at you, dimples and all. he leads you towards the tiny bedroom window in front of his house. the window is already open—you assume that’s where he jumped out of to meet you.

he climbs through the window with minimal effort, landing on the flooring with a dull thump!

you raise a brow. “have you done this before?”

sam stretches his hand out to you, waiting. his smile turnt sheepish. “i mean, i think we were all rebellious teenagers once.”

you resist the urge to snort—sam’s nervous, you can tell. he doesn’t have his quips and jokes tonight. and he’s shy, but eager. like a puppy, excited and curious about the world.

“o-kay,” you say, one hand in his hand the other set firmly on the windowsill. “make sure i don’t fall please.”

sam nods, eagerly. the curled ends of his hair shake along with the motion as he does.

how endearing.

you tighten your grip on his hand, hauling yourself through the small window, trying your damn best to not make any sudden noise. which is successful for the most part, only a tiny huff of exertion escapes you.

annoying, yes. but the chill of winter burns through any energy you have faster than other seasons.

your feet connect with the wood of his floor, hand still clasped in his and the chill merely at your back. it’s warm inside, with him.

his room is the same as it’s always been when you’d visit before—shelves, band equipment, posters—but the ambiance is different. a little more charged with tension so thick you could cut through it with a knife.

sam does not bother turning on his light, you don’t mind it all that much. but it takes some effort to avoid tumbling over stray objects that clutter his bedroom floor.

“look, I know I’ve been about nothing but the band for a while now…” he starts. “but I don’t want you to think that’s all i’m interested in.”

you chuckle, clasping your fingers behind your back. “it certainly takes up a big chunk of your interests.”

he pouts, literally pouts. it must be the love bug you caught because you think it’s just plain adorable. “i’m really trying over here!”

“sorry!” you grin, “okay, continue.”

“well, um… shoot, this is kinda hard, huh?” he forces an awkward chuckle. “and nerve-wrecking… but what i’m trying to say is…”

“i’m really happy that we’ve grown this close, and well…” sam looks at you, he’s stupidly red—the color spreading all over his face. “i—i’m just wondering, do you think of me as… just a friend?”

your breath stutters, and you feel yourself blushing before you can do anything to stop it. you stare at him as he does with you. the two of you locking eyes for a second, it feels like it’s just you and him in the world.

you feel your shy admittance at the tip of your tongue. no, you’d say, you’re more than that for me, if you want to be.

sam smiles at you, shy but so, so overwhelmingly bright—it’s blinding. your head is running a mile a minute when you finally get the courage—

“sam!” you hear jodi’s groggy voice from outside the door. your stomach drops with dread. “somebody’s at the door! go and check please?”

you lock eyes once again, this time for entirely different reasons, and with entirely different feelings.

“oh my god, sam,” you whisper hurriedly, panic gripping you. “your mom doesn’t know i’m here—what do we do—”

“hold on—” he replies, with the same sense of urgency as you. “okay, okay—i have a plan, just trust me, ‘kay?”

you think you might break out into a cold sweat. you look at him quizzically, “what?”

sam gives you an apologetic smile with that stupid beautiful face of his, he moves forward, grabbing you by your wrists, and moving you with him—towards his bed.

“sam!” you hiss, alarms are blaring in every corner of your mind as sam all but drags you under the toasty covers of his bed. he lifts the blanket and stations you by the edge, covering you in the blanket—which is now a lumpy mess.

this is his childhood bed you’re in, where his mother and brother are just by the door.

and his mother is calling him.

“i’ll get this over with quick,” he says to you, already heading towards the door of his room. “hang on tight, ‘kay?”

you breathe a sound of agreement, way too jittery to formulate any proper response as you quieten under the covers.

though the sheets do feel nice, and smells overwhelmingly of that specific cologne he uses (stolen from joja inventory, he told you once). you will yourself not to relax and melt into the sheets so fast. instead, you listen for each and every sound that may give hint to whatever the hell is happening.

there’s a commotion that you can hear happening, the door swings open, the hinges creaking along with it—this whole surreal experience feels a little like the confrontation part of a horror movie, the helpless victim hiding and the heavy footfalls of the killer.

though in your case, it’s not one set of footsteps, but two.

“what are you two doing here?”

“you’re the one who called us over, remember?” you can recognize the band’s shut-in pianist’s voice from anywhere. “you were all like, stop skipping practice, seb.”

sam’s voice is oddly pitchy when he responds. “…well, tonight’s no good!”

you hear the other person huff, you strain your ears harder to listen. the huffing person clearly fed up with the strange behavior sam’s putting out right now.

“my mom and vincent are asleep,” he adds hurriedly. “they’d wake up—”

you resist the urge to groan, stifling your mouth under a sweaty palm. jodie was just speaking to him minutes ago, there’s no way they’d buy that. he cannot be a more obvious liar.

thankfully they gloss over the fact. “sam, why are you acting so damn weird?” sebastian asks, straightforward as ever.

“yeah,” the other voice adds. feminine but strong. which you now identify as abigail’s, you hear a pinch of impatience in her voice. “and why are you red? did you sit outside in the snow or something—”

sam chokes, which he tries to conceal as an odd sounding cough. abigail pauses mid-sentence. the shift in the atmosphere is palpable. you screw your eyes shut, hearing the rapid rate of your heartbeat. it’s so loud you’re almost convinced the trio can hear the thumping from your hiding spot under the sheets. this is it, they’re going to discover you.

“oh, oh i see,” abigail grins. “on second thought, i wouldn't risk catching all those germs. i’m feeling starved, let’s hit the saloon, seb.”

the aforementioned man grumbles, seemingly puzzled by the sudden switch in abigail’s attitude. “huh… why?” abigail must have whispered something to him—you can barely hear over the muffle of sam’s blanket comforters. “ugh, alright. fine. you owe us one, sam.”

“oh, of course! mhm, yup,” you cringe at the immense awkwardness of sam’s response, feeling the overwhelming urge to pull out your own hair. “i’ll see you guys tomorrow, yeah? now shoo! wouldn’t wanna get you both sick or somethin’…”

“huh?” sebastian replies, rightfully puzzled as they’re forcefully pushed out of the room. “why would we see you tomorrow if you’re sick—”

“well seb,” abigail says smugly. “let’s just say sammy here is taking care of some important business—”

“okay, bye!” you hear the door click shut. to your utter bewilderment, sam shut the door in their faces.

the room is deathly quiet, the air is stagnant and stuffy. once you feel it safe enough, you crane your neck out of the blankets to check over him. to trace any lingering feeling the sudden visit might’ve given him. sam’s got his back rested against the wood of his door, his back slumped.

“i—i wasn’t expecting that,” you say quietly from your hiding spot on his bed. peeking the top half of your face, watching the door carefully. “kinda nerve-wracking.”

and embarrassing.

“i know—i’m sorry,” he sighs, rubbing his temples. “i didn’t expect them coming over.”

“sebastian said you invited them for practice, though.” you point out.

“maybe i did,” he admits, creeping closer to you on the bed, even if he’s guilty and embarrassed. “i totally forgot—i mean, i was really nervous! my mind blanks when i get nervous…”

sam stops right by the side of the bed, as if he’s waiting for your permission to get in with you—in his own bed. and to be perfectly honest, you really want him to.

“kinda ruined the atmosphere too,” he looks away from you, eyes downcast and melancholy. “i had this whole thing planned too, and i, just… ugh…”

your eyes soften. “sam, it’s really fine. okay, maybe a little shocking but you know it’s not enough to scare me away.”

he looks down at you, worried. his eyebrows are ever so slightly pinched—you wish you could run your fingers over it, and smooth it out yourself.

“plus,” you murmur, reaching over the small amount of space between the two of you to clasp his wrist. “i’m not just gonna leave… just tell me what you were going to say—before the… interruption.”

that gives you the final push to gather your courage to tug him into bed with you. sam follows, flopping onto the empty bedding next to you without a fight. for a moment, it’s just the two of you, side by side, slowly huddling closer and closer for warmth.

and sam is warm. he’s practically radiating comfy heat you wish to burrow into—or wrap yourself around. the perfect bed-partner for winter nights like these.

you find yourself becoming addicted to the feeling.

sam angles his body towards you. you on your back and him on his side, it feels intimate and special. and for some reason, it feels familiar—like you’ve always belonged by his side.

“i think you know already,” he tells you, his eyes are not clear in the dim light but you know, there are practically hearts in them. “that i like you.”

you giggle softly. “and i think you know the same about me.”

sam tentatively grasps your hand, the freezing fingertips thawing under his careful touch. the caress of his hand on yours sends tingling electricity down your spine, your whole body feels alert—alive.

he speaks again, but this time his tone is a whisper of what it usually is. “stay awhile?”

“yeah,” you swallow, squeezing his hand in your grip. a small smile on your lips. “yes, i want to.”

“good,” he smiles, his eyes crinkle at the edges so softly and the dimples on his cheeks deepen. there really is no one else who can compare for you. “hey, you’re really cold… let me warm you up?”

you turn to your side, facing him. at this angle, your faces are mere inches apart. you can trace every dip, line and curve of his face, and he yours. your hand tingles with the overwhelming urge to reach for him and squeeze.

“it is cold,” you agree. “i’d very much like that.”

“phew,” he softly sighs. sam drags his fingers up your arm, stopping at your elbow. wherever he touches, a whisper of him lingers on your skin—a bone deep imprint you yearn for him to spread all across your skin.

you roll into him with little to no effort at all. sam drags you to his chest, your ear perched right above his heart, you can hear the steady thump! of his heartbeat from underneath. sam winds his arms around you, intensifying the heat you feel by tenfold—it’s not uncomfortable at all, though. you like it.

your bodies fit perfectly together, just like puzzle pieces. a mess of limbs tangling together. the warmth of him making you shudder in honey-like delight. it feels syrupy and soft and warm wrapped in his arms.

his hand at your back travels downwards, leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake you feel even through the thickness of the fabric separating the skin of your back and his fingertips. his hands feel rough and calloused at the small of your back—from playing guitar and his skateboarding incidents—but you enjoy the feeling.

you trail your fingers under the thick fabric of his jacket and shirt, feeling the smooth skin underneath—the action has no deeper meaning than you wanting to feel.

sam’s uncharacteristically quiet. his breaths are slow and long, like he’s on the verge of sleep. yet his arms are wound tight around you—like he never wants to let go of you. your nerves make you feel like a slow simmering soup. warm and slowly cooking over the fire.

you two stay entangled for a while, in comfortable silence. sometime during the night you’ve matched your breathing to his, and he pulled you somehow even closer to his body.

but, a thump comes from his window, a light tapping sound. soft but persistent. the two of you opt to ignore it, in favor of snuggling closer to each other. yet the taps continue, and become louder and faster.

disrupted by the noise, sam mournfully throws the covers from over him to check, untangling himself from your grip. leaving a very him-shaped indent on the bed left in his wake. you groan, sticking your bottom lip out, you miss the warmth of him already.

“oh shit.”

the expletive makes you sit up in his bed, the comforter draping off your middle. you can make out the shape of him even with the dimness of the light—sam’s back is towards you, and if your eyes dare deceive you, he looks like he’s shrinking into himself a tiny bit.

“what is it?” you whisper-shout to him.

he slowly turns to you, wide eyed, his shoulders stiff. sort of resembling a kicked-dog. sam bows down his head—with what you think is shame, for what reason, you can’t tell. rubbing your eyes of sleep, you furrow your brow, craning your neck to look out the window behind him.

abigail and sebastian are there, waving wildly at you. your eyes widen. abigail and sebastian are waving at you with smug smiles plastered on their faces.

your stomach drops for the umpteenth time that night. you honestly feel too horrified to speak.

you bury yourself under the sheets, a feeble attempt to conceal your mortification. so that’s why abigail was playing along with sam’s urgent ramblings—she knew (not that sam was any good at keeping a cool facade, he is totally incapable of lying smoothly). you groan, you feel like a rebellious teenager again, only the part where you get caught and utterly humiliated.

outside, you can hear the loud roaring laughter of the duo through the glass, alongside the awkward, embarrassed chatter of your newly-minted boyfriend. (not technically official, but the title succeeds to relieve your horror by the tiniest bit)

still, you stay put. through the mortification and embarrassment you still stick yourself to sam’s side, or more literally, on his bed—because you know, there’s no other place you’d rather be.

you spare another glance out of the covers at the trio—to your surprise, sam’s beat you to it. looking at you with heart eyes and the most lovesick expression (you’re pretty sure yours looks the same).

you know there’s going to be a lot more explaining to do in the morning. but it doesn’t matter to you, not right now when you’re in sam’s bed on the verge of sleep.

not when you feel so warm.

a/n: shoutout to the ass trio for making an appearance in the fic! i love you abby and seb.

[arthursfuckinghat]

"I was gonna say you're like a son to me.. but you're more than that."

"It ain't that complicated!"

How quickly that shoulder pat of comfort turned into a condescending one.

[betweenlands]

in honor of the new kenadian video, have the best and most finished contiguous bits of a fic i was trying to write for the @mcyt-builds-contest prison edition and never completed. personally, i think giving ken access to modded materials could only lead to good things.

previous bracket fic here if you haven't read it! image transcript under the cut! (surprise! this was arcosc all along!)

---------

“Why’re you so worried about this, anyway?” he finally says, because he’s pretty sure worry is the expression he’s reading on Legundo’s face.

“I have…” the King in the North says, grimacing, “a bit of prior experience with prisons, you could say. Both illager and player-made.”

Viking gets the feeling he’s touched a nerve, and nearly slaps his hand over his forehead as he belatedly remembers the first time the King in the North had mentioned some sort of dungeon built by – something about iron crocodiles, he thinks. Come to think of it, that building had come up earlier in this tournament.

“Forge, right? The Prison of the Iron Crocodiles that lost to Pandora in the first rounds?”

“That’s one of them,” the King in the North confirms. “Speaking of which, do you have any idea where Forge went after his dungeons lost the contest to this prison?”

Viking shrugs. “Nada. Maybe he just slunk off?”

“It’s not like him to vanish without any sign of reemergence,” the King in the North mutters, tapping his fingers against the table. “My version of Shadow, maybe. Forge? He should’ve caused trouble somewhere by now. Made some sort of uneasy or paranoid alliance with another person that lost the first round.”

“Come to think of it,” Viking says, “I haven’t seen that Asgaard guy anywhere after we shook hands and called it a good match. I was hoping he’d stick around for color commentary on worldbuilding or something, but maybe he just had a project to do?”

The King in the North shakes his head. “I don’t think so. I think something’s going after other people on the bracket. This other finals entrant – I know you’ve been busy on your own front, but have you seen them yet?”

“Nope,” Viking says. “And I haven’t seen the guy who looks kind of like they’d be my cousin if I was a catboy, either. Which… wait. Wait, that’s really weird! His entire thing is prisons and escape rooms, they should be at this match, he would definitely have something snarky to say about it!”

“About that,” a slightly familiar voice says. “I kinda got put in a tube.”

The catperson crouched on a chair at the far end of the room raises their hand with a wave and a wry grin. “Sorry I’m late. Train ran slow. Also the whole getting put in a tube thing.”

“You got –” Viking gestures. “Wait. First question. How did you get down here?”

Kenadian examines his clawed fingernails with one raised eyebrow. “Hopped around waystones for a bit until your hat layers loaded in on the tab screen. Composter glitched so I could look around underground. Saw a stronghold. Dug straight down. Don’t worry, I covered it back up.”

Viking unconsciously reaches up to his very unhatted head, adjusting his goggles slightly. Next to him, the King in the North seems to be in a very similar state of confusion. 

“Tab… screen?” he finally manages.

“Composter glitch?” Viking adds.

“Oh, we’re from a world that doesn’t have diegetic game mechanics, that’s just great,” Kenadian huffs. “Anyway. Aren’t you a ghost? Can’t you just chug a fire resistance potion and walk through the walls?”

“I already explained that to him,” Viking says, recovering from the brief shock of some random guy he’s only met once breaking into his secret underground headquarters base. “Phantoms can’t pass through obsidian or crying obsidian.”

“God you guys are hopeless,” Kenadian says, slapping one hand over their face. “Just make them not obsidian, then! You can literally just do that!”

“I…” Viking says, “what?”

Kenadian stands up again and tosses something onto the table with a loud clatter, crossing their arms with a smug expression.

Viking blinks down at the diamond-tipped chisel on the table with a confused expression on his face. “Why are you giving me a chisel?”

“Oh my god do I have to spell everything out for you,” Kenadian groans. “Bit blocks only carry so much internal info and most of it’s either transparency or whether or not they give off light. Just take a single voxel – oh, sorry, bit – out of any walls in your way and they stop being obsidian and start being bit blocks. It’s literally just that simple.”

[lexumpysfunland]

*I shove walter down on a therapy bed with a stick and click my pen* What happened to make you this way... how do you f e e l?

sounds like you're not going to get info out of him-

[bestworstcase]

Anything from Volumes 1-3 that is setup that you don't think is given enough attention or respect for good setup?

Sidenote to this:

Open seat with no person in it + Salem having someone looking for the Choice Relic was hinting at Summer Rose. Did we have anything hinting at her pre Beacon's Fall or just things that she fits given additional context?

regarding summer specifically, while i wouldn’t call them hints per se, there are a handful of beats in v1-3 that smell like foreshadowing to me:

the first is “she was right about you; such arrogance.” – cinder might well be referring to salem here, of course. however. what strikes me about this remark is that arrogance is not a characteristic that salem seems to perceive in ozma; rather she describes him, in her soliloquies and songs, as a self-destructive, deceitful, manipulative fool blinded and trapped by his faith in the old gods. cowardly. fallen from grace. think of what she says to oz in 8.9—look how you’ve diminished, how you’ve lessened yourself—she sees him groveling at the feet of tyrannical monsters and sees debasement.

does it follow for salem to characterize ozpin to cinder as, primarily, arrogant? i’m not convinced it does. but summer rose? well… hm. consider, also, that the full line is “this whole time, right beneath our feet… she was right about you; such arrogance…” <- i think it is more likely than not that “she” is someone inside the brackets of “our,” and in context “our” is either [cinder + ozpin] or [cinder + her associates physically present at beacon].

in the event that “she” is not part of “our” the more naturalistic phrasing is “beneath our feet… salem was right about you” – because “she” otherwise has no antecedent. of course, some allowance here for this to be a narrative choice not to name salem yet, but we’re one (1) episode off from revealing her face and by this point we’ve known for a while that cinder works for someone else, so the choice to drop the name here or in the volume credits is of fairly trivial importance. unless of course cinder isn’t talking about salem.

second: “Oh! We've also stopped some bad guys, too! I guess it's like they say: "like mother, like daughter"! I still wonder why Ozpin let me into the school early…” [laugh track] – obv this part of ruby’s address to summer’s memorial headstone foreshadows ozpin’s conspiracy and team strq’s involvement therein. but it also foreshadows this exchange:

RUBY: We don’t have to kill you to stop you, and we will stop you. SALEM: Your mother said those words to me… she was wrong, too.

and i think it bears pointing out that ruby is wrong here, and later in the volume qrow specifically calls attention to this and lays out why she’s wrong. team rwby didn’t stop the bad guys; they cut off one avenue of attack and cinder circled around from a new direction that took advantage of torchwick’s imprisonment, and this also resulted in the public break between ozpin and ironwood which eroded the cohesion of the inner circle. ergo, ruby thinks she stopped the bad guys but in the long run the consequences of the breach all benefited salem.

looks into the camera like im on the office.

like mother, like daughter!!!

further, that sequence of events ultimately leads to the final confrontation between her and torchwick – wherein he declares “if you can’t beat them, join ’em,” and shortly gets eaten by a grimm right after making it clear that he intends to kill her. torchwick’s death is thematically motivated – a narrative rejection of his cynical every-man-for-himself, dog-eats-dog outlook – but consider that:

summer rose, if she is indeed salem’s willing agent, is certainly at beacon tonight – because she’d be the one who stayed behind to hold the fort.

summer is thus the one salem instructs to “reinforce our numbers at beacon,” meaning the grimm; that instruction only makes sense if the person receiving it can communicate with or command grimm. ergo, summer must have some degree of control over grimm.

ruby is disarmed and on the ground getting beaten by a man who fully intends to kill her, and a grimm swoops down out of nowhere to eliminate him faster than he can blinks. and then… the grimm rears up, roaring at her, and comes down with a sweep of its wings that creates a blast of air that pushes her away. that isn’t aggression!! that’s a defensive threat display!! (the feilong in v4 does the exact same thing – trying to push the boat away). it’s ruby who charges the gryphon, and while it lunges forward in reaction to her charge, all that happens is she gets her feet on its head and pushes off to leap over it, and the grimm goes fucking flying so hard it crashes into the ship’s interior and never emerges. the point being,

math.

it’s plausible that the grimm was drawn to torchwick’s murderous rage. but the way it behaves immediately after it swallows him – that very clear “get away from me please” body language, and ruby -apparently- kicking a grimm the size of a goddamned clydesdale dozens of feet and then through the hull of a literal warship? ruby is strong, but she’s not… that strong. but if the grimm didn’t want to engage her and propelled itself under and past her at the same time as she vaulted off its head? that would explain what happens perfectly – ruby’s kick altered its launch trajectory just enough that it crashed.

minutes later, someone loyal to salem scraped a very badly injured cinder off the top of beacon tower and left ruby alive where qrow would find her. salem’s vested interest in keeping ruby alive is VISIBLE throughout the battle for beacon, and notably include a perfect opportunity to capture her while she’s in a coma atop beacon tower that isn’t taken – suggesting that salem makes her singular attempt to capture ruby solely to reassure cinder that Something is being Done.

and if summer rose has command over grimm and was at beacon that night… the gryphon’s behavior is exactly what i’d expect if all the grimm had marching orders to insure this one girl in particular – the spitting image of their commander – doesn’t come to serious harm. there’s a nonzero chance that gryphon did in fact save ruby On Purpose!

…and that happens in the context of a fight between ruby and the bad guy she thought she stopped (but she was wrong), who joined salem because “if you can’t beat em, join em.” (salem voice) she was wrong, too…

also

<- like mother like daughter. summer had a nevermore’s eye view of the battle for beacon, in this essay i will –

third: this one is something i didn’t really Think About until v9 and specifically the v9 ost dropping, but some of the things cinder says in v2-3 strike me as like – she got that from summer im sure of it. for example, in midnight, cinder’s view of huntsmen is that they’re free, they have power, they can go anywhere and do whatever they want, and rhodes never contradicts this. where did she get “huntsmen and huntresses should conduct themselves with honor and mercy”? who taught her the aspirational moral ideal?

summer rose, maybe.

but in the deeper sense,

where did cinder get the ‘destiny’ conceit? her underlying beliefs about how the world is are a product of her childhood, but the overt framing of fate/destiny isn’t present in midnight; nor has salem ever spoken of destiny and her philosophical views are in many ways a rejection of destiny – salem does not believe in fate, she is the woman who dedicated her life to toppling the gods.

and on close examination this looks like yet another suspiciously summer rose shaped hole!! “you’re special, ruby […] special the way your mom was special […] it was said that those born with silver eyes were destined to lead the life of a warrior.” – in after the fall, ozpin gives coco an entire pep talk whose central conceit is embracing and submitting to the turns of fate – sacrifice “show them gods and deities/blind and keep the people on their knees” & guide my way “you were born to hypnotize them all/they all said their prayers/can you hear me up there?”

cinder, of pyrrha: “people assume she’s fated for victory, when she's really taking fate into her own hands. interesting. add her to the list.” & “it’s not about overpowering the enemy; it’s about taking away what power they have.”

<- that second statement is salem’s strategic doctrine, through and through. but the ‘power’ cinder is talking about here is derived through manipulating the perception of destiny; the self-fulfilling prophecy. the invincible girl cannot be touched because she makes subtle adjustments to insure that no one is able to try. it is pyrrha’s belief in destiny that destroys her, as it destroys ozma. ozpin invokes fate to justify and explain his choices. those born with silver eyes are destined to lead the lives of warriors.

summer rose was destined to live and die fighting the grimm – so the world promised her. maybe she believed, maybe she felt like she had no choice but to accept her prescribed fate. until she met salem, and took fate into her own hands. made a choice. broke the chains. it’s about taking away what power they have, like salem did when she tore the scales from summer’s eyes, like summer did when she refused her destiny and joined hands with the grimm instead.

what does summer rose look like through cinder’s eyes? she was a huntress. she was literally destined to be one of the greatest huntresses in history, a hero, the shining pillar upholding the world order that chose the enslavement of children as a fair price for peace. fate dictated that she be the icon, the idol, the embodiment of the system that brutalized and subjugated cinder – she had every privilege cinder could ever dream of, freedom and security and a home, a loving family – and she chose to walk away.

and if they talked about that like, ever, and specifically if summer talked about that warrior’s destiny as a cage, a curse she had to escape – is it any wonder that cinder would adopt that framing to make sense of what happened to her? if summer rose was fated to stand at the pinnacle, then does it not follow that cinder fall was fated to be ground into the foundations? and likewise, if summer rose can shatter her pedestal and fall from grace, then cinder fall can shatter her chains and rise. summer proves that the idea of destiny is powerful but not inviolate. and it is hollow, it is a lie, a fiction, and that means it can be taken away. revealed as a deception. destroyed.

anyway

to the broader question

i think people really, really do not give the jaundice arc enough credit for the long-term set up it’s doing.

(or the very overt textual statement from THE HISTORY PROFESSOR! placing the blame for the violent radicalization of the white fang squarely on human bigotry and persecution of faunus in general; the white fang arc is clunky and hamstrung by the inadequacy of its vocabulary, but the fandom talking point that the narrative perspective on this subject has “evolved” or “improved” is just. not true. v1 is very emphatically clear that 1. terroristic violence is not activism, 2. ascribing the terroristic violence of a few to an entire minority group to rationalize bigotry is bigoted in and of itself and completely unacceptable, and 3. violent radicalization is created through relentless discrimination and hate, which creates a self-reinforcing circle wherein the justifiable outrage of the persecuted outgroup and the extreme violent reactions provoked by the persecution are distorted into a justification for further persecution by those of the in-group who materially benefit from perpetuating this cycle!!! all of this is explained in an almost afterschool special manner by the main character faunus rights activist and the history professor!!! in volume one!!! what changed is that the writers developed the skill and vocabulary necessary to weave these ideas into their storytelling in a more effective and more cogent way!!! literally begging the rwby fandom to start listening to the actual words the characters say)

ahem. the jaundice arc lays so much of the groundwork for jaune’s and ruby’s character arcs reaching all the way to v9 and undoubtedly beyond; it sets up the first pieces of the ozlem fractal; it foreshadows the white fang arc and sets up blake’s character arc of self-reclamation and figuring out how she wants to use her voice as an activist; it draws attention to the misogynistic cultural norms that define and are defined by the history between ozma and salem; it lays the foundation for the scene in v2 where ozpin questions blake, which hits the way it does because we have the context of anti-faunus harassment occurring openly at ozpin’s school and nobody doing anything about it, and by extension is the first stroke of the salem-faunus connection that is almost certainly the keystone holding the entire narrative together because it is her relation to the faunus that provides the key to decipher the lost fable.

the jaundice arc is a crucial load-bearing pillar that supports the entire narrative and people revile it because nobody in this fandom can be fucking normal about jaune. lmao

[lyrakanefanatic]

lowkey want to see savannah pissed out of her mind about the whole her-dad-dying-and-grayson-knowing thing because i feel like she would be so iconic

like imagine they’re having a family dinner with the hawthornes, gigi, acacia, and savannah and the ENTIRE time savannah is being passive aggressive and just lowkey making so many iconic comments towards grayson meanwhile his brothers are just like : “😬😬😬 what do i do 😬😬😬”

[banicraft]

Minecraft, But the patchnotes said "Ominous" so many times that it doesnt feel like a real word to such a point that i could be easily convinced that Jeb Underscore himself invented the word

[who-do-i-know-this-man]

⚠️Vote for whomever YOU DO NOT KNOW⚠️‼️

Stacking the images vertically this time due to how thin one of them is.

[eeriedragone]

Happy ten years to Pacific Rim!

I am so glad to have found this film, even if I'm a decade late :v

Also please I need a spin off for these two bc they've been living rent free in my brain for months now (i have so many aus and crossover ideas it's not even funny)

More Newmann stuff

[vaguely-concerned]

returnal did not cure my depression but it did give me a strangely healing new perspective that makes it all a bit easier to bear. that perspective being 'I may be having a rough time right now, but at least I'm not inside the head of returnal protagonist selene vassos'

[mtg-art-daily]

The Key to the Vault

Artist: Eli Minaya

[peeweekey]

super graphic ultra-modern girl like me!

pairing: haley x reader

wc: 2k

tags: mature (NOT explicit) , closeted lesbian haley , both of you are drunk , making out

synopsis: where sharing lipstick with your best friend haley makes you feel… things.

a/n: reader: oh ho ho, i sure hope kissing my bff doesnt awaken anything in me! (it did)

i wrote this listening to super graphic ultra modern girl by chappel roan! haley fits so many of her songs its insane

your head is aching, spinning like you were sent to another dimension that consists of disco flashing lights and the nauseating smell of spilt vodka—all thanks to the sheer amount of alcohol you consumed in the past 5 hours. it’s pushing 3 AM—the strappy 4 inch heels are chafing your feet, the skimpy skirt clinging to your hips ride up in a way that would scandalize the small village mothers, and body glitter covering every inch of your skin. 

you feel light, weightless as you flutter and float through the rhythmic bass engulfing the club. you nod your head to the beat of the music, swaying your hips that loosen with every sip of the sweet alcoholic drink in your hand. 

you’re bouncing up and down to party rock anthem when your phone buzzes. fishing it out of your pocket, you squint your eyes to make out the notification. you bow your head, trying to make out the message over the flashing lights.

an amused laugh bubbles out of you. haley.

—> go 2 thr bathroon rn

—> hurry or else

you turn and wobble out of the middle of the dance floor, swaying to the beat while maneuvering the sea of sweaty bodies. the bathroom is in an isolated corner by the entrance of the club. you push the door open, stumbling slightly when it takes a little less effort than you expect.

you enter the club bathroom, shutting the ornate door behind you. it slams with a resounding slam, dampening the loud candy pop songs blaring through the party outside. 

your heels click against cool marble as you saunter to the long, seemingly endless, stretch of mirrors and faucets. twisting the knob, a rush of tap water flows freely; it contrasts satisfyingly with the heated skin of your hands. you wet your fingers, dabbing your cheeks and neck with cool water. you sigh, shivering with the instant relief it brings.

as you cool yourself off, you think—you do wonder what haley’s predicament is, she texted you with much urgency. 

perhaps she fell into the toilet—or maybe she’s drunk herself to the point of spewing her guts out in one of these very cubicles. the latter though makes you giggle. a notification buzzes from your phone, as if the sound of your laughter summoned it.

—> idiot

—> i can hear u laughing from here

you snort.

suddenly, without warning, you feel a warm hand pull you into a stall. it’s a sudden jerking motion, and you almost lose your balance to fall flat on your face. a gasp rips out of you as you clutch on to the very warm, very soft thing that keeps you from falling and twisting your ankle. before you even register the situation, you’re being dragged in to sit on the closed lid of the toilet. 

you’re frazzled, knocked off balance by a rude and very disrespectful stranger who obviously has no morals. you feel your blood boil, ruthless insults ready at the tip of your tongue—

—then you look up, and that feeling dissipates. instead, a cheshire grin splits your face, “haley.”

she’s the living breathing stereotype of a wild party girl like this; blonde hair in waves down her back that smells sweetly of strawberries, nails buffed and painted a pretty baby blue, and make-up done up to the absolute nines. her sequin skirt sparkles and winks as she shifts. pretty, you’ll ask if you could borrow it next time—

manicured fingers snap and you’re pushed out of your own thoughts. haley crosses her arms, standing in between your thighs, looking down at you with a displeased expression. “took you long enough.”

you offer a sheepish smile. “i was busy.”

“yeah,” she sneers, locking the stall door behind her. “busy shaking your ass to trashy zuzu club songs.” 

you ignore the sharp jab with a roll of your eyes. “what’s up?” you ask, your words slur slightly, almost tapering off into incomprehensible gibberish. “didya you puke or something?”

“ew. no,”the loud is just making my head hurt,” she replies, massaging her temples. “stick your legs together, i’m gonna sit on your lap.”

she knocks your thighs together with her knee. haley maneuvers you to her liking, your bare thighs pressing together when she spins and sits perpendicular to your lap.

“hm.” you feel the weight of her settle on top of your thighs. the warmth of her skin meeting yours under the cut of her skirt. you barely repress a shiver at the heat radiating off her skin. “woah! okay now you really have to tell me what’s going on.”

you're met with a faceful of strawberry-scented blonde hair when she shifts away—ignoring you. good news for her, your drink-addled brain doesn’t seem to care. in fact, your drunk brain figures it is a perfect time to shamelessly flirt. your tongue is loose enough, and your brain has completely thrown away its filter. as friends, of course; building camaraderie as people say.

“you smell nice, did you use that strawberry shampoo i gave?” you murmur, brushing the locks away from your face. you feel haley squirm in your lap. you know she used it, the pride bubbles up in you at the thought. 

it’s overly warm, that plus the buttloads of alcohol brewing in your gut makes your skin feel on fire. 

haley growls. “stop talking, dumbass.”

you roll your eyes, pinching her thigh. she yelps, high and breathy, swatting your hand away. she meets your eyes, her blonde brows furrowed.

“geez…” a lazy smile playing on your lips. “just take the compliment, hales.”

a ghost of a smirk appears on her cherry colored lips. glossy and pink. you wonder if they taste as sweet and tart as real cherries do—

you wince internally. thinking like that is not a good idea. damn your alcohol foggy brain, making you think of the inane idea of lusting after your best friend. 

you knock your forehead into her shoulder. “so are we just going to sit here all day?”

“i just need to touch up my lipstick,” she says. facing you with an expectant look. “then we can go back.”

“and that’s why you called me,” you raise a brow. your gaze trails to the cherry coat on her lips—it looks perfectly fine to you. in fact, she looks absolutely darling like this. 

“you need some?”

“…are you offering?”

“why not? we share all my shit anyway,” you shrug. “i think it’s somewhere in my purse—”

“where’s your purse?”

“i left it with the others, i think it’s with abby, i'll text her.” you say. fumbling for your phone, you reach in the hidden pocket of your skirt. the walls enclosing the cubicle restrict your movements; you bump your elbow against the flimsy wood as you dig deeper into the flimsy pocket. your skirt is skin-tight against your hips, you feel the woman above becoming increasingly agitated as your attempts to fish out your phone come out fruitless.

haley huffs above you, shifting; making your wary gaze snap back to her. she looks down at you with a pout—you’re damn sure she’s just as hammered as you.

“too far,” she whines, taking a firm grip of your jaw. your cheeks puff with the force of her squishing them, you feel the pointed tips of her nails digging into the fat there. she swings a leg over you, her hips bracketing your waist as she sits atop you. 

this position feels strangely intimate; like all your senses are overwhelmed with only haley. the heady scent of her skin, the short sounds of her breathing in your ears, the burning feeling wherever she touches—it’s all her, her, her.

which shouldn’t make you feel the way it’s making you feel; like you're buzzing with adrenaline. you feel the blood coursing through your veins at race car speeds—spreading all throughout your body. your cheeks feel hot, you feel dizzy with all your senses stimulated by your best friend.

the reverberating bass from the music outside shakes the walls; like some sort of finality as it thumps, thumps, thumps.

“hales,” you start, your mouth dry. “what—”

she stares at you, her crystalline eyes shining in the dim light of the bathroom. a pretty pink flush paints her cheeks til the tips of her pearl-adorned ears. you feel her breaths against your cheek—short and warm. “stay still, the gloss you have on your lips will do.”

your ears have to be fucking with you… your eyes widen and you swear you feel your heart jump up into your throat. “huh—”

“what?” she says in response to your wide-eyed expression. her tone drops to something akin to a purr. “your lipstick is such a pretty shade.”

helping is what friends are for, right? maybe this is merely the alcohol talking; because she doesn’t like you like that, totally—and the disappointment you feel is not because of that either. 

you swallow the heavy lump in your throat; your voice is strangled and stuttery when you speak. “f—fine.”

“perfect,” she grins. “hold still.”

this is the least you were expecting when you walked into the club bathroom; who knew you’d end up with haley in your lap and hovering over for what is technically a kiss. you will your eyes not to close, burning the view of her leaning over you into your brain. you shudder; this is not a sight that will leave you for months to come.

you squeeze her hip as her face hovers closer, palm lingering at her scratchy sequin miniskirt. you crane your neck, anticipating the brush of her lips against yours. your other hand travels to her upper back, stroking her locks of golden hair; under your ministrations, you feel her tremor slightly.

it feels like eternity when you finally connect. 

sparks fly the moment you feel the plush softness of her mouth against yours, moving in a salacious rhythm that you doubt is for only sharing lipstick. 

her lips are sticky with what remains of that cherry lip gloss; it smears all over your own lips, spreading your deep red lipstick everywhere; at the corner of your lips, at your chin. your eyes flutter shut, a contented sigh escapes your mouth and haley uses that as an opportunity to deepen the kiss. she drags her hand up and up, curling her fingers into the base of your neck.

you jolt, the pleasure fogs your mind; your thoughts are muddy, the only coherent thing is of haley. 

your tongue swipes at her bottom lip, chasing the fruity flavor of cherry cola on her lips. it’s sweet, she’s sweet. you feel lightheaded with the overwhelming sensations of it. sure, you’ve kissed once or twice—but it never felt like this; soft and desperate and hot and tingly, affecting you all throughout your body. 

your breaths are labored when she pulls away and you feel it's too soon. a clicking wet sound when her mouth disconnects from yours that makes you shiver. you feel dizzy with warmth; heat is pooling low in your belly, a low buzzing sensation overwhelms everywhere haley touches. 

her lips as wine-red as yours. the same color lipstick smeared messily on her lips. haley wipes the corner of your cupid’s bow, where some of the color had smudged, her breathing heavy and pupils dilated as you stare. her hands feel delightfully warm and soft against your skin. golden strands of hair brush against your cheeks, making you squirm in your seat.

you can barely restrain your delighted giggle, in awe of the absurdity of the situation. haley laughs too, a light sound like a tinkling bell. you slump against the cold tile wall behind you, boneless and in disbelief— did you really just make out with your best friend? and at a grimy club bathroom no less.

time seems suspended here, cramped in a stall with only the sound of heavy breathing. there will be a lot more questions when you leave, lingering glances at your pleasure-pulled hair and smeared lipstick. 

this is what friends do, what you and haley do. your eyes track her every move, unabashedly staring as she readjusts her top. haley catches your eye, smiling like the cat that got all the cream. 

she cranes her face to your ear, whispering. “thanks for the touch up, babe.”

[blackjackkent]

Aha! There is another way to find out where to go to find Minsc, and it comes in the form of this asshole:

"You are not known to me. For supplies, seek the bugbear. To trade trinkets, the Fetcher's Brats. I am Uktar, duly elected Guild bursar, and I will not have my time wasted."

Jaheira gives him a narrow, searching sort of look. "Is that what Nine-Fingers was doing earlier?" she asks casually. "Wasting Guild time with this Stone Lord business?"

"You might say so," the man says stiffly. "I could not possibly comment."

"I sense there is no love lost between the two of you," Jaheira says, with what can only be described as a rather uncharacteristic shit-eating grin.

Uktar's scowl is audible from under his mask. "I need not love to serve," he mutters. "You have a point you wish to make?"

I may be overthinking this (me? never!) but I find this convo a bit interesting for Jaheira. Clearly she's mostly just subtly pointing out to Rakha that Uktar is at odds with Astele and can be leaned on. But tbh it also reads to me, a little, like she sees that one of Astele's people is being an ass about her behind her back and is chastising him for that, despite her own complicated relationship with the Guild leader.

That subtext is probably a little lost on Rakha, but she DOES pick up on the main point, which is that Uktar might tell them what they want to know.

"The quicker I deal with the Stone Lord, the quicker Nine-Fingers gets back to business," she points out.

(A/N: Jaheira approves +2 here, presumably proud of us for picking up what she was throwing down.)

Uktar studies her thoughtfully for a moment. "I have not come so far by indulging in petty disputes," he says carefully, "but I am open to transactions of mutual benefit." He looks around to be sure they're not being overheard, then leans closer. "I am interested in gaining access to vaults beneath the Counting house. I pay well for keys to those vaults - provided said vaults are not emptied prematurely, of course. I suspect that what you seek might *also* be found beneath the Counting House." He shrugs, draws back and folds his arms. "I tell you this only as a matter of mutual interest."

Jaheira's eyes widen, the smirk falling from her face immediately in favor of concern. "She plans to ambush Minsc at the Counting House?" she murmurs. "But what the *hells* would he want there?"

[akreon]

Book cover I had the pleasure to illustrate for 'Keys from the Golden Vault' | Dungeons & Dragons

[aliferous-ly]

I started playing Minecraft again . what the fuck is a trial chamber