#woe. be subjected to my post boy

[nejackdaw]

Okay I haven't talked about Judas OR the Judas album in a while so I'm going to share this analysis I finally placed and I'm losing my mind about

In the song Field of Blood (song 5,) the chorus ends with a line I've never quite been able to find a suitable conclusion about. Right. (Putting my rambling under a read more, the screenshots make this long)

Oh, okay, "what is my god," he's having a crisis of faith. Why is God so cruel as to order Jesus be killed (reminder that the album is a mix of biblical and Gnostic canon, where Jesus asked Judas to be the one to betray him.)

WRONG

If we move two tracks ahead in the album to Death is Just a Kiss Away, right before the last chorus we have these lines:

Which is insane! Because this part is actually saying "you have two gods, God and Jesus" (sun and moon, as I'll get to) "and no matter which you choose" (obeying the kill command or refusing to kill Jesus) "you're going to piss everyone off"! Okay now I know, "but where did you get sun and moon/God and Jesus" and HERE I TELL YOU:

Jesus is CONSTANTLY referred to with constellation imagery! (There's a whole song about it!) The Gospel of Judas includes the quotes (from Jesus) "Judas, your star has led you astray" and "the star that leads the way is your star." The album takes this and RUNS with it. Makes Jesus Judas's guiding star. There is SO MUCH night/star symbolism going on here, mostly in Constellation, but also from A World Where we Belong:

SO BASICALLY: considering that Jesus is heavily referred to with night sky imagery and they're literally both referred to as "two moons aligned," it isn't unreasonable to conclude that the line from Just a Kiss Away is in fact talking about God/Jesus. WHICH MEANS

When Judas is about to hang himself and he pleadingly asks "what is my god?"

HE DOESN'T KNOW IF IT'S GOD OR JESUS BECAUSE HE'S FUCKING IN LOVE WITH HIM APNDOANSOANS HE OBEYED GOD BECAUSE HE'S GOD BUT HE'S KILLING HIMSELF OVER JESUS. I HAVE MANY OTHER LINES ABOUT THIS (DEVOTION TO JESUS, NOT GOD) BUT THAT'S A DIFFERENT TOPIC

[xelinielx]

Even Broken, I Still Love You

The ending of book 7 has just WRECKED me and I wrote some hurt/comfort because I have feelings about my dragon boy. I put a link to the AO3 post as well. I usually never post writing on here but this piece doesn't fit in on my other blog so here it is.

SPOILERS FOR THE END OF BOOK 7

Header by MagicPaint. AO3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/63793984

“Do you think I’m a monster?”

Malleus’ voice was uncharacteristically quiet, tone so low that you had to strain to hear him. The question hung heavy in the air.

He still hadn’t turned to face you, staring out of the small window of the bedroom that he slept in during his stay at S.T.Y.X. There wasn’t much of a view out of the windows besides dark, moving water, so it was clear that Malleus was using the window as an excuse not to look at you.

It was clear just by looking that the overblot had taken an immense toll on him. He looked completely different from his usual self. Not only had his usual dark robes been changed to the S.T.Y.X-themed clothing that test subjects wore, but there was something about the way he held himself that was fundamentally different from before.

The noble dragon fae usually held his head high in a regal posture that was hard for anyone else to replicate, authority and power exuding from his very stance. It was a far cry to the way he was posed currently, hunched over as if trying to make himself seem smaller, trembling fingers clutching onto the windowsill. 

There was also a different aura surrounding him that was different from how his emotions could manipulate the weather around him. It wasn’t the feeling of crackling electric anger, or even the heavy, suffocating pressure drop as rain clouds formed. It was a deep, exhausted sorrow that seemed to weigh the entire room down. 

As Malleus had a collar to monitor his magic usage, the aura was, for once, not physical, yet it somehow felt more tangible than any emotional outburst you had seen from him. More real despite not actually being there.

A few days had passed since the final battle that had marked the end of Malleus’ overblot. When he had been reassured that Lilia was alright, Malleus had been taken by the Ferrymen as well as both Idia and Ortho to S.T.Y.X for monitoring and data-collection. No one had wanted to take the risk of leaving him in a state where he risked a second overblot, so once he had stabilized enough, the Director allowed him to request visitors. 

It had not seemed like a wise decision to keep Malleus cut off from the rest of the world as was S.T.Y.X’s norm since almost losing Lilia was what had brought on the overblot in the first place. Leaving Malleus not knowing how the people he cared about were doing was too high of a risk.

The first visitor that Idia had (begrudgingly) been tasked with delivering to the Isle of Woe was Lilia - to the surprise of no one. Both the Director and Idia had been hesitant to risk putting the strain of travel on Lilia so soon after everything that had happened, but Lilia had been uncaring of the worries and insisted that he had to go. 

Silver and Sebek were still in recovery - where Lilia was also supposed to be - and while Malleus had wished to see both his retainers as well, the Director had put his foot down. It was too dangerous to bring all three over already, so after negotiating, Malleus had agreed to let Sebek and Silver heal for a while longer before he got to see them. 

Lilia had also threatened the director, saying that if he refused to pick him up to go see his ward, Lilia would jump into the water surrounding Sage’s Island and swim until he managed to find the Isle of Woe. 

Besides researchers checking cameras and vitals to make sure both fae were alright, the two of them had been given space to speak alone. Whatever they spoke about was kept between them and S.T.Y.X, but it had involved lots of hugging and tears.

Two days after Lilia’s visit, Ortho had contacted you through your phone, telling you that Malleus had requested your presence at the Isle of Woe, which is where you currently were, staring at his trembling form for the first time since he had been taken in for monitoring. 

Normally, you’d have cracked a smile seeing the fae-prince surrounded by this much technology that he had no idea how to use, but the items in the room were the furthest things away from your mind.

Slowly, as if approaching a wounded animal, you walked over to Malleus’ shaking form. With a gentleness that Malleus wasn’t used to feeling, you placed your hand softly atop his. It felt a bit strange at first, feeling his cold skin instead of the gloves he tended to wear, but the feeling of strangeness quickly disappeared. 

A pair of wide, emerald-green eyes stared down at where your hand rested on top of his, filled with an unspoken question.

Why?

For a moment, the two of you stood still in silence as you searched for the right words. Eventually, you took a calming breath and spoke up, voice soft and calming.

“Mal,” you began, using an affectionate nickname to hopefully help him relax.

His breath hitched for a moment, surprise evident. 

“I understand why you used your ultimate magic. Why the circumstances caused you to overblot. You wanted to protect the people that were precious to you and keep them from harm, protecting both them and yourself from getting hurt.”

A single tear ran down Malleus’ cheek as he finally turned to fully face you, leaving a wet track across his porcelain skin. He still refused to meet your eyes, scared of what he would see reflected in them.

“You had good intentions. There is nothing evil about wanting to keep your loved ones safe. If I had been in your position, I think that I would have overblotted too,” you admitted quietly, giving Malleus a small, weak smile. “So there is no way that I can possibly blame you for making the same choices I would have if I were you.”

In a silent plea, Malleus turned his hand around to face palm-up. You responded by lacing your fingers together with his, giving his hand a reassuring squeeze.

“Please look at me?” you asked in a small, yet hopeful voice.

Slowly, Malleus’ green eyes moved from your intertwined hands up your arm, then neck, where they paused briefly before finally meeting yours. 

The hate and anger he had expected to see was nowhere to be seen. He could see his reflection, and was unable to determine whether the sadness he saw came from you or himself.   

You lifted your free hand to his face, letting it gently rest against his cheek. Your thumb moved to brush another tear away. 

“Malleus Draconia,” you said, staring deep into his eyes.

“You are not a monster.”

Those words seemed to snap whatever makeshift dam he had constructed to keep his emotions at bay, shattering it completely. 

Malleus began to cry. Tears flowed down his cheeks and sobs tore their way out of his heaving chest as he finally let go of control and allowed his emotions to run free. 

Unable to stand up anymore, Malleus fell to his knees on the floor, burying his face against your stomach as he cried. His arms wrapped around you tightly as if you were the only thing keeping him upright. He held you like he would collapse if there was even as much as a millimetre of space between the two of you.

His devastating sobs and the desperate way he clung to you broke your heart. You wasted no time sinking down to kneel in front of the dragon fae so that you could properly return his full embrace. 

Tears soaked your shirt as Malleus clung to you so desperately that it felt like you would bruise or your clothes would tear from his strength at any moment. That didn’t matter, though. Bruises didn’t matter. Clothes didn’t matter. S.T.Y.X didn’t matter.

Nothing mattered in that moment but the sobbing fae in your arms.

Malleus sobbed out apologies in between cries, and you did your best to calm him, whispering reassurances as you alternated between rubbing his back and petting his head gingerly, being extra mindful of his horns.

At some point, you ran out of new things to say, defaulting to a reassuring ‘it’s okay’ as you held him. Hopefully, he would feel better after letting it all out. You weren’t going anywhere.

It could have been anything from mere minutes to several hours, but eventually, Malleus’ sobs began to die down to sniffles.

He lifted his head from where he had buried it against your shoulder, glancing up to meet your eyes with his red-rimmed, puffy ones.

“I’m sorry,” he said, voice cracking. “For everything. All the people I hurt. The things I-” 

Fresh tears spilled past his lash line, and you didn’t hesitate to cup his face in your hands, brushing them away as they fell. Malleus leaned into the warmth of your palms, seeking the reassurance your touch held. 

“You don’t need to apologize, Mal,” you whispered, smiling at him. “Not to me. Never to me.” 

Leaning forward, you pressed a featherlight kiss against the scale on his forehead which peeked out from between tousled locks of hair. 

“There was nothing unforgivable about what you did. The people who were hurt are recovering, the school is being rebuilt, and everyone is safe.” 

Malleus’ breath hitched. Tears glistened in the corners of his eyes and across his long lashes like tiny diamonds. 

“Aren’t you afraid?” he asked, voice still quiet and trembling. The ‘of me’ was left unsaid, but you knew it was there. 

Your immediate smile was all the reassurance Malleus needed, but you still decided to verbally reassure him as well.

“I could never be afraid of you, Mal.”

The relief Malleus felt was palpable as he finally relaxed, shoulders dropping from their tense position as he leaned his weight into you. 

His head shifted to press a pointed ear against your chest, listening to the steady and even thumps of your heartbeat.

To better support the body weight of the dragon fae, you shifted your sitting position so that you could lean your back against the wall. You refused to let Malleus get up so you could move, holding him close and carding your fingers through his hair with soft, comforting motions. 

“But I saw…” Malleus’ voice cracked. “When my horn broke, I saw the look in your eyes. You looked terrified.” The last part of the sentence was a mere whisper, but the close proximity between the two of you made you able to pick it up. 

“I was scared, yes,” you began, feeling something in your chest ache as you felt the powerful mage in your arms flinch. “But not of you.”

Malleus tilted his head to meet your eyes, brows furrowed in confusion. 

You let out an airy laugh, brushing a stray lock of hair behind his ear. “I was afraid for you. Afraid that you would have to be killed to stop your overblot. Afraid that I would never get to hold you like this again.”

You could feel tears brimming in your own eyes as you poured your heart out. “Mal, I love you. Nothing you have done or will do could ever change that.” 

Cold lips pressed against yours with a soft reverence. The kiss was slow, unhurried as the two of you conveyed a thousand words between each other in a silent, intimate moment. 

When you pulled apart, Malleus rested his forehead against yours, the cold of his forehead scale comforting. “You wish to stay by my side still?” he asked, knowing the answer deep down, yet still fearful he would be mistaken.

“Always.”

“Even if I look like this now?” he urged, leaning away far enough to do a sweeping motion towards his face and now uneven, damaged horns. “Even if-”

You cut him off with another kiss, this time more demanding than the prior. You tried pouring all your love into the kiss, trying to clear the insecure thoughts from Malleus’ mind. Taking the opportunity provided by Malleus as he had leaned away before, you climb into his lap, making yourself comfortable. 

Pulling away from the kiss, you cradled his face gently but firmly in both hands, making sure he couldn’t look away from you.

“Malleus, if you think something as insignificant as you looking different is enough to take me away from your side, you are far from correct.” You let your left hand travel up his face until it was gently tracing the base of his broken horn. 

“You could have four horns, eight and a half horns, or no horns at all, and it would still have no impact at all on my feelings for you.” 

Carefully, you gently ran the pads of your fingers over the broken part of the horn where it had snapped off. Malleus shuddered beneath you as your touch danced across his exposed, extra sensitive nerves.

“I love you because you are you. Not because you’re a Draconia, or a powerful fae. None of that matters.” Your hand returned to cradling his face once more. 

“Of course, having a strong, handsome partner is a bonus,” you added with a giggle, delighting in the small, pale blush that crept across Malleus’ cheeks.

“But I’m not with you because of those things. I’m with you because of all the things that make you you. The care that you show for me and those you care about, how fireflies follow you at night and circle our clasped hands. The cute way you pout when Sebek mixes up gargoyles and grotesques, itching to correct him. The childlike wonder you show to every new thing you learn…”

You take a breath, wishing in vain for your voice to stay strong, but failing miserably.

“- the way that all you’ve ever wanted is for people to see you for who you are, and be able to be yourself, unburdened by expectations and prejudices.”

Tears were flowing down your cheeks now, making you feel embarrassed. Right now, you needed to be the strong one supporting Malleus - not the other way around. 

Swallowing the lump in your throat, you placed your hand against his chest, right above his heart.

“I see you.” 

A relieved, genuine smile - the first one you’d seen since the overblot - stretched across Malleus’ lips. He leaned into the touch of your palm, eyes shining with both residual tears and adoration. 

“What did I ever do to deserve you?” he asked.

You immediately shook your head in outrage. “What do you mean deserve? You silly, silly dragon. You didn’t have to do anything at all but exist.” 

Letting out a sound that was something halfway between a laugh and a sob, you continued as Malleus’ arms wrapped around your waist, holding you close. 

“If anything, I’m the one undeserving of you.” 

His mouth fell open in shock, about to cut you off, but you forced yourself to continue, undeterred.

“You’re the prince of Briar Valley. Not only do you have magic, but you’re one of the most powerful mages in the whole world! And the most ethereal, gorgeous person I have ever seen. I’m a nobody compared to you. A magicless human from another world with nothing really special about me. My life is so much shorter than yours, and I-”

This time, Malleus refused to let you continue and cut you off. A slender finger pressed against your lips as he let out a dry laugh. “My love, do you hear yourself? You are bringing up all the things you said didn’t keep you from loving me to put yourself down. Just as these things don’t matter to you, it is the same way for me. I did not fall in love with you because you’re a human or because it would benefit Briar Valley. I would renounce my claim on the throne in a heartbeat for you.”

Malleus cupped your cheek, mirroring your own earlier actions. 

“I fell in love with the first person outside of my country who truly saw me for myself, was undeterred by how awkwardly I engage in conversation, and extended invitations to me - being the first person to see me as a choice, someone they wanted to be around. You have never looked upon me with the fearful gaze of a subject kneeling before me, and have never made me feel excluded in any way due to being a prince.” 

He let out a laugh, gazing fondly up at you. “Any and every day with you is an adventure. No matter where you take me, what we do together, or what people around us whisper about, it’s the fact that I’m doing it with you that makes it special.”

“Even though I laughed at you when you were startled and jerked back when they were popping popcorn at a market stall and me and Silver had to fight to keep Sebek from drawing his sword at the poor owner of the stall?” 

Malleus let out a loud burst of laughter. “Moments like those are my favorite. Spending time with people I care about, and learning new things while not a single thought about my royal lineage crosses my mind.” 

Falling quiet for a moment, Malleus seemed to ponder something. With a resolute nod to himself, he resumes speaking. 

“Like you said, I am aware that the differing length of our respective lifespans is a source of conflict and worry. I do not wish to ever lose you. You saw what happened when I was afraid I would lose Lilia…” he trailed off for a moment, but quickly collected himself.

“Even though that is a fear I harbor, I do not wish to give up on loving you. If you are willing to stay with me despite all that I’ve done, we have many years to find a solution… and…” Malleus took a deep breath, meeting your gaze again, tears pooling at the corners of his eyes. 

“...and should we not find a solution, then so be it. I would much rather have lived a life with you in it and then lose you than never having had you in my life at all.” 

Terrified of loss and sadness, and knowing the potential consequences of that, he still wanted nothing more than to spend as many years as possible at your side. A century is a short time for a fae, yet even if that is all the time with you that he gets, he is certain that it will be the most memorable and most valuable hundred years he ever lives.

“You ass,” you choked out with a laugh, wiping your nose with the sleeve of your shirt. “I’m the one supposed to be sappy and reassure you - not the other way around.” There was no mirth or anger in your eyes, and the remark was playful, attempting to lighten the mood. 

Malleus let out a chuckle, chest rumbling. “Who is to say that I am not supposed to be the so-called ‘sappy’ one?” he asked, nuzzling his face into the crook of your neck. “You are truly precious to me, and I cannot in any amount of words in any language properly convey just how much you mean to me.” 

He fell silent once more, peeking up at you through his lashes. “Are you truly certain that you wish to be with me after all this?” 

There was no need to pause and think. You already knew your answer and had known it for a long time now.

“There is no place I would rather be.” 

Eventually, the pair of you fell asleep cuddled together on the floor, clutching each other tightly as if fearing that the other would disappear otherwise. Your head rested on Malleus’ chest, lulled to sleep by the soft, rumbling purrs he let out as he slept curled around you like a dragon guarding its hoard.

And for the first time since the overblot, neither of you worried about what you would find in your dreams, content to exist in the perfect reality that could only be found in the other’s arms.

[buriedunderdaffodils]

hi. we're a plural bunch of autoassassinophiles and erotophonophiles here to twirl our hair and giggle and blush about murdersex. we also experience cotard's syndrome, however this isn't as prominent currently; not to worry though, we still wanna be a corpse getting fucked teehee ^_^ in our early 20s, most of us are weird in the gender in some way and have various sexualities - collectively we id as bisexual, as well as grayromantic, graysexual, and strictly polyamorous.

this blog has a whole lot of different kinks that would take too long to list out, and we also use it to vent sometimes but usually that's because we're at least a little horny about our woes. general content warning for cnc/noncon fantasies, corpsefucking, violence, intox, incest (including between headmates who are family), ageplay, and (though not very frequently now) self harm.

zionists and radqueers/transableds/etc fuck off. not into photos/videos of real gore. and of course the obligatory disclaimer that we don't support actually killing people or oneself, we believe in harm reduction for extreme sadomasochism, and you shouldn't fuck real corpses 👍

‼️ we frequently reblog palestinians' fundraisers, and we check each for vetting. those can be found under the #vetted and #unvetted but ris is clean tags. ‼️

feel free to send us questions, fantasies or threats! <3

list of additional tags and alter signoffs below the cut

organizational tags:

#buried pages - posts that we put enough effort into to use this tag

#dead dj - music we like!

#page: necrosis - post(s? eventually?) written in the setting of 🪫 being able to regenerate from death, and having a big sis who helps it out and is a little too into seeing it dead

#page: undead husbandry - guide(s??) on how to train your zombie sex toy pet :)

#headspace gossip - posts about the happenings within our system, because we are very gay for our fellow headmates and like yapping about each other

#hall of fame - collective favorite posts, whether horny or silly

signoffs:

[none] - used to usually be the previous host 🪫, currently indicates no one in particular

🪫 - undead robot lesboy dyke, intox enthusiast, better at having a god complex than you. making 🌊 more perverted every day

👁️ - stereotypical evil alter. dom leaning wannabe cult leader. i can be your boymom if you pay your tithes. i love having 6d psychic mind chess sex with many of my headmates but mainly, 🧭 is my test subject and 🌊 is my baby boy.

🧭 - no gender only dyke. will do many things for a crisp 20 dollar bill. the most emotionally distant person in the world. 👁️'s psychological test subject i fucking guess #toxicyuri

🌊 - New host, honestly I've been super sexually repressed so I'm figuring out what I like. My gender is A Fucking Animal and I'm not even gonna try to find an orientation label to pair with that. Tentatively getting comfortable domming, more comfortable subbing. 👁️ is doing some fucking things to me in a lab I think and now 🪫 is helping

🪻 - resident boyprincess and ☁️'s weird little brother ^_^

☁️ - Mostly a sadistic dom top and my posts and faves will reflect that. Honestly unsure of my orientation but still open to flirting from whoever, just don't expect much from me emotionally. 🕊️ is the only one allowed to be dominant toward me. 🪻's big brother.

🕊️ - bisexual guy, i don't know what else to say about myself except i fucked that old man and will continue to fuck that old man. no further comment at this time

🗡️ - proud bitch and massive crybaby, idk what my sexuality is i just woke up

🫀 - my personality is 50% bimbo idiot 50% creepy slut and that's my ENTIRE purpose in this system :D i also don't know what my sexuality is but i like women LOL

📹 - Not actually that horny of a person, mostly just a voyeur.

🍨 - just some fucking slaughterfag, not much to say

💙 - has not written his thing but he exists in here somewhere

💤 - genderless ball of violence. 🦂 and 💸 are some of my siblings.

🦂 - some kinda sapphic, here to fuck and not much else! largely responsible for spreading the in system incest bug in our brain ^_^ 💤 and 💸 are a couple of my siblings <3

💸 - i don't even know what i'm doing except being wildly bisexual. 🦂 and 💤 are a couple of my siblings and when they fuck i stand in the distance giving a thumbs up so they know their brother supports them

🪄 - faggot attention whore star of the show v sign yay!

🐦 - world's happiest wet dog

🖋️ - twinkish vodka aunt who has been banned from threatening suicide but has NOT been banned from getting killed during sex

🍷 - alcie vampire pleeeeease let me bite yr neck i promise i'll be gentle and nice

🎼 - creepy obsessive girl boy thing who is more scared of you than you are of it

🔩 - bisexual man(?) who dreams of little more than performing questionable experiments on cute needy patients. currently running tests on 👁️, results not yet available.

⚰️ - fan of murder, corpsefucking, cnc, plushie humping, problematic age regression, and our partner. otherwise sex averse. as far as internal relationships go, 🔥 is my dom.

🪽 - prideful fagtastic cunt

🫐 - pretty smart as far as bimbots go, some kinda nblm, my hobby is batting my doe eyelashes at 🍆

🍆 - the most binary gay dom-leaning man our brain could muster. the eggplant is half a joke about how people use it to mean penis but i don't have one and half to do silly food emojis with my beautiful robot4robot guywife 🫐

⚙️ - not quite a man but close enough, definitely a faggot, not that different from an overexcitable medium size dog, slowly taking poison damage from my daddy kink, waiting for my brainboyfriends to pick their fucking signoffs

🛡️ - mmmm codependent incest my favorite. egomaniacal manlike entity, sub leaning i think

🔥 - morally eroded dom+top leaning bisexual stoner guy hiii ^u^

[lovealwaysmichael]

Nosey press (Micheal Clifford x reader)

Cw: mentions of ed, sh, depression.

disclaimer: my first language is not English, I’m Vietnamese living in Australia so although I’m fluent, I still make mistakes!

-

“So, a fan tweeted something.. ‘obscure’ about you.” The interviewer poked at you with his words; commenting on something he shouldn’t have even brought up.

You blanked him. Your stare glared daggers into his soul, unfortunately letting him run his mouth a little further. “Do you have any comments on your disgraceful actions?”

“Which actions?” Genuinely you had little clue. Multiple posts were spread recently; all of which could be painted as disgraceful with the wrong interpretation.

He shook his head “The colourful scene plastered about between you and Michael Clifford?” He spoke as if it was obvious, yet still as if you yourself had no recollection of the events.

Though you did. - in fact it felt like it had only happened yesterday, so stuck into your mind you doubted you could ever forget it.

Michael frowned, taking your hand in his. “You don’t have to do that to be beautiful, baby.” He sighed; his eyes weren’t full of what peoples typically where. No pity, just love. Love and empathy. “You’re beautiful no matter what.”

“I wish I could believe that.. but I don’t see what you do Mike.” You huffed out a breath, cold night air leaving you able to view your own breath.

He intertwined your fingers, lightly swaying your arms between you. His gentle touch was all you needed in that moment. Yet you felt bad, you just told the boy about your relapse.

The awful escape you’d used all those years back had finally had a reason to bring you back to it. Hate was getting too much and it felt like you were your helpless highschool self being bullied all over again.

back then Michael had saved you from that dark space, your only friend. He’d kissed the scars on your skin, not putting pressure on you to stop, no ‘stop for me please’ no gross grimace, just a simple ‘I’m always here for you, I hope you know that.’

He was what pulled you out of your eating disorder, the thing that taught you it was okay to eat again.

You wished you hadn’t relied on him so much, but he did the same to you, it felt balanced, yet also so very unbalanced. “But it’s not just me, honey. So many people see that you’re beautiful, there are healthier ways to deal with this- talk to me, please.” He stopped in his tracks, just outside the target closest to your house. “I don’t want to risk losing you again.”

Luke had let you know a while back Michael’s thoughts when you’d been hospitalised due to your self-harming, when you’d lost so much blood he had to hold a towel to your wrists as he waited for the ambulance to come, watching his whole world slip in and out of consciousness.

Luke said he’d never seen the boy so distraught, that Michael simply sat in the corner of the waiting room, asking Luke why he wasn’t enough, why he hadn’t realised what was going on.

It broke you, it did. Even now, thinking about Michael’s thoughts on this subject hurt you, but you couldn’t change it. “You won’t.”

“but I could.” He placed a hand on your cheek, letting go of the grip he had on your hand. “And I don’t want that.”

You didn’t want to talk anymore, not on this subject anyway. So you pressed your lips against his. He kissed back straight away, backing you up into the wall, turning his head to deepen the kiss

This was what the paparazzi had caught. An innocent moment (barely even a make out) between two partners after a sad talk.

Photos taken and used out of context to make you both look bad. Being famous was hard. Of course not in a ‘oh woe always me’ kind of way, but more a ‘lack of privacy’ kind of way.

Not being able to do anything at all without somebody making you look like an awful person really sucked.

“How about we talk about the album instead?” You smiled fakely, letting the interviewer’s face drop. “You know, the thing this interview is meant to be about?”

“So that’s it? You won’t apologise to your fans for what you did? You’re evil, everyone knows you are. You-“

-Were leaving, that’s what you were. You pushed up off the chair and made your way across the room; the interviewer still yelled despite you not being in the room.

”you handled that better than I would’ve.” Michael smiled, greeting you as you entered the room he was in. He kissed you softly.

“I do try.” You grinned “god though. I really wanted to punch that guy.” He laughed, that was his partner. The person he fell in love with.

“yeah, I could tell.”

taglist: @thefearedfallen @cass1opi4

(if you want to be added to my tag list, please ask.)

[minato-division01]

Nadya's Thoughts on Obihiro Division

Hisoka Tetsumasu

"Hisoka Tetsumasu? A classic case of post-criminal behavioral adaptation, if I ever saw one. He scurries around, thinking he's hidden, but we all know his tales of woe and so-called 'redemption.' It's laughable. He helped develop the illegal HypMics, yes, and that's the only sliver of respect he'll get from me—respect for the craft, not the craftsman. His association with Rei Ayamado is the only thread that makes him slightly interesting."

"But let's not confuse the observable phenomena with the subject’s worth. His current act, hiding behind horses and playing the reformed criminal, it's pathetic. You can't just erase your past with a change of scenery and expect the world to forget. His attempts at obscurity are futile; he's marked by his deeds, and no amount of horseplay will change that. He's a footnote in a much larger story, one that I intend to rewrite. And when I do, his name will be nothing more than a whisper, a cautionary tale of what happens when you’re too weak to seize the power that's within your grasp."

Daiki Kamiyama

"The Kamiyama boy? He is a textbook example of affluenza—wealth-induced complacency leading to delusions of grandeur. His nocturnal escapades as a 'superhero' are nothing more than a child's play, a desperate grasp at a reality that doesn't exist. It's a pitiful sight, really. To think that someone born with every resource at their fingertips chooses to squander it on such… frivolities. Even Saburo Yamada, with his youthful exuberance, displays a level of maturity far beyond what Daiki seems capable of."

"The Kamiyama name might carry some weight in certain circles, but to me, it’s just another variable in the equation, one that adds little value to the overall sum. I have no interest in the trivial pursuits of a boy who thinks he can don a mask and make any significant impact. The world is not a comic book, and sooner or later, he will have to learn that lesson. Until then, he remains an insignificant blip on my radar, unworthy of further scientific inquiry or personal interest."

Jack Verrill

"Jack, the butler, presents a curious case study. It's clear he's not simply tending to his charge out of sheer loyalty. His actions suggest a deeper agenda, one that’s yet to be fully revealed. It's this underlying complexity that piques my interest, albeit slightly. He's like a variable in an experiment that’s yet to be defined, and I do enjoy unraveling a scientific enigma."

"For now, he warrants observation, not interaction. Like a shadow, he moves with purpose, and it's that purpose I intend to uncover. Who he's truly serving and what his endgame might be, are questions that demand answers. Until then, he and his charge are little more than background noise to the symphony I'm composing. Insignificant, yet not entirely irrelevant."

Veiled Vanguard

"Veiled Vanguard, a collective of individuals each with their own quirks and secrets. To the untrained eye, they might seem like a formidable group, but to me, they're a mere nuisance. A team that hardly warrants the effort of my experimentation or the focus of my intellect. They're like a control group in an experiment—necessary for comparison but not the main subject of interest."

"I have no intention of wasting valuable resources on them. Let another team deal with the trivialities of managing such small fry. My attention is reserved for grander schemes, for challenges that are worthy of my time and talents. Veiled Vanguard can play their little games; I have larger puzzles to solve and more significant variables to control in this grand design of the D.R.B."

[my-cursed-brain]

Twst OC Bio: Xenio Wormwood

Yeah idk if anyone here cares but I suddenly got an idea for an oc on the bus ride home the other day and I've quickly grown attached to this character so I want to talk about him! This post is super long but whatever.

Basics:

Name: Xenio Wormwood

Birthday: October 1st (Libra)

Age: 18

Dorm: Pomefiore (formerly Ignihyde)

Unique Magic: I don't have a name for it yet, but it casts lightning bolts

Dominant Hand: Left

Homeland: Island of Woe

School:

Grade: 3rd year

Club: Science

Best Subject: Potionology

Preferences:

Hobbies: Collecting

Pet Peeves: Being told what to do in flight class

Favorite Food: Meat

Least Favorite Food: Raw vegetables

Talent: Hosting guests

Nicknames: Magpie, Fée Verte (from Rook)

Misc:

Species: Harpy

Based On: The vultures from the Evil Queen's death scene

Likes: Stealing small objects, trying new foods, fashion

Dislikes: Not fitting in, disrespectful guests

Pronouns: Any (but is mostly called 'he' because NRC is an all boy school)

Orientation: Aroace

Hair: Brown, waist length

Eyes: Green

Rambling:

So he ended up having far more Greek inspiration than I originally planned. Whoops. My thought process was if I was gonna make this character a harpy, then I wanted some connections to Greek mythology. His name comes from the word xenia, an ancient Greek concept of hospitality. It's also a reference to Zeus as he was sometimes called Zeus Xenios due to his role as a protector of strangers. I also went with the Zeus reference because I wanted to give him lightning magic. The nickname from Rook comes from a drink called absinthe, which has wormwood as an ingredient. It was called "the green fairy" in various literature. He's frequently called Magpie because of his stealing collecting random objects, mostly shiny ones.

[plumsaffron]

The ML Crossover Methfics seriously are a whole different breed of insanity. Lmfao gotta love that insult of yours.

For people who claim to be Marinette stans they sure wrote a tonne of nonsensical fics making her out to be an abuse victim. A “poor me” or “woe is me” story.

I don’t really like Lila but I honestly hate the ML salt community even more. Especially what happened to that poor Lila fan… I mean she’s just a fictional character, they didn’t have to be that explosive about her. Miracucunts really do ruin everything they touch… and unable to see themselves for what they’ve done on the online spaces. Absolutely disgusting that they’d hate on an emotionally abused victim using the excuse that he wasn’t physically abused and that he’s just a spoiled rich white boy.

Yea, the DP phandom is usually chill even after I stopped following their users and tags to this day. For a mediocre show, they surprisingly came out with a civilized community. Even with the Sam Manson critique to hatred, I don’t see these people harassing anyone who likes her. It’s the Stans that sometimes do it despite the evidence showing that Sam is better off with someone else similar to her. Even with several crossover fics, they’re still quite bearable and civilized. Because some people actually did their fucking research. Or even if they didn’t do much in-depth research, their “OOC” fics are sometimes more “in character” than the ML saltfics.

Though I totally understand why some people are anti-crossover fanfic thanks to the miracubitches and other fandom twats ruining things with extreme character hate and assassinations.

This is my assumption but I think the TVTropes staff and their fans are lowkey control freaks not just oversensitive idiots. Maybe that’s why my scathing review was a “little too cruel” for their liking on the rated E franchise. Maybe only long time active users on their side are allowed to edit and add content. Yet mature dark canon stuff is allowed to stay on their site while opposing actual harmless criticism, opinions and reviews are silenced. Or users being suspended… I clicked on anti TVTropes here and saw a decade old post saying that the site doesn’t allow people to have different opinions. And I thought to myself, “Damn, I shouldn’t have signed up back then, should’ve listened to other people’s experiences on that wasted potential site.”

AO3 is literally the few places where you can get away with a controversial but still harmless opinion in your profile and fic notes/summary. And the chances of being dogpiled are very low but never zero if your work is inspired by a “controversial” person who did say something many years ago and/or didn’t handle a touchy subject matter that well in their works. But now ppl are bringing it up even though that “controversial” person isn’t really bad just had different views back then due to their upbringing or smth. Or the fic just seen as very disturbing despite the warning labels.

heh heh thanks.

Yeah lotta Marinette Dupain Cheng stans making or drinking them fics are oxymorons.

I don’t mind you not liking Lila but yeah the Miraculous Ladysalt community is deplorable (and a better thing to hate), along with their death driving charade. Still, despite that demise of that fan of hers, it just wasn’t enough to make them rethink how far they've gone.

Plaguedom’s plaguing dementality flourishes and there’s pretty much nothing that can be done to stop it. So many unfortunately may blindy eat their tumors, while next to none are there to warn them to not consume the plaque.

Ah these miracushits don’t know that his life sucks. Heck even in Miraculous Rise Of The Sphinx game, Max Kante told him exactly how little time he has during the day commonly. These miraculous roaches love jigsawing what happens to fit things into their own unfittable puzzle they believe fits now. They don’t know that that’s Gabriel’s money? Any decision he makes is if his father allows it or if it follows his father’s interests. Otherwise it’s gonna be a no or his father will find a way to make Adrien feel bad about it. They don’t know that he determines and pretty much controls his future or fate (yeah yeah currently it’s Nathalie, his other fugly controller now, but whatever).

How do these fools jump into the conclusion of reducing him to he’s spoiled rich white boy? Perhaps I should say, why do they do this to him and why are they like this to Adrien? Dude ain’t even someone to be truly or really triggered upon. Adrien, despite his sucky, and still currently sucky life, he’s not spoiled. And even if he was spoiled, why is that treated as an awful thing? Heck I’m still pretty spoiled. Is this really the best they can come up with? This the best Miracucks can do to someone that’s pretty much good to others and not a problem causers or not a person seeking to be in a realm of ramifications of future conflicts? Like hello, he is made to do a lot of crap he doesn’t like, and to be next to flawless. He doesn’t like being trapped in the mansion, he likes hanging out with his friends. Sigh miracuscabs always gotta find a way to reduce and arrange anything for putdown purposes to leech over. Man… I just searched him earlier on here and one of the results on the feed was a salt prompt for Adrien blog. *Sighs*

MMM research, ML Salt fics usually never never never never never

Yep and Miracubitches and them other fandung beetles like ruination while also not just harboring legendary levels of character loathing and assassinating, these buttwipes mastered the art of sniping their own character without even knowing.

Yeah it’s possible and unfortunate of them TVTropes Staff Members and their purposeful pathetic pickiness. Sometimes searching "anti something," can show something unordinary or a different perspective compared to the masses (or casuals that might be lucky). Maybe showing that you aren’t completely alone with such experiences or feelings of stuff. You live and learn.

Well at least A03 is safe sort of for now. But that is disgusting when people use someone’s past takes and rally up some virus to attack one in the present because they can’t handle it or maybe the current time in society sees this thing in the past as unacceptable. Or they just want to. It’s just sigh. Finding worth to cause problems on what was never worth it to begin with because ignoring is inconceivable.

Like ugh… Imagine someone calls a person a scrub 5 years ago in a story or whatever. Then someone 5 years later took offense and felt personally attacked cause of that word cause they see it as an offense to their self or their gender or whatever group of collective gender or whatever. And so the triggered one condemns this person that said scrub from the past and ganders a cult of clowns using the past against the present. Context don’t matter, the triggered ones feel victimized while ironically going out their way to victimize the one of the present. All cause they were offended so badly over a minor inconvenience. Bonus, these scabies treat who they attack as if that was always who they are or were or will be.

[touchingmadness]

Help me choose a Nano project?

I am by no means promising to heed the results to this, but I could use some opinions. I have a few ideas for what to work on for Nano but can't make a final decision which is... a problem, since these all need some more planning before I actually start writing them.

Descriptions and pros/cons below the cut.

Reblogs allowed and appreciated.

That Which Remains (post-apoc sci-fantasy)

In a post-apocalyptic world where the passage to the afterlife has been mysteriously cut off, the streets are oversaturated with the spirits of the dead. Trained Quellers take to the streets with their spirit-sensitive subordinates to channel and extinguish these spirits. Aereas is an unsanctioned Queller who is secretly spirit-sensitive. When they're called in to investigate the apparent suicide of a Queller-in-training, they get pulled into the mystery of why the spirits of the dead are lingering and what the Quellers are - or aren't - doing about it.

Pros:

Most developed plot

Main and secondary character decently developed

I know DEFINITIVELY how this ends, down to the scene

Cons:

Might be derivative -- formulated as a dream while I was binging stories about body-hopping and talking to the dead

Most of the other characters don't even have names

Unsure if this is a single book

Wither and Woe (high fantasy, political drama)

Five nations are on the cusp of deadly conflict. Tensions are rising, and plans are being pushed into motion under the veneer of civility. A young princess married off as a glorified hostage barters with the demon Wither for a child that will earn her nation's protection. She bears her husband an heir that is not his own amidst the political machinations of the inner court and begins to suspect that she is not the only one who Wither has helped.

Pros:

WITHER!!! I love Wither so much!!!

Most of these characters are well-planned

Wrote a bit for this a few months back

Cons:

Still unsure is this should be one POV or like six

Worldbuilding needs some work

Heavy subject material with little room for levity -- usually prefer to write these types at the same time as a lighter project

Casey Draper's Big (Gay) Alien Road Trip (contemp sci-fi)

Casey Draper is stuck in a rut since graduation, faced with the harsh realities that her dreams may never come true and her friends might not want to see her again. Life isn't like the books, and that sucks. So who can blame her when she lets herself be kidnapped away from her dead-end job by an angry alien who seems to think she's a missing alien prince? Casey's in for the adventure she always craved as they flee secret government agencies, stumble upon strange towns, and eventually have to stop the actual runaway prince from getting himself killed with his party boy attitude.

Pros:

Main cast is completely planned

Incredibly dissimilar to anything I've watched/read lately, so less likely to accidentally draw from things half-remembered

Almost episodic, can afford to be rambly and unfocused

Cons:

It's the type of contemp where the worldbuilding is basically just our world, which is difficult and often boring for me

Literally no existing outline AT ALL

Annoyed with my own job in a way I wasn't when this was first planned -- risks getting too pessimistic or just frustrating

Project Evergreen (post-apoc sci-fi)

Arden thinks his life is over when he leaves behind his family's stronghold to take his sister's place at the Eternal One's estate. But instead of being imprisoned for Fern's habitual impulsiveness, he is given a new name and instructed to work on a mysterious device alongside others in similar situations. And he would truly prefer it if the Eternal One would simply lurk. Instead, the mystical woman infamous for somehow surviving long past the Before Times visits him and speaks as though he is someone else.

Pros:

Relatively developed cast drawing from discarded projects

Basically a fucked up and nonromantic sci-fi Beauty and the Beast story, so most of the big story beats are planned for me

Strong thematic center - easier to make story decisions

Cons:

No clue what happens between the big story beats ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Worldbuilding is slapdash at best

I have no clue how this ends

[duskforged-alt]

State of the Author: January 2024

Normally, I wouldn't do a thing like this. However, because I have not actually updated y'all on my WIPs in a while, I thought I might as well!

We'll start with the thing most of you followed me for: long-form fiction. And I call it that since all of these will be over 15k words (hopefully). There are three novels I'm currently focusing on.

LONG-FORM FICTION

Lodestar is currently stuck in a worldbuilding spiral, since it's a near-future humanity in space. While I do love sci-fi, science and math are not especially my forte. I hope to start drafting by the end of the summer, around September.

Vespertine has started on the first draft, though I'm also outlining still - something of a combined process. I am excited to share more of it with you, though it may be tough since most of it still lives in my head. Such is the woe of the artist.

Unto Summer Kings is in the first draft and currently hovering around 15k words! So far it's the longest I've gotten on a novel, and if I stay on track I could start my second draft by May, and begin beta reading by August.

LONG-FORM FANFICTION

I hesitate a little to touch on this one, just because. However, for the pure self indulgence I will. I have three major fanfics currently posted on my AO3, all of them multichaptered.

The Hanged Man is a Naruto SI!OC as Hatake Sakumo, immediately before his death. I currently have 8 chapters out and the main beats of the fic are fully outlined as of this month, which marks a major turning point in the fic's planning.

The Ever-Growing Gloaming is another self insert, this time into the events of Baldur's Gate 3. Vespere, the main character, whose name is subject to change, has been plucked from August 2023 and has not played the game since early access March 2023. Therefore they know less than you might expect.

Finally I have my Supernatural series, For Want of a Broken Nail (Broken Nail Verse). And I know what you're going to say, it's super meta to have a self insert in that fandom, you're writing SPN fanfic in 2024 what is wrong with you, etc etc. But the concept seized me full on by the balls and I already have the first 5 seasons outlined. Sorry, not sorry? No one is obligated to read it anyhow.

I also have a billion ideas on the backburner, ranging from fandoms like Game of Thrones and the MCU (for some reason) to Avatar: the Last Airbender and Star Wars. I'll post 'em when I post 'em!

ART PROJECTS

Wolf in Shepherd's Clothing is a comic of humanity's first lycanthrope, taking place in ancient Mesopotamia, in what is modern day Iran. The main character, Lahar, is gender neutral/ambiguous. So far, I'm stuck in outlining and drafting but hopefully soonTM.

Witchboy (title wip) is a story I'm working on with my partner @fallenorpheus based on various YA novels we read growing up. So far we aren't super set on the story, but it's definitely about a boy who is (accidentally) a witch, his best friend, his adoring father, and his estranged mother.

Dame-Errant (title wip) is a story that, instead of in comic form, is a story that is illustration snapshots, accompanied by short story prose. It is about a butch knight, Dame Johana Talon, who is tasked by Queen Atossa to find her missing son, Prince Khosrow. Typical 'prince(ss) in the tower shenanigans' but then, politics. And boy does Jo hate politics.

I have other webcomic ideas (mtf vs bbeg accidentally breaking a prophecy, team of bipoc/minority characters getting thrown into a fantasy world for an adventure, etc) so feel free to ask.

PERSONAL

I hesitate to touch on this, really, since it's not something that just anyone needs to know, but I've been struggling to find a good name for myself. Hesperos is a good name, but doesn't necessarily feel like 'me' these days. I do enjoy the h/e sounds... I've considered Ezra, but that's just the name of an OC and I'd rather not get quite that meta.

Ah well, sure it'll sort itself out eventually.

THE END

Anyway, thanks for reading! I know that's quite a lot for this one post to cover, but you stuck til the very end. Not sure when I'll start posting again in earnest but I hope sooner rather than later!

[willingcannibalvictim]

gonna make a stop-motion object show so hers the outline (it’s called MASK btw)

MASK is an object show that follows the cast of characters who have been placed in mysterious plane where all is too big for them as punishment for their sins while they were alive. But, only one of them has a chance at revival gifted as a prize by the ominous narrator that determines their fate, their very creator.

The characters have not been told they have died, but it will be implied and found out by the characters.

Through a series of clues hunting and detective work (with a lot of problems along the way), our cast of characters discovers the said prize is a fraud, that nobody will make it out alive…unless they fight for their escape. Will they band together? Or will they crumble into isolation from their own bickering?

cast of characters (NAMES ARE PLACEHOLDER!)

Catty: A charismatic sand cat mask who is working as a puppet for the narrator. A pawn, one could say

Bottle Cap: A guy who’s just trying to make it, working a dead-end job at a gas station just to stay afloat

Maple: The first person Catty recruited, and eager to follow with Catty’s authority, even when those plans become…drastic

Pill Bottle: A suspicious and large person with a personality and voice as deep and mysterious as the sea

Lozenge: A man who is rumored to not be sure of how old he really is, but boy he can tell you so many stories

Mannequin: A graceful gal who claims to never be in the wrong and is quick to put herself over others

Sketchbook: An artistic gal who refuses to share everything about her, but always tries to be her best in the end.

Gauze: A temperamental, yet soft guy who wants nothing more than to be loved, to be seen.

Goggles: An insomniac who spends their days tinkering away at meaningless escapism

Yarn Ball: A carefree and playful little ball who while soft, can be very aggressive. can and will beat anybody’s ass

Sticker Roll: A free-roamer who is rumored to come from far, far away.

Vacuum: A tall guy from a poor family who’s a bit of a control freak

Keychain: Full of giddy and carefulness, keychain is always the best way to distract someone from their woes. 

extra notes

i plan for this to be animated through stop motion using felt figures, the mysterious plane being my room (lol) and plan for the characters to be very small to prove for some challenges and way to develop a world in certain crevices.

Catty is the main antagonist and acts as the eyes and ears of the narrator, allowing them to speak into the other character’s heads. it’s a traitor, manipulating the naive Maple to its plans.

the figures for the characters will be made from felt with pipe-cleaners for arms and will not have names based on the object they are in the final cut. names used in this post for the cast of characters are subject to change and the names used are mainly placeholders for now.

[just-call-me-the-intrusive-thot]

Sometimes You Have No Option

Pairings: Romantic Prinxiety

TWs: scar mentions, mostly just vague nothing too graphic at all, very quick mention of the ‘heat death of the universe‘, it’s one throwaway line but just to be safe!

Summary: Virgil wonders what Roman gets up to on his adventures that leaves him battered and bruised. What he finds isn’t what he expected....

---------

There was always this unpleasant feeling that followed Virgil whenever Roman came back from traversing the mindscape on an ‘adventure’; sometimes he’d come back bruised and bashed, other times he’d sport a limp, but nearly every time, Roman would come home with new scars.

Virgil couldn’t understand the appeal of it, though far be it for him to say anything about it. Sure, maybe it did hurt a little seeing someone he cared about come back each time more banged up than before. 

But that's none of his business, right?

Virgil wondered just what Roman got up to each time he went out. He’d never seen the things Roman could conjure outside of the main mindscape; some called it the ‘imagination’ but they were already within the imagination technically. No, what Roman would conjure was more like a simulation within the mindscape, as far as Virgil understood it. Like adding an extension onto a home…. Only to tear it down once you were done with it in the end. 

Perhaps calling them ‘daydreams’ was a more accurate comparison.

There were many times Virgil would let his own imagination run wild with the kind of journeys Roman must have gone on. Forests and kingdoms, perhaps a seafaring adventure if Remus agreed to not set the kraken on him. Or maybe he branched out even more. Something like the spaceports of Treasure Planet, or something more akin to a spiritual journey you’d find in a Ghibli movie. Who knew what Roman was up to most days, honestly.

It was a lazy Saturday in the mindscape when Virgil finally decided to ask Roman about it.

He hadn’t necessarily planned to do so, but Logan and Patton were both busy elsewhere, and all Virgil had to do was watch TV and contemplate the inevitable heat death of the universe when Roman had returned. Mismatched eyes latched onto the creative side as the prince made his way to the kitchen. He winced as he watched Roman root around for frozen peas and press the bag to his left cheek.

The injury was just out of Virgil’s sight, but as Roman turned and made eye contact, he could see the beginnings of a bruise forming. Despite the way the sight made Virgil’s lips pinch into a frown, Roman met him with a smile that made his stomach do flips as he made his way over to the sofa,

“What’s that look for, Woe Troham?”

Virgil snorted, “Wow, we’re getting obscure with the nicknames now? You’re really earning that extra credit in Emo Studies, Princey.”

Roman rolled his eyes fondly and sat down next to Virgil, careful of the anxious side’s bunched up legs, “You do realise we ALL went through Thomas’ emo phase, right?”.

Virgil rolled his eyes, “Whatever...”, he was about to leave the conversation there when he remembered the matter at hand, “Hey, uh, Roman?”

“That’s what they call me, yes.”, the creative side smirked playfully, “Typically preceded by ‘Prince’ but I’ll cut you some slack this once.”. Virgil wanted to slap that smirk away. Or maybe smooch it. The jury was still out on that one.

He sighed in mock annoyance, “Can we cut out the nonsense for once, Romano?”

He bit his lip to stifle a chuckle at the insulted huff Roman let out. 

“Okay, seriously, I was gonna ask what happened,”, Virgil continued when Roman fixed him with a perplexed frown, “Y’know, to cause that.” .

He freed one hand from his hoodie paws to gesture to the bruise under the frozen peas in Roman’s hand. Said creative side shrugged, “It’s nothing to worry about, Virge. I’ve had far worse before.”.

Oh great, because that’s what Virgil was absolutely dying to hear. 

The words left his mouth before the anxious side could stop them, “.. Can I see?”

Okay, that had to have crossed a line, surely. Those scars were probably super traumatic or heavy with meaning, or perhaps they were-

“Okay.”, Roman shrugged. He was already hauling his shirt off by the time Virgil had registered how casual Roman was about this whole thing. He was about to voice his confusion when Roman’s shirt fluttered to the floor; leaving Virgil with a moment of gay crisis, but even more so a feeling of unease in the pit of his stomach.

Roman’s entire torso was covered in scars. Some were fresh, likely only days old, while others were already paling with time. The anxious side had no idea where his hands obtained the audacity to trail themselves along Roman’s skin without permission, but the creative side seemed content to let him continue.

Surprisingly confident fingertips traced valleys and trenches of healed and healing skin, only ever stopping on each route if Roman protested. Virgil had no idea why Roman let him even do something that felt this intimate in the first place, but the question that bubbled out of his throat instead was, “What…. Happened to you?”

He expected Roman to turn away, to dramatically cover himself once more, perhaps muttering a barely audible “some things are left unsaid” or “it’s…. Personal”, and then he’d retire to his room while Virgil did the same and let his mind swim in it’s usual cloud of anxious self depreciation. 

What Virgil did not expect was for Roman to immediately start pointing them out and listing every single cause like it was his grocery list.

“Well!”, Roman began, pointing to a scar on his left hip, “This is one I got from accidentally laying down on a light bulb.”

The prince pointed to more scars as he went, all too oblivious of Virgil’s stunned silence, “This one here is from running through corn stalks with my shirt off, and that one was a mosquito bite I scratched, which yes I know you shouldn’t do that, but you know how dreadfully those itch.This one here is from the time I tried to fight a goose- Oh! And this one I procured from falling out of a window during an impromptu tickle fight with Remus-” 

“Why does anyone try to fight a goose?!”, Virgil blurted out. Of all the rapidfire information his brain just tried to absorb, he wasn’t sure why that was what his brain latched onto, but he couldn’t exactly take back the question now.

The anxious side watched Roman’s expression take on a distant, stoic edge, but having known him so well by now Virgil knew the prince’s fake dramatic long distance stare a mile away. “Sometimes,”, Roman began, and Virgil did his best not to give a fond huff of annoyed laughter at the creative side’s faux drama tone, “The goose leaves you no option-”

Virgil couldn’t stifle the peal of laughter that slipped through his teeth and betrayed his irritated facade. The whole conversation had been an emotional rollercoaster but Virgil was mostly just happy that even if Roman was constantly getting into scrapes, at least it was nothing overly serious. By the time Virgil had stopped laughing, he realised Roman had also fallen victim to the case of the giggles.

“You’re ridiculous, goddamit, Roman!”, Virgil snarked weakly, the gentle smile he wore betraying any attempt at true irritation. Roman simply continued to beam at Virgil, brilliant and bright, a beacon of pure adoration. 

“That’s a rather funny way to pronounce ‘handsome and dashing’, but I’ll take it!”

It’s unfair that Roman got to be so well put together while Virgil was just standing there, hands still resting on Roman’s bare chest, blushing up an absolute storm. Something about the way Roman smiled at him - so gentle and adoring - made Virgil want to do something crazy. 

Like kissing him.

Yeah.

He should kiss him.

No, wait, he absolutely should NOT do that.

In fact, Virgil caught himself just as he was leaning towards Roman, intending to turn away. However, Roman’s arms snaked their way smoothly around his waist, keeping him close but still remaining loose enough that Virgil could break away if he wanted. 

“.... Virgil, can I ask you something?”

Roman’s voice was hesitant, a little less sure of himself than his expression implied. To save himself from embarrassment by not subjecting Roman to any barely passable attempts at a verbal affirmation, Virgil nodded bashfully. 

Roman’s gaze landed on Virgil’s lips then settled back into half lidded eye contact, a small quirk of laughter dancing across the prince’s features.

“Am I the only one who’s been subtly flirting this entire time? Because if so, I am going to be utterly scandalized.”

Even Virgil was surprised by the relieved laughter he let out; it was the ugly kind that gave away just how smitten he was with Roman. He tapped his fingers against Roman’s chest, humming playfully.

“Hmmm, looks like you’ll just have to be scandalized, pretty boy.”, he teased.

Roman’s shocked expression was too cute, how could Virgil resist? The anxious side sighed out a low chuckle, rolled his eyes, and lent forward to reward him with a much earned kiss.

-----------

We love us a couple of pining dorks

Based on this post and so I tag @count-woe-laf as promised!

[herstarburststories]

Calamitous Love

Paring: Dean Winchester x reader

Summary: Dean shows up at your house, but this is a calamitous love. Sooner or later, it's going to destroy.

A/N: I was based and inspired by so many things to get this ready, I can't even start pointing them here. This started as something and escalated to something else, and I'm immensely in love with how it is now. I'm posting a version of this through Dean's POV soon. The prompt is bolded and its for @tvdspngirl314's bday challenge! Hope you like it, honey! And happy bday.

Warnings: language, mentions of sex, fluff, angst, dean is a perv in a cute way, s1 dean Ily

Dean Winchester could easily remember how mad you were that night, after he purposely came to your party uninvited and stood on the porch talking to all your stupid friends. How the one you called the best out of them had wide eyes when she caught him there, and all the reaction she could get was him winking at her.

The man - who was more like a boy, really - with green eyes that matched your garden knew she would run and rush and breathlessly tell you that he was there.

Of course she did. Inez was never one for keeping secrets. He used to wonder if it was a matter of time for the blonde to spread yours.

Her loose lips were useful that night, though. He couldn't even finish his chatter about Chevrolet versus Toyota cars with that James guy before you bursted out of the door ferociously. Dean turned around and waited for many things; well-deserved slapping, indignated tears, a sharp scream strident enough to suppress the loud song which vibrated through everyone's skin like veins.

You surprised him once again.

You closed your eyelashes and took a deep breath, as if to control the burning fire behind your thoughts. The Winchester had seen her in arguments before, the whole ‘my mouth is a loaded gun without a trigger’ thing held an entirely new meaning. He knew you wanted to come at him, and Dean wouldn’t put any guilty on you for that. As you walked towards him, his brittle heart raced like one of those chick flick moments he always mocked about - yet, he couldn't help but stare. Your legs looked so good in that light, pretty ass that Dean loved to grab wrapped in a tight red skirt. You had a white tank with cleavage on and your hair was, as usual, free on its widest way. The hunter adored how your brown sea could never seem not to be a mess, and how you made chaos marvelous like a natural. He surely needed that in his life.

Isn’t it all you had been since the very beginning, honestly? Isn’t it what love utterly is when the lights are dim and the weather changes? Cutting right to the bone like a surgeon, you were that one thing, that one hand that would touch Dean’s weary head and make it rest, those unique lips who could whisper tales of hope in the backseat of his car and he could actually believe it. The one, you know, that one person who didn’t make the eldest Winchester feel like he cared more than he was cared for. He often experienced that math problem, dad never seemed to be satisfied enough to be proud of him, and Sam was always talking about how he wanted to leave someday.

‘’Dean.’’ You said and your tone was harsh, a single eyebrow arched with a quiet defying question. The green eyed man wouldn't be shocked if you had called him out before when he was too busy paying attention to you to notice. ‘’Let's go to the garden.’’

And then you grabbed his wrist, sneaking in through the rusting garden gates in the back of your house. Such mere touch put his skin on flames. So many others, mostly monsters or people who were really monsters at heart, already chained his hands and he always broke the cuffs. This time, in your hands, Dean almost wished he could stay put, grounded to something else other than bloody walls and oily guns. He missed you so much. The way your fingers felt on his cheeks, how you'd allow him to kiss every inch of your body, and how you seemed to understand.

Anyway, it wasn't time for him to turn sentimental just yet. Leave it to Sam. 

Dean’s boots were cruel against the grass, walking side by side with your high heels ones. Above all the partying noise, they both were quiet for once, as if they were going into a clandestine meeting.

He hated it.

‘’What the fuck are you doing here?’’ you turned around in a swift move before crossing your arms. It took a lot of self control not to glare at your breast, which is why Dean didn’t. He pictured it wasn’t that bed since he was only glancing for a few seconds and the malicious smirk on his face faded into him licking his bottom lip through the memories of fucking, grabbing and playing with them. You rolled your eyes, impressed by my immature behavior. ‘’Winchester, I asked what you are doing here.’’

Always so dominant in every situation but in bed. He sighed to himself, man, I can’t lose her.

‘’Listen, Y/N/N, I’m sorry.’’

‘’You are sorry? You can take your apologies and put them in your sorry ass till’ they come out of your mouth, Dean.’’ And, of course, stubborn. Dean Winchester wouldn't be so attracted to you in any other way. Frisky women always had the best him.

He groaned, ‘’Y/N, come on, it wasn't like that--’’

You interrupted his reasoning with a laugh empty of joy: ‘’You left me. You just walked away. No calls, no texts, just left. You promised you wouldn't. You said I could trust you.’’

‘’And you can!’’

He wasn’t able to blame you for that. Still, it broke him to hear every casual syllable in raw honesty. Dean would kill for you, and you didn’t even trust him because he ran away without any note, or previous warning, or anything. If only he could do the trick of just opening his mouth and allowing his emotions to come arrive, like Sam did all the time. All he tried to be, his little brother was simply born that way. He could never be like Sammy and you deserved a guy like him. Yet, the bruised man - more like a scared boy, really - remained in front of you. Because, for once, Dean wanted to act selfish and get it what he craved for. Just this once.

‘’To leave? Sure.’’ Nonetheless, you never learned how to read his mind, so you just aim a wry smile at him. ‘’Sorry, pal. I already have my mom to do that.’’

In that moment, every word you said was a stone designed to shatter him, and it was working fatefully. Sometimes, the green eyed hunter wished he was the one being left instead of leaving people behind. But how could you know that? It's the job side effect.

Taking a deep breath, your name is leaving his lips calmly. The most calm he had ever been since my three childhood years. ‘’Y/N…’’

‘’No, Dean.’’ You spoke. Because his forest eyes matched a lot with the grass in your garden under that dim light, almost like he was made to be there and you didn’t think you could do it again; lose him. It was too much.

‘’Dang, woman. I'm trying to explain!’’

‘’No, you are trying to come up with a stupid lie to cover up whatever you were doing for two weeks! I'm not stupid and I know you.’’ You accused, exasperatedly slapping your own tights. You were right, he had showed up to your party with a dumb excuse on his tongue, ready to tell you anything but the truth. Fuck, how the short haired hunter wanted you to have the imaginary money to buy one of his cheap lies. ‘’Tell me the truth. Don't come up with my dad needed help with a car and all that. What happened to you, Dean?’’

‘’I can't tell you.’’ He shrugged in frustration. 

I want to tell you everything, even the details in the corner, the monster in the forest.

You smile sarcastically, ‘’I don't see a fold on your lips.’’

But I can’t.

Dean huffed, pursing his lips. ‘’You would hate me.’’

You would think I’m a crazy liar.

‘’I already do.’’

You can be so violent when hurt. You both have bullets in different body parts, and there you are trying to shoot him. Modern Romeo and Juliet, a hunter romance; they try to kill each other instead of the evil thing.

‘’Y/N, you are gonna think I'm crazy.’’ He wiped his face, exasperated for you to change the subject.

Your lips were shut, the light reflected on you. Dean was glaring at you in a quiet desire for you to stay, to make him stay. But you stand still, looking away with delicate woe contorting your features.

It was clear after a hunt when the hunter should leave the town. And it was clear now that he killed any hope for them that Dean shall do what he usually does after a case. Nodding with a sigh, started to walk away.

But you stopped him.

‘’What are you doing?’’ You, in fact, sounded confused. Dean’s eyebrows knitted together, unsure if you two were having the conversation he thought you were not even one minute ago.

The answer resonated more like a question than anything: ‘’Leaving?’’

Your next words were the equivalent to the three ones he had never dared to say. ‘’I don't want you to leave.’’

Yes, the Winchester’s heart was pouring as fast as it was when he went on his first hunt. Yes, he could hear an old rock song playing when you have that look on your face. Yes, he knew he was acting like Sammy and all his cheesy discourses right now.

Who cares?

Apart from all that, Dean offered you a cocky smile. ‘’What do you want, sweetheart?’’

‘’Kiss me.’’

And he did. You trusted him in the garden and he got you back. Dean kissed you in the porch in front of all your stupid friends, too. And then he kissed you again in my car under the streetlight and in so many other uncountable places.

He was the person who got left a few years after that. As if his sorrow had become the prey for some cosmic joke. Sammy left for Stanford and it made his dad, well, more dad than usual. The weird thing was, inside of the grief of being left, Dean understood what he did to you. He had a lot of blood in his hands, enough to turn an ocean red if he ever tried to clean them, but I knew that leaving you was the worst thing that I had ever done.

Well, at least that was what two bottles of Whiskey helped him to get to.

Dean guessed he got what you felt on your porch that night as well. When he walked in, you knew you'd forgive him but you needed to sting back. As Sam left, his older brother already knew he'd forgive him, too. Dean fought about it, and I felt betrayed- wounded animals still attack. But he had forgave him the moment he missed him.

You forgave Dean too, and nowadays he resented for that with an insufferable regret. Because then he told you the truth about the world and showed you his scars. He kissed you, and your lips found every ugly in him. Still, they kept asking him for more. Your lips were the bed for my monster to sleep under.

Real monsters found them.

A few years later, the trio was in a town. You had a vacation from college - you dated a hunter with 5 bucks to his name, and you were studying journalism in a conceited university. It made no sense to Dean sometimes. All you asked for was to spend your free time with him and a call each night to make sure he was alive, which he gave you happily. Besides finding a way to go near your city at least once a month, more for himself than anything else. How did he get so lucky?

You liked certain aspects of the hunter life, surprisingly. The driving away, the creatures, even the restaurants. ‘’Come on, you guys hunt monsters. How cool is that? Also just driving, eating in a new place everyday. Did I mention monsters are real? You guys are like heroes!’’

He shook his head at your optimism, stroking your naked form gently that night.‘’We aren't here, Y/N. This life, it ends early and bloody. There is no place for white fancies and normal.’’

‘’Who said that I want that?’’ You mocked right before pressing your lips to the hickey on his neck, gaining a content groan from Dean. ‘’You monsters. As far as I'm concerned, you are a hero. My hero.’’ You add a subtle joke. ‘’Like a fairytale.’’

He scoffed and pulled you closer. ‘’More like a horror movie.’’ 

‘’Haven’t you read fairytales?’’ 

‘’No, but I did see the porn version.’’ Done with talking, he got on top of you, wearing that lopsided grin that started it all over again.

Years back, he asked you what you wanted. And you said, kiss me.

You kept saying that for a decade. Growing that calamitous love, feeding it with stolen glances and touches. If you knew what’s next, would you do it again?

Now you are laying on the ground as he got on my knees and pulled you closer. You are almost dead, a half lifeless body, but you hold on so tight to life, gasping for it. His stubborn girl who he loved so.

Your voice, usually so determined, is barely a whimper. ‘’Everyone wants a fairytale love.’’

‘’What? Don’t get sentimental on me, Y/N. You aren’t gonna die.’’ Dean says exasperated. It isn’t blind faith, unrealistic optimism or anything like this. It’s denial, one of the stages of grief he’s familiar with. It lives with him, as loyal as a dog, as present as a long lost mother’s love; he ignores the acceptance and hope, jumping right into anger, guilt, denial, and bargains with the devil. As if death is a champagne problem he can just drink and be done with because hey, if you can’t lose something, then you won’t right? Right? And if you do lose it, then you’ll just die too. Someone loses oxygen, they die. Someone loses too much blood, they die.

He will die if he loses you, he will. Dean is devastatingly sure of that. He can feel it in his bones. If you die, he dies. His body, his cicatrized soul was made out of in woe. That man - scared little boy like he was when Mary died, really -, He knows sadness like an old lover who always visits, and death is an old friend who always shakes his hands and appears without an invite. Dean Winchester knows pain, alright? Ask any person, he’s the Rome for men, built in ruins despise the beauty of good.

But this? No. He can’t survive. It isn’t possible that someone can hold so much suffering and agony. Skin and bone can only take so many hematomas. 

‘’Dean, shut up.’’ You place your hand on his cheek and Dean can’t help but lean in. His green eyes are glistening, the memory of the garden reminiscing in the back of your mind. ‘’I’ve wanted a fairytale love since I was a kid and my dad used to read the books my mom left on the shelf for me. So, in my defense, I never actually read them.’’

‘’Is this what a fairytale looks to you?’’ The eldest Winchester asks, not missing how your touch is colder against him. Where’s Sam with the car? Where’s a miracle? Where’s the justice and fair things and anything good? Dying in his arms, sinking her fingernails into his skin.

‘’The original ones, yes. They are just like that.’’ You chortle, but what’s meant to sound like happiness develops into a cough. All the energy and strength you have are used to push the words. You need Dean to know. ‘’I don't regret anything. You loved me, and I loved you. This is good. I don’t want your silly little mind to think any other way. You aren’t the villain in my story, Dean. You are the…’’ You’re interrupted by your own body giving up on you at an alarming rate, more bloodstained coughing.

‘’Don’t speak, honey. You’ll be alright, okay? No goodbye, we don’t do goodbye. You’ll be alright. Just keep yourself awake, ok?’’ Dean doesn’t know what to do other than hold you. What does one do with all the throbbing aches? He can’t say he will see you in heaven if you die. Staying with you for ten years was heaven already and this is the price he pays. That’s like when the ocean drains in a flash right in front of your eyes and someone tells you to swim in the sky instead. He can’t jump high enough to get it, he isn’t tall enough to get it. But God, Dean can’t just give up, he can’t just let you go. You are bleeding out and he’s dying with you. ‘’Please.’’ The Winchester pleas. ‘’Don’t leave me. Please.’’

If this is how you die and you can only pick up some words to say, you need to spell love. You need Dean Winchester to know he was loved with your last breath, there’s no better use to life other than love. Therefore, it’s easy to know what to voice when you look into his eyes one last time. ‘’I love you.’’

Through the agony, Dean gives you the sort of smile... You know, the sort of smile that can only be described by I put my home on fire, so I could eat all the flames and all the bright blaze is in my teeth now. Because something is burning and you are becoming ashes, but you love this. You love that boy and he loves you. You’d do it all again. He rests his forehead against yours and you can feel his tears on your face, his hands holding you for dear life.

‘’I love you too.’’

It’s a good thing to hear as you close your eyes.

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[canary3d-obsessed]

Restless Rewatch: The Untamed Episode 21, second part

(Masterpost) (Other Canary Stuff) (Previous Post)

Warning: Spoilers for All 50 Episodes!

Flute Solo

For some reason Wei Wuxian has decided to take a walk outside of the fortress, or behind the fortress, or something? Can people just take a stroll outside during wartime? Seems unwise.

There are guards and these extra-bossy crows herding some Wen prisoners along, and Wei Wuxian stands up above and gets totally overwhelmed by resentful energy.  

He falls to one knee while clutching his chest, in the spot where all cultivators seem to stow a bag of holding. I guess this is the Xuanwu sword? Or maybe it's his surgical incision; those things can take a while to finish healing. I think the golden core is further down in the abdomen, though; this is right over his heart. 

Wen Qing, Granny, and Fourth Uncle are in the group, but Wen Qing has her hood up so Wei Wuxian can't see her, and he's unlikely to remember the other two, since he only saw them that one time at the shrine, and he doesn't remember people he's literally had dinner with.  

The guards decide to be assholes and beat the shit out of a prisoner because he fell down, which inspires some extra aggressive crows to swoop in and attack the not-dead guy on the ground. That is...not how carrion-eaters behave, generally. They're pretty good about waiting for you to stop moving.

Wei Wuxian continues to struggle, obviously having an orgasm in a lot of pain, and starting to leak resentful energy.

(more after the cut)

He brings his flute up and starts playing it, which causes the wind to rise, rocks to fall from a nearby cliff, and the whole group of people on the ground under him to start having Yin Iron lines crawling up their faces.

Would Wen Qing be a beautiful fierce corpse? She would. 

Eventually Wei Wuxian stops torturing everybody, having gotten it out of his system for a bit, and stands up.  The group gets up, skin clearing up, and starts moving along again, a little shook. Wen Qing looks up and sees Wei Wuxian and hides her face in anguish.

She was there in the dungeon, listening to the same flute music, when he was resentfully slaughtering everyone around her in Yiling. Does she understand what she’s seeing, what he’s become? 

Her hood is off and it seems that he sees her, or at least that he is trying to figure out what he's seeing. But Jiang Yanli arrives before he can do more than look puzzled and cast his eyes around.  

Jiang Yanli asks him what just happened and he laughs and says it was the strong wind, in an extremely transparent lie that Yanli nearly chokes trying to swallow. She drags him back to the meeting while he continues to look troubled.

War Council

Meanwhile, the war council is meeting. This is mostly a boring rehash of stuff we already know, but someone has drawn a nice big map that's been installed in a custom frame. Because apparently the table with the mountains on it is not a good enough representation of "and then we will walk from our house to Wen Ruohan's house," which is basically their plan. The gist of this scene is that Wen Ruohan having the Yin Iron gives him an advantage, in case we needed to be reminded of that. 

The doors fly open and Wei Wuxian and his fabulous ass literally blow into the room. 

Everyone reacts in a comically extreme way. 

He casts his eyes malevolently and/or sexily over to Lan Wangji, who is still grumpy with him, while Jiang Cheng comes up and stands almost as close to him as Lan Wangji used to.

He tells everybody that he might have something to counteract the yin iron.

Everybody: Really? Do tell!  

Wei Wuxian: Happy to!

Wei Wuxian: *theatrical side-eye at judgy ex boyfriend* 

Wei Wuxian: Actually, nope.

He says "we'll see in about a month" while fondling whatever is hidden next to his ribcage.

This behavior, while ridiculous, isn't quite as absurd as it seems from a corporate-meeting standpoint. Part of what cultivators do is invent and refine spiritual tools. So when Wei Wuxian makes this speech, the people in the meeting are going to infer that he is creating a spiritual tool to counter the Yin Iron.

Now it's Lan Xichen's turn to ask everybody’s favorite question. Lan Xichen wasn’t at the party when everyone else asked him, and we're apparently supposed to believe these gossips haven't been talking about the not-sword-carrying 24x7.

Wei Wuxian says he's just not in the mood, and we get to see Lan Xichen's impressive ability to hold his face completely still while he represses his desire to slap someone.

Jin Zixun complains about Wei Wuxian after he leaves, but for once his bitching is on point; he correctly surmises that the counter to yin iron is...yin iron. 

Now, to be fair, the yin tiger amulet is different from the yin iron because it exists in the novel Wei Wuxian specially refines it to be more manageable than the sword it started from. And maybe it’s gel coated to be easier on the stomach. But it's basically the same shit.

Lan Xichen and Nie Mingjue exchange intense gazes, just to prove that the young people aren’t the only ones who know how to eye fuck. 

Lying Is Forbidden 

Lan Xichen talks to Lan Wangji, and we discover that Lan Wangji is perfectly capable of lying. He manages to maintain a reputation for not lying but I think the trick is that he just avoids talking in general, so when, for example, people in later years say "who's your masked boyfriend" he just doesn't answer, which isn't really lying. (How many times did Lan Qiren and Lan Xichen ask “where did you get this kid?” and just not get an answer, I wonder.) 

At other times he actually directly lies, as when he claims he is “just passing through” Yiling on a night hunt. The current conversation with Lan Xichen definitely involves actual lying.

Let's play multiple choice answers with the Lan brothers!

Q:  Why is WWX so confident we can have Yin Iron against WRH in a month? 

a.) Because he's been walking around with that Xuanwu sword for months, and it is obviously made of Yin iron b.) because he used a fucking ghost flute to flay Wen Chao more or less in front of me, so he is clearly down with some dark magics c.) I don’t know

Q: Was the death of people in the Yiling supervisory office really related to yin iron?

a.) obviously b.) maybe he was using some other source of overwhelming necromantic power c.) no, he’s not like that

Q. When you approached Yiling, was there anything unusual?

a.) yes, the talismans had been altered to draw in evil spirits b.) yes, everyone except his particular friend Wen Qing had killed themselves in horrifying, outlandish ways c.) are there rules already set for everything in the world?

Xichen, bless him, actually lets Lan Wangji change the subject like that and answers his question honestly.

Xichen: Actually, rules are pretty much shit Wangji: fucking hell, you're telling me this NOW? What have I been doing for the past 18 years then?

They both look just ridiculously beautiful in this conversation. Lan Wangji’s affect with his brother is so interesting. He’s trusting, emotionally open, willing to be seen...but only because he knows Lan Xichen won’t push past his barriers, won’t force him to speak the truth of what’s on his mind.

Awkwardness

The Yunmeng bros roll up, and awkwardness ensues. 

Wangji is frowning hard. His frowns are of the micro variety just like his smiles, but boy they are consistent and Wei Wuxian and Xichen both know how to read them.

Wei Wuxian gives Lan Xichen a small, sunny smile--it seems genuine, not like the fake ones he's trotting out on demand for his family. 

Then he gives Lan Wangji a pointed gaze of yearning and reproachfulness, which Lan Wangji returns, switching from frowning to a softer expression that seems about equal parts hurt, apology, and thirst.

Wei Wuxian reacts to that by bowing again and leaving, with Jiang Cheng quickly following, wondering what the fuck just happened.

Lans Xichen and Wangji pivot gracefully to watch them go, which Lan Wangji should know is not correct post-breakup behavior; you're supposed to act disinterested, my dude. 

And then Lan Xichen asks Lan Wangji what the fuck is going on. Lan Wangji gets one more lie in, saying he's not worried about Wei Wuxian, before reapplying his frown and walking away from the conversation.

Macroexpression Brothers

OP was wrong about Wei Wuxian not hugging Jiang Cheng any more--here he is hanging on him just like the old days, and Jiang Cheng is shoving him off, just like the old days. However, it emerges that this is mostly an act that WWX is putting on to seem normal. 

Jiang Cheng wants to know what's wrong between him and Lan Wangji, and asks why they broke up. Wei Wuxian points out that Jiang Cheng didn't like him dating Lan Wangji before, so why is he pushing him to get back together with him now, and Jiang Cheng says that now they're allies in a war, so Wei Wuxian needs to do his duty and help keep Lan Wangji in fighting trim, nudge nudge. 

Then he starts lecturing Wei Wuxian about sword cultivation and generally good behavior, and Wei Wuxian theatrically nods and give him appraising looks, telling him he really seems like a clan leader now.

Jiang Cheng headshakes this away. Wei Wuxian actually giving Jiang Cheng a sincere compliment here, disguised as teasing, and he's not wrong. Jiang Cheng has matured and is becoming a strong leader. Not strong enough to ignore peer pressure, but that’s true of most clan leaders in this environment. They’re not supposed to ignore peer pressure. 

Wei Wuxian is pointing it out for his own reasons - he doesn't want to be having this conversation - but it's nice to see him giving his clan leader his due.

Jiang Cheng walks away as Wei Wuxian smiles after him; as soon as he's out of sight the smile falls off of Wei Wuxian's face as fast as fast as gravity can take it. It's like someone snuffed a candle.

No one bites back as hard On their anger None of my pain and woe Can show through

But my dreams, they aren't as empty As my conscience seems to be I have hours, only lonely My love is vengeance that's never free

More Awkwardness

Lan Wangji and his ambivalence come looking for Wei Wuxian, standing outside his door and raising a hand to knock before changing his mind and fleeing. 

Lan Wangji is on the back foot for the first time in his relationship with Wei Wuxian; this boy who pursued and pursued and PURSUED him is now a man who won't speak to him.  This boy who hung on every one of his words, and saw through all of his minute facial expressions, has become a man who won't listen to him. Lan Wangji is in the position of pursuer, now, and it's not a role he's well equipped for.

Yanli stops him as he's bailing. He looks so relieved to see her, but he tries to escape immediately after greeting her. She stops him so she can ask what the fuck is going on. 

Unfortunately, Wei Wuxian rolls up while Lan Wangji is in the middle of talking to her.  He's telling her about the heterodox cultivation, and Wei Wuxian busts him. Wei Wuxian steps up and asks what he was telling her, and Lan Wangji says "Wei Ying," but doesn't get much further than that.

Nunya

Wei Wuxian reminds him that he told him to stay out of Jiang Clan business. Now, here I want to mention that "private" and "not your bidness" are culturally specific concepts. OP, for example, grew up in version of Irish-American culture so secretive that the problems of a person's life and (often) the cause of their death are things only discovered by whoever inherits their papers. [OP inherited 3 generations of letters a few years ago, and HOO BOY]

In the version of Chinese culture which we see in this drama, your choices, thoughts & troubles belong to the family and clan, not just to you.  Wei Wuxian, in shutting his elder sister out of his struggles, is not family-ing correctly. Jiang Yanli is right to try to get around that by asking his friend. His friend is also right to give her--in sanitized form--the information she is asking for. 

Wei Wuxian has zero trust in Lan Wangji at this point, unfortunately. He doesn’t know that Lan Wangji has been lying to cover for him; he just knows he’s being a grumpy aggressive holy roller. Now, when Lan Wangji has just been given permission to disregard all 3000 rules and look at a person’s heart, that person’s heart has been hardened against him. 

Yanli is used to dealing with Wei Wuxian's moods at this point -- after all, a lifetime of Jiang Cheng has got her used to volatile little brothers, and Wei Wuxian is clearly a new, not-improved man since his return. 

She tries to get him to chill out while Lan Wangji gives him a death glare -- not a return to the earlier generalized frown, more of a specific "I can't believe how full of shit you are" frown.

Wei Wuxian calls him Lan Er Gongzi, like a dick. Lan Wangji started this but at this point Wei Wuxian is kind of in the lead for who is being The Worst. Lan Wangji executes a beautiful 180 and walks away at top speed. 

Wei Wuxian asks Yanli if he talked about Yiling and when she says he didn't, he realizes he fucked up. 

He goes running after him and calls him Lan Zhan and says "listen to me" but Lan Wangji is no longer in a listening mood. 

Eat A Dick Sword

Lan Wangji is so far in his feelings at this point that he just hauls out his sword and goes after Wei Wuxian, taking complete control of the interaction and forcing Wei Wuxian to concede the fight. Aww, he’s so angry! I love him. 

This is a rough moment for Wei Wuxian. He really genuinely can't hold his own against Lan Wangji, unless he's going to directly use necromancy against him the way he does later in their final confrontation. 

When they first met he was able to defend himself on the rooftop without drawing his sword, but he's weaker now; Chenqing is an adequate hand weapon against most cultivators and puppets, but it's not a match for Lan Wangji's full attack. 

Wei Wuxian is not enjoying this fight, and can’t win in, so he just throws in the towel, exposing his throat and trusting Lan Wangji's control.

On the surface, this fight appears to re-establish their former rapport, but it puts them on such an uneven footing it might actually drive a larger wedge between them.  I think that Lan Wangji has made a strategic error in doing this.  

Lan Wangji seems to want to prove to Wei Wuxian that his new style of cultivation is inadequate, that he would do better with a sword. Swordplay was the beginning of their relationship; their matched power was the source of their mutual attraction. Lan Wangji can't accept that Wei Wuxian has given it up; he doesn't (yet) respect his agency enough to assume that he has a good reason.

This fight functions as yet another punishment that Lan Wangji doles out to Wei Wuxian; not a physical one, this time, but a psychological one, and their relationship pays the price. 

By attacking Wei Wuxian and forcing him to concede, Lan Wangji is showing that they're unequal. By criticizing Wei Wuxian's lack of progress and asking him the same goddamn question everybody else is asking him -- where is your sword? -- Lan Wangji is humiliating him. 

This encounter does not re-establish Wei Wuxian’s trust in him; it just forces him to accept Lan Wangji’s authority, for now. Which is not what either of them really wants. 

Soundtrack: Behind Blue Eyes, by The Who

Writing Prompt: What would Wei Wuxian have said if Lan Wangji had listened to him instead of drawing his sword?

[glbertblyth]

AN: It’s been a long time shirbert fans... anybody still up for some fake-dating shenanigans? 

It was raining by the time Diana arrived—the sort of rainfall Anne might have basked in and even written a poem or two about if she’d had a mind for it. Instead, with Gilbert’s short visit still fresh in her mind, it only exacerbated her horrible mood.

Once out the door (slammed behind her, much to Marilla’s great woe), Anne threw her denim jacket overhead to avoid the inevitable ruination of the pretty outfit she’d decided on that day. The walk to the back door of her friend’s car was all it took to dampen her hair and muddy up her beloved white hightops. She didn’t even want to begin to imagine what the state of her hair might be once dry again. The half hour she’d spent on taming the wild red lockes surely going down the drain with every squelching step she took. She shuddered to picture the disobedient strands frizzing and curling annoyingly around her shoulders.

“Anne!” was the first thing she heard when she opened the car door, her hands cold and clammy from grasping the freezing handle.  

It was Diana who had exclaimed it, smiling brightly from her spot in the driver’s seat. At its most brilliant sight, Anne’s sour mood nearly melted away - she did so love Diana’s smiles. So for a fleeting moment it was as if it were summer again and they were having one of their lovely days of sloth, with the sun vibrant on their skin as they lay in the fields behind Diana’s house watching the clouds slowly drift across the sky. No school to worry about or boys to try and decipher.

Then thunder rumbled and she was brought back to the present. Sitting wetly in the backseat of Diana’s car next to Jane and catching the very last few syllables of words mumbled from the front.

The brunette beside Anne reached across the gap in the seats to pinch Ruby, who squeaked indignantly.

“We brought coffee,” Diana went on, pulling out onto the road. The higher octave of her voice gave way to the obvious—she was being purposely breezy. Acting as if Anne hadn’t just opened the door and interrupted a conversation in which they had most definitely been talking about her. “I had them put an extra shot in yours because I know that’s the way you like it. Ruby? The coffee?”

Ruby rolled her eyes as she passed the drink to Anne. But she didn’t turn back around when it was in the red-head’s grasp, instead hovering there with an oddly expectant look on her face. A look, Anne realized, that was present on the other girl’s faces as well. Even Diana, big brown eyes wide like a doe’s in the rearview mirror.

“What?” she asked, pausing with her mouth halfway to the straw of her coffee and glancing around awkwardly.

When the only response was the low and torrid voice of Harry Styles drifting through the stereo and a raise of Jane’s eyebrows, Anne’s lips thinned in realization. The very word she had interrupted when she’d opened the door hadn’t been a word at all. It had been a name. Gilbert’s name.

Anne flopped her head back onto the cushioned seat, “Oh god,” she bemoaned. Could she not escape it for five minutes? Not even amongst her most beloved kindred spirits?

But there was nowhere to hide. Not with the three sets of eyes watching her so curiously. Waiting for her to give an explanation that she surely did not have. She was beginning to grow tired of Avonlea’s uncanny ability to spread gossip like wildfire.

“Watch the road,” Anne snapped at her best friend,  “or you’ll kill us all.”

Diana gasped and averted her gaze, focusing instead on navigating the road through the pelting rain.

“You can’t deny it happened,” Jane said matter-of-factly. “It’s all over everything.” Then she whipped out her phone, pulling up twitter as a way to prove her point.

“Don’t believe everything you read.” Anne snapped at her.

“So you’re saying it’s just a made up rumor?” asked Ruby, almost hopefully—because while Anne had despised Gilbert since the time she’d first laid eyes on him, Ruby had simply adored him. While Anne would spend every single valuable and precious minute of her English classes poking holes in Gilbert’s foolish arguments, Ruby was sitting not two seats away, mooning. It was exasperating.

“I’m just saying,” Anne folded her arms defensively across her chest, “there was a lot more to it than that.”

“So it happened?!” Ruby exclaimed, with such force she knocked her binder into Diana’s lap and almost spilled both of their drinks.

“Ruby!”

“Well I’m sorry but—this is—you can’t just act like this isn’t a big deal, Anne! He’s Gilbert! ”

“I’m well aware of who he is.”

“You hate him!”

Anne bit the inside of her cheek. Of course she hated him. Of course. But it’s not as if she could tell the truth: that she had used Gilbert as a mere line of defense against dearest Diana’s cousin—her very own flesh and blood. Though how that was possible was beyond Anne considering he was so insufferably annoying, whereas Diana was so sweet and kind and considerate. She never would have pushed anyone the way that Roy had Anne. She never would have refused to take ‘no’ for an answer, never would have imposed so thoroughly on Anne’s personal space that she felt as if suddenly all of the oxygen in the world had run out except what was left in her lungs.

Hell, even Gilbert had taken Anne’s ‘no’ at face value. He had nodded and left, much to her great relief. And how terrible a concept to consider: Marilla inviting him to stay for breakfast! What would she have done then?

“Anne,” Jane poked her cheek. “You’ve got some serious explaining to do.��

Like hell she did. Maybe the decision to kiss Gilbert had been rash, but she wouldn’t have done it had she not felt as though she’d been forced into a corner. And while she did hate Gilbert’s guts, the mere aspect of her kissing him shouldn’t have been ground breaking news. He’d been there. She’d used him as a shield. That was it.

Even if the memory of his lips moving fervently against her own had haunted her dreams all night, it was nobody else's business. After all, he’d technically been her first real kiss. And even if she did think him an insufferable pompous ass, she wasn’t entirely incapable of admitting that he was a rather good-looking boy. She wasn’t blind for chrissake.

But even so, she had absolutely no intention of that little tidbit of information ever leaving the confines of her own mind. Nobody needed to know that she found Gilbert Blythe attractive. Or that she may have very mildly delighted in the fact that he’d been so quick to kiss her back. Or—or that she’d felt a bit of a thrill when she’d seen him again that very morning; a thrill that may or may not have caused her to even entertain the plan that he’d so eloquently presented to her.

The severity of the realization jolted her. Rose her blood levels to an alarming height. Had she just admitted to anticipating Gilbert’s presence?

“I don’t have to explain myself to any of you!” Anne exploded. Though she couldn’t tell if her anger was directed at her friends, at herself, or at the mere prospect of having anything but ill feelings toward her long time rival.  “What I do with my life is nobody’s business but my own! I don’t intrude on your private lives like this.”

Ruby shrunk back, but Jane wasn’t deterred. Everyone knew Anne had a terrible temper sometimes. When she yelled it was usually because she felt like she’d been backed into a corner and couldn’t see an escape besides pushing everyone else away.

“Sorry, Anne, but I’m your friend. Friends talk about this stuff. They don’t keep secrets.”

“It’s not a secret.” Anne grumbled. But she knew it was a weak argument. That her friend was right and that she had absolutely no excuse as to why she should keep the truth from them.

Because you’re actually considering Gilbert’s offer, a vexing voice said in her head,  And telling them you only did it as a way to escape Royal would ruin it. The voice only annoyed her more despite its truth.

Anne took a sip of her coffee with far more enthusiasm than necessary. Any excuse to avoid talking on the subject further. Avoid meeting the tense stares of her friends.

“I don’t see why it would be such a big deal that you kissed him anyway. Half of our grade has been expecting you two to jump each other’s bones for years.” Jane shrugged nonchalantly.

Anne felt the large gulp lodge in her throat as she choked out a cough, “What?”  

Ruby craned her neck around to face her, baby blue eyes wide and vulnerable. Diana released a quiet titter of laughter but didn’t take her eyes off the road.

Traitor.

Jane rolled her eyes exasperatedly, briefly meeting the hurt look of their sensitive friend,  “Oh give up, Ruby. He’s known you his whole life and hasn’t made an attempt at you,” When Ruby faced the front again, lower lip jutted out in a pout, her dark gaze swiveled back to Anne’s, “ You , however, caught his attention from the moment you arrived.”

Anne flared her nostrils indignantly, “Not true.”

The girl next to her threw her hands up in frustration, “It is too!”

“Is not.”

“What are we, five?” Jane quipped. And then her face turned smug, “Besides, you guys did end up kissing, didn’t you?”

Jesus, it was a good thing they’d barely missed seeing Gilbert at green gables. Anne hated to think how insufferable her friends might have been had they known he’d stopped by that morning.

She let out a dramatic huff, placing her coffee in the cupholder between them and then crossing her arms to her chest. “Do you just believe everything that Josie Pye posts?”

Jane opened her mouth to retort, but before she could, Ruby turned around in her seat again, “We don’t have to. You’ve been evasive enough to answer the question on if you kissed him or not for us.” She said with an adorable scrunch to her eyebrows. It was obvious she was stung but didn’t want to be left out of the conversation.

A loud clap of thunder sounded outside of the car, mirroring Anne’s emotions perfectly. Oh, how she wished she were a storm cloud sometimes. Floating above it all, no care in the world. No expectations except for that of releasing their torrential rage on unsuspecting passers-by. Perhaps if that were her, she wouldn’t have gotten herself in such a messy situation.

She watched as the windshield wipers slapped at the front window, avoiding looking her friends in their eyes. “How far are we from the school?” she grumbled. Though it was certainly going to be a tough task in it’s own, it would be better than sitting under the excruciating scrutiny of the three girls she was trapped in the small car with.

Diana cleared her throat. “Just another block,” she said.

“If you want me to make sure Josie stays off your back today, I need to have the details.” Jane stated simply.

Anne ground her teeth at the annoying tenacity of her friend.  “There aren’t any.”

“There aren’t any? ”

“That’s what I said.”

“How could there possibly not be—“

“Jane!” Anne snapped, teeth gnashing out like that of a caged dog’s, “Just drop it!”

There was a stunned silence for a moment as Jane snapped her mouth shut. No other sound but the constant pattering of the rain against the windows and the quiet hum of the radio. In the rearview mirror, Diana exchanged a sympathetic look with Anne.

“Fine,” Jane said finally, a cool resolve in her brown eyes, “But just because you hate Gilbert doesn’t mean everyone else does. If I can’t get the answer from you, I’ll just ask him.”

Anne stiffened—every muscle in her body pulling taut as she fought the urge to strike out with her constant weapon of choice: words.

Gilbert wouldn’t sell her out… would he? Not when he himself was riding on the possibility of a public relationship saving face.

God, would pretending to date him actually work? Could they even do it? Could she do it? Certainly he’d do something to piss her off. Something that would cause her to lash out and make it obvious that they were not, and would never actually be, in a relationship.

The thoughts tormented her as Diana pulled the car into the student parking lot. As she parked in her normal spot near the entrance. As she turned off the engine and they were swallowed by the sound of the falling rain. How fitting to see that Mother Nature bore such a pitiful mood—gray clouds swirling in the sky the very same way Anne’s feelings were swirling in her head.

As her friends giggled amongst themselves—already having moved on to the next subject of interest and opening their car doors—she took a shaking deep breath. Steeling herself against whatever the day might throw at her and clambering out of the car into sheets of cold rain.  

+++

When the lunch bell rang, releasing students from their third period classes, Anne’s relief was as palpable as a cool wave crashing against a hot sandy shore. She gathered her things hastily—stuffing them into her bag and barely zipping it back up before hurrying from her calculus class and out into the crowded hallway.

She had very little want of being left in the classroom with a certain tall, dark, and tousled boy. And since that was how things normally went—since Anne and Gilbert were usually the last two left in the classroom, quickly scrawling the last of their work out on the worksheets before them—her rush to leave the confines of the classroom wasn’t without warrant.

Not for the first time since being acquainted with Gilbert Blythe, Anne cursed the fact that they shared a fair amount of classes. (Or unfair if you’d asked her.) But this day… This day had taken her dislike to an entirely different level.

Or maybe dislike wasn’t the correct word for the churning she felt in her stomach every time she’d caught a glimpse of his disheveled dark curls across the room. Maybe awkwardness was the proper noun with which to describe the tension she felt pulled taut between them. If she could even assume it was a reciprocated tension in the first place, that is. She certainly felt it—choking the air around her like a thick and unwanted layer of dust. But… Gilbert hadn’t necessarily shown any discomfort at the sight of her. He’d backed off on making his usual snide comments or witty remarks, yes, but she wasn’t positive that it was because he was playing an angle or if he genuinely thought it better to leave her alone.  

Nevertheless, it made Anne’s gut twist uncomfortably. And because the whole school seemed to already know what had transpired the previous afternoon, she loathed to even look in his direction let alone exchange their usual haughty comments. She had, in not so many words, been avoiding him for the entirety of the school day—ducking out of shared classes with all the speed of a bulleting train and keeping her line of vision pinned straight ahead even when she felt his warm honey gaze settle on the side of her face.

This, of course, did not escape the notice of her ever so nosy classmates. In fact, the fervent silence between the two known rivals after such an unexpected public display of affection had only caused an even deeper upset among her peers. Anne liked to think she had learned to never underestimate the might of a small town’s grape vine, but she certainly hadn’t expected such… such backlash from one simple spontaneous moment in time.

To walk through the hallways of her familiar high school and notice the boisterous noise of groups dwindle around her felt much like her early days in Avonlea—except this time, instead of having smacked the town’s golden boy with a heavy textbook, she’d kissed him. And apparently that warranted an even more uproarious reaction.

Anne pushed through the crowd of students and scrambled to her locker—head down in an attempt to ignore the whispers around her. She’d thought that, after three and a half years, she had moved past the days of being an outcast; past the days of being a subject of interest on nearly every one of her classmate’s tongues.

Apparently she’d been wrong. All this time they’d only been hiding in the shadows, waiting for the precise moment she did anything out of the ordinary, so that they could pounce.

As she exchanged binders and textbooks with what had been stacked neatly in her locker, she was so thoroughly enveloped in her own vortex of thoughts that she hadn’t noticed the tall and skinny figure approach her.

“Anne,” the figure said. And despite the familiar trill of the voice, she startled, nearly slamming her fingers in the locker as she’d closed it.

“Dammit, Cole,” she hissed, but there was a smile beneath it.

She turned to her friend, a feeling of ease settling on her shoulders as it always had around Cole Mackenzie. He was leaning against the lockers with his hands wrung loosely around the straps of his backpack and his familiar blue eyes were warm with affection. After a moment, Anne realized there was a dark smudge just under his right eye—more than likely a result of wiping at his face after working with charcoal or graphite. A quick glance at his smeared hands confirmed just as much.

“You’ve got art on your face,” she said, gesturing at her own as a way to show him.

He released a breathy laugh before using the sleeve of his shirt to wipe it off. “Sorry I wasn’t able to get here sooner, I got caught up in class.”

Anne snorted despite herself. “Sure you did,” she said. “Keep acting like you weren’t flirting with that new exchange student.” She twisted her mouth into a feigned look of utter despair, “You left me to the wolves.”

Cole laughed as she schooled her features back to their normal, friendly state and swung her bag around her shoulder. She entwined her hand with his as they made their way in the direction of the cafeteria.

He fixed her with a faux imperious look. “I was only showing Gabriel the precise way of shading. Charcoal is a difficult medium to work with.”

“Don’t tell me,” Anne lowered her voice, acting as though what she was about to say was an absolute scandal, “You stood behind him and guided his hand with your own, heart pounding against his back as he leaned into you.” She caught at her chest with her free hand, “Oh, how romantic! ” she squealed, much louder than she’d meant to. A few students looked in their direction.

An exasperated laugh burst from her friend’s lips and he squeezed her hand lightly. “Not so loud, Anne.”

She shrugged. “People are gay, Cole. They can get over it.”

Cole wasn’t necessarily closeted. It was a pretty well-known fact within their friend group that he was very much homosexual—you have one conversation with him and he just couldn’t hold back his flamboyancy— but the world was still filled with small-minded bigots. And in a small town like the one they lived in, it was easier just to keep the knowledge of his sexual preference to a minimum.

“I suppose this means our vow to marry one another is broken,” she continued forlornly. It was a joking promise they’d made to one another when they were fifteen and certain they’d be deemed outcasts forever—no one but each other to lean on.

Of course, she’d had Diana. Beautiful Diana. But there were many things Anne experienced that her beloved best friend just couldn’t understand. Diana was popular, beautiful, a glittering star among the backdrop of the night sky—something with which Anne found little to no relatability being the scrawny ostracized girl that she was. But Cole’s friendship allowed a quiet solace; a person who knew what it was like to feel unwanted and unpopular.

Cole snorted. “You broke it first,” he said, “What do Gilbert Blythe’s lips feel like?”

Anne nearly tripped over her own two feet, having briefly forgotten the mess she’d gotten herself into. She snapped her head to look at the tall boy beside her and fixed him with a desperate glare. The look on his face was nonchalant, but she knew he was dying with curiosity.

“Why’d you have to bring that up?” she said, unable to help the whiny tone that had weaved itself into her words.

Cole clucked his tongue. “You left me on read last night. You deserve it.”

“I think I’ve gotten punishment enough,” she replied, a frown twisting at her lips. “It’s all anybody can talk about when they see me.”

He looked at her. “Anne. You kissed Gilbert Blythe . ”

“Yes, I know what I did.”

“Gilbert. Blythe.”

Anne unlatched her hand from Cole’s and threw her arms up exasperatedly. “Can people stop saying his name as if I don’t know who he is!?”

They turned down a slightly less crowded hallway, taking a shortcut they’d found halfway through their freshman year. “Can you stop brushing it off like it’s no big deal?”

“It isn’t a big deal.” Anne grumbled.

He ignored her. “How’d it happen anyway?”

There was a tearing feeling in her stomach—indecision on if she should tell him the truth of the matter or not. The small part of her brain that was hung on Gilbert’s earlier suggestion rioted at her to choose not.

It won. “It just—happened. Okay?”

Cole screwed his nose up. “What does that even mean? ” he said. “What, did you just randomly see him and say ‘fuck it, I’mma give into the three years of overwhelming sexual tension’ and decide to eat his face off?”

Anne blanched at him, stopping dead walk in the middle of the hallway. “Sexual tension?” she sputtered. “Have you been talking to Jane?”

Cole released a light laugh at the expression on her face. “No, but I’m not surprised she feels the same way. Everybody does.”

“I hate it here.” Anne said sadly, mouth turning down at one corner. What a piteous thing to confuse hatred with sexual desire. Because certainly— certainly —Cole and Jane were wrong. There was absolutely no sexual tension between her and Gilbert Blythe. None whatsoever. And she was positive in the fact that there never would be.

“Drama queen.”

“How observant of you,” Anne replied, beginning to make her way down the hallway again. “It’s as if we’re friends. Almost like you know me.”

Her blonde companion snorted, but followed after her.

“Apparently not,” he continued vexingly. “Not if you’re sucking face with Gilbert frickin’ Blythe.”

“Cole, I love you, I really do. But if you don’t shut up right this very moment, I will not hesitate to murder you.”

“Anne—“

“I’m serious,” she said, “I live on a farm—lots of sharp tools at my disposal, Mackenzie. Don’t push me.”

He laughed—a short and exasperated release of breath. “Has anybody ever told you you’re kinda scary when you want to be?”

She glanced over to where he was matching her stride beside her, smiling crookedly and impishly.

Cole’s mouth turned down at the corners. “Please don’t flash me your murder eyes. It gives me the creeps.”

Reaching across the space between them with her arm, she patted his shoulder lightly. “Good.”

They lapsed into casual conversation then, walking quickly the rest of the way to the cafeteria and occasionally bumping each other’s shoulders teasingly. She really did appreciate Cole, she decided. Well, she’d always appreciated him—but unlike the rest of her companions, he never pushed her to talk about the things he knew she was most uncomfortable with. Teased her relentlessly maybe—okay, certainly —but he always, always, knew when enough was enough.

As they passed through the metal-doored threshold of Avonlea High’s sorry excuse for a cafeteria, (even their library was larger than the sparsely decorated area—hardly even eight long tables adorning the length of the walls and smaller rounded ones few and far between) Anne startled at the absolute terror she was faced with.

Being such a small school, the majority of the senior class was pushed into the same lunch schedule. Meaning all the kids she’d grown with for the past few years—all the classmates that knew most definitely about Anne’s adamant hatred towards one Gilbert Blythe—paused fractionally when they noticed her fiery mane out of the corners of their eyes.

Anne’s heart rate kicked up, stomach twisting painfully as the cafeteria quieted ever so slightly and heads swiveled to gawk at her.

She felt Cole’s hand squeeze hers. “Christ,” he mumbled beside her. “They really don’t have any lives do they.”

She snorted, eased slightly by his encouraging and easy-going presence. “Our school doesn’t even have a total of five-hundred students. This is probably the most exciting thing that’s happened since you showed sophomore year and Billie Andrews made it his mission to torment you.”

Her friend winced. “Don’t remind me.”

“Shit, sorr—“

“Anne!”

The breath that had frozen in Anne’s chest upon realizing the upset she’d caused when first entering the cafeteria thawed the rest of the way at the familiar cadence of Diana’s voice. She could see her friend’s veil of dark hair, her infectious smile big and bright as she stood from their usual table tucked in the far corner of the room. The rest of her friends, still sitting, waved to her gregariously.

Friends, Anne reminded herself. Those are your friends and not even the disastrous evening before and whatever trouble Gilbert Blythe insights next can take them away from you.

She felt a warm smile tug at her lips as she moved toward the familiar corner, pulling Cole behind her as she went. But as she got closer, doubt crept into her mind. She saw the nervous glances Tillie, Jane and Ruby exchanged with one another—however miniscule they might have tried to make them seem. The scrunch of Diana’s nose, bringing her hand down from her enthusiastic wave and rubbing at a non-existent itch. Anne recognized it immediately as her bosom friend’s nervous tick.

Her steps slowed as she approached the table, nearly causing Cole to stumble into her from where he’d been following behind. Josie Pye—she was sitting straight backed, arms folded across her chest and an accusing glare flashing in her blue eyes.

Oh no.

Now this— this was the part she’d forgotten all about. Josephine Pye and her ridiculous aversion to amiable conversation. Her insufferable adamance on making Anne’s existence appear as a show for all the school to see. Josie fancied herself a puppet master, tugging at the strings on Anne’s back from the very first moment they’d met. And though a tedious friendship had developed between the two over the last few years, some things just never changed.

“Hey,” Anne squeaked out, instantly noticing how guilty she already sounded. She winced, sat stiffly on the stool across from her friends.

Cole rolled his eyes and plopped down beside her, shoved his bookbag towards the end of the table and folded his artist hands in front of him as he leveled Josie with a shockingly protective gaze.

“There will be absolutely no mentions of a certain happening with a certain someone taking place at a certain time yesterday afternoon, got it?” His voice left no room for discussion.

Diana nodded eagerly, reaching across the table and giving Anne a sympathetic squeeze of the hand. Jane pursed her lips, obviously wanting to say something, anything, about the unfinished conversation the girls had all had in the car that morning—but seemed to think better of it. Tillie and Ruby, always the more soft spoken of the group, simply sat quietly, glancing between Cole and Josie, the latter of which had narrowed her eyes in an obvious challenge.

The blonde grenade snapped her eyes to Anne instead. “I think that—“

“No.” Anne said icily, surprising herself. She’d never been one to overtly challenge Josie. But after dealing with Royal Gardner and Gilbert Blythe and every single pair of eyes that had followed and judged and questioned her all morning, she’d had enough.

She cleared her throat, “No,” she tried again, less hostile this time. “We will not be discussing the kiss because it’s my business and I owe absolutely nobody an explanation.”

“Periodt,” chimed Cole, snapping his fingers. Diana giggled, attempting to smother it with her hand but failing rather obviously.

Tillie’s eyes had turned wide as saucers. “So it’s true? You and Gilbert kissed?”

“Of course it’s true, I saw it with my own two eyes.” Josie snapped, “And obviously—“

“Josie, Anne literally just said we weren’t discussing it.” Diana huffed. It was the most annoyed Anne had ever seen her act with Josie—it made her want to tackle her best friend in a hug. “Please just drop the subject, okay? If she wants to explain herself then she will.”

“Must I repeat myself?” Cole raised an eyebrow at the blonde dragon across from him who was just barely containing the angry smoke Anne was sure to pore from her nostrils.

“Please,” replied Jane, amused.

“Periodt!” And he gave another flamboyant snap of his fingers.

Josie rolled her eyes imperiously. “You guys are dumb,” she said to the snickering gaggle of girls beside her, then she faced Anne again. “Look, I’m not one to really care all that much about your romantic life—“

Cole opened his mouth to protest but without even glancing his way, Josie cut herself off and snapped, “Shut it, Mackenzie.”

He raised his hands in the universal sign of defeat.

“But as your friend,” loosely Anne had to bite back from commenting as Josie continued, “I worry about what this means for your… reputation.”

“Oh, for the love of god, Josephine Pye. We’re in high school, not running for the frickin’ electoral college. I promise you, me kissing somebody is not that deep.”

Did any of them have lives?

A throat cleared beside her—Cole’s. “I mean,” he said quietly, “it kind of is when you’ve vowed to hate said kissee for the rest of your days. ‘So long as you bring air into your lungs’ I believe were your exact words.”

Anne snapped her head over to her traitorous friend, one who’d not moments ago was just defending her.

“Whose side are you on?”

“The gays,” he said solemnly. And then, upon seeing Anne’s unamused look, “Joking, joking—I mean, not joking obviously, but… Look, Anne. As overdramatic as Josie is being—“ said girl harrumphed impertinently, “—Everybody and their mother knows how much you hate Gilbert. I’ll fight tooth and nail for you, girl, but this whole situation is questionable in the least.”

“I just want you to know,” began Anne, “How much I hate all of you right now, nevermind Gilbert.”

“Hey!” Tillie protested, “I haven’t done a single thing besides ask if the rumor was true in the first place.”

“Tillie Boulter with-holding.”

Jane opened her mouth, “I—“

“You’re on thin fuckin’ ice, Jane Andrews.”

Anne was so incredibly and entirely tired of this entire situation. So much for not talking about it… God, she should just out and admit the reasoning already. Clear the air, make sure that everybody knew it was a farce. A ploy to get Roy Gardner to finally leave her alone.

Who was she kidding anyway? Even entertaining the idea that Gilbert had planted in her head earlier that morning was absolute insanity. Them? Dating? Imagine the uproar then. If her classmates were so nosy as to be absolutely entranced by the fact that they simply kissed, imagine if they announced they were dating .

Oh dearest Snow Queen, she asked of her longest comfort, What would you do?

She set her jaw then, determining it was time to come clean. “Listen, guys. Gilbert and I didn’t actually—“

“Anne?”

She froze. Didn’t blink. Didn’t take a single breath for what felt like a solid thirty seconds. Her friends all startled to look behind her, Cole craning his neck to meet the gaze of probably the absolute last person Anne wanted to see right then.

“Roy!” Diana chirped with false cheer. Her eyes flit between Anne and the monstrous cad that stood behind her, betraying the panic she felt on behalf of her best friend. “I thought you had B lunch?”

Anne refused to turn around, still frozen as she watched, horrified, as all her friends looked at each other confused and curious.

“Well, I did. But the adviser decided to switch some of my classes around. She thought it would be best if I stayed with the rest of the senior class even if British academia didn’t quite meet up with American—Anne, are you trying to hide?”

She was, she totally, full-heartedly was. She’d sunk into herself, almost as if she were trying to allow the lunch table to swallow her whole.

“Anne, sit up ,” Josie hissed at her. Was she—god, was she batting her eyelashes at the boy behind her? The boy in which Anne could very clearly feel inching closer to her with every second she didn’t acknowledge him?

She took a deep breath, turned around in her seat finally for fear that he might reach out and touch her, place his disgustingly delicate and nimble hand on her shoulder. “Roy,” she said, not meeting his eyes. “Hi.”

“Hullo.” Roy replied, probably smiling in a way he thought was enormously charming. “Your dress is quite beautiful. Almost as beautiful as the one wearing it, I might say. Almost .”

Oh, for the love of all that is good and— He was insufferable. Anger, white hot and immediate bubbled in her blood.

“What do you want?” She said, rather bluntly. Cole elbowed her in the arm, shot her a confused look. I’ll explain later, she hoped her face portrayed to him.

Diana, ever the mediator, cleared her throat. “Royal. These are my friends. Tillie, Ruby, Jane, Josie, and Cole.” Cole watched him hesitantly, the girls all exchanged giddy glances. “Of course, you already know Anne.”

“How could I ever forget.”

Anne had to resist the urge to feign a gag.

“Anyways. Guys, this is my cousin Royal.”

“Roy. Call me Roy,” he said. But he didn’t even glance at them, his eyes were trained solely on Anne’s. And Anne rather wanted to punch him in his obnoxiously pert nose.

“It’s nice to meet you, Roy—“ Ruby had begun, but the miscreant cut her off, paying sweet Ruby no attention.

“Anne, I was hoping we might talk?”

Anne clenched her jaw, fought to keep from squeezing her eyes closed in exasperation at the sheer audacity Roy had to even ask that of her.

Right. This was why she’d entertained Gilbert’s plan. This was why she had desperately kissed him. Because Royal Gardner had no boundaries and despite being related to her best and closest friend, every moment spent in his presence was a moment she knew she’d never get back.

“Talk,” she said stiffly. She stood up, grabbed a confused Cole’s hand and yanked him up beside her. “But make it fast because Cole and I still haven’t had a chance to get in the lunch line.”

“I am… so confused.” Anne heard one of the girls say behind her. Diana shushed her.

“Privately? Perhaps?”

She was seriously going to punch this boy in the face. Like, actually. Right there in front of everybody.

“Privately?” Anne snapped coldly, her fury like fire in her veins. She stepped around him, cornered him to the table, making sure her back was to the rest of the cafeteria. Too many rumors were already circulating around her. If she caused a scene, lord knew she’d never come back from it. “Are you joking?”

She saw Cole step back from the corner of her eye, scuttle to the other side of the cafeteria table with the girls. All their eyes were wide and unsure of what to make of the situation.

“Anne, there’s no need for such hostility. I was just trying to—“

“Deliberately make her uncomfortable?” a new voice chimed in from behind her. There was an unrecognizable hardness to it, incongruous to all of the other times she had heard it before. Across from her, her friends' eyes widened impossibly, gazes landing on the new addition to the already intolerable conversation.

Anne could feel as all the eyes in the cafeteria turned toward them, a sure spectacle to behold.

She watched as Roy’s jaw hardened, eyes trained behind her with a new intensity as he tracked the movements of Gilbert Blythe lazily sidling up beside Anne.

“I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure of properly meeting,” Gilbert said as he threw an arm around Anne’s shoulders. She had to fight to keep from stiffening up, knew what he was doing, knew exactly what game he was playing at as he pulled her closer to his side and tucked her neatly beneath his arm. And while her blood boiled at his intrusion, at the audacity he had to come running in like he thought he was  some god-awful knight-in-shining-armor, at the way her friends’ expressions all changed immediately—all smirking and knowing and not nearly as surprised as she thought they’d be—the smallest part of her was relieved.

Relieved.

Like she’d still been gunning for that stupid, ludicrous plan that Gilbert had blabbered on about that very morning to actually work. Which in itself was most positively and unmitigatedly not going to happen in a million—

“Right. Is this him then?” The accusation in Roy’s voice broke Anne from her spiraling thoughts, solidifying the situation she was in. There, in front of all of her friends and essentially the entire senior class, she was facing off with one of the most impudent males she’d ever had the displeasure of meeting.

And, lord above, Gilbert Blythe of all people was the only person with the ability to make Roy leave her alone.

“Just a few months.” His words pinged around in her mind, “We get Royal and Winnie off our backs. And then we never have to deal with each other outside of class again .”

She scowled, resisting the urge to fidget beneath Gilbert’s arm. The heat radiating from his body where their sides were pressed flush together was rather difficult to ignore. She felt as though she could feel it fuse with her blood, travel through her veins and warm her cheeks, her toes, clog up her lungs.

“Is this who?” Anne replied, her scowl deepening.

“The boyfriend. The reason I can’t pursue you… or so you say.”

A choking sound came from her group of friends, though she absolutely refused to look in their direction. She was positive that the fire she felt across her cheeks no longer had anything to do with Gilbert’s body heat.

Roy raised a single brow when she opened her mouth, snapped it back shut immediately—a fish floundering on dry land. Gilbert’s arm tightened around her shoulder, probably meant to be comforting, reassuring, but it only made her want to elbow him in the side. The mortification leaching any and all relief she’d previously felt by his presence.

“I—uh,” she stuttered. Oh god, ohgodohgodohgodohgod. How in the hell had she gotten herself into this situation?

“My god, he broke her,” she heard Cole whisper.

“Anne? You did tell me you had one, right?” Roy’s eyebrow was still raised, the brazen confidence leaking from every pore. She hated him, she decided. Hated him more than the curly haired boy whose arm was wrapped around her and whose current silence felt like a ticking time bomb.

“I did,” she replied, and to her utmost horror it came out weakly.

“As much as I love being talked about as if I’m not standing right here,” Gilbert interjected, and Anne wasn’t sure if he’d noticed it but his thumb had started rubbing tiny comforting circles where it rested on her upper arm, “Anne doesn’t owe you an explanation. As a matter of fact, she doesn’t owe you a damn thing. So whether she has a boyfriend or not—whether I’m that boyfriend or not—is none of your business.”

Woah.

Wait a minute, not woah , what the hell? Had he really said that? Had it really made her heart rate kick up in her chest at the way he’d not only defended her but her right to make her own choices without explanation?

Royal blinked, opened his mouth, closed it. But Gilbert ignored him, turned his head to face Anne. The expression on his face said It’s up to you , the small curve at the corner of his mouth added, Carrots.

She closed her eyes, counted one, two, before opening them back up and meeting Roy’s gaze.

God help her.

“Yeah, Roy,” she said, swallowed thickly, “Gilbert is my boyfriend."

[mishinashen]

East Wind Over Weehawken by Edward Hopper, 1934

Painted in March 1934, shortly after Edward Hopper's retrospective at the Museum of Modern Art in New York, and during a moment when he was rethinking his art, East Wind Over Weehawken can be seen as the birth of his fully realized, mature artistic vision. This masterwork manifests Hopper's celebrated aesthetic, which distinguished him from his peers and created a uniquely American iconography that continues to define him as one of the most important and influential artists of the twentieth century. As with all his most successful works, in East Wind Over Weehawken, Hopper maintains a strong sense of place and an overt realism, while seeking to capture what he described in 1933 as "the most exact transcription possible of my most intimate impressions of nature." (as quoted in L. Goodrich, Edward Hopper, New York, 1967, p. 161) Here he masterfully elevates a commonplace subject to express the realities of post-Depression life in America. Hopper acknowledged East Wind Over Weehawken as one of his most important paintings, writing, "I have always thought of it as one of my best pictures." (unpublished letter to Joseph T. Fraser, April 8, 1952) This sentiment was echoed in 1952 by his long-time dealer, Frank Rehn, who commented, "East Wind Over Weehawken is certainly one of the most Hopperesque canvases he has ever painted." (unpublished letter to Joseph T. Fraser, March 12, 1952) Hopper's early years were spent studying at the New York School of Art under Robert Henri, the leading promoter of the Ashcan School. Here he learned about the American realist tradition that began with Thomas Eakins, who Hopper later acknowledged as "one of his heroes" (as quoted in D. Ottinger, et al., Hopper, Paris, 2012, p. 20) and gained an appreciation for the work of Edouard Manet alongside young luminaries that included Gifford Beal, George Bellows, Rockwell Kent and Guy Pène du Bois. Although the mature style of East Wind Over Weehawken marks a distinct departure from Henri's painterly and bravura depictions of the gritty side of the city, the work reflects Hopper's lifelong adoption of one of the older artist's central teachings: to paint the city and street life he knew best. Henri's early encouragement to look to his surroundings for subject matter stayed with Hopper throughout his career, and the subjects of many of his great works, including East Wind Over Weehawken, are those of quotidian, distinctly American scenes which moved him. While Hopper's early pictures directly demonstrate Henri's influence with their focus on the bustle of the city, mature works such as East Wind Over Weehawken demonstrate a fundamental shift in both his choice of and his approach to his subject. This distinguished Hopper from his contemporaries and accounts for his singular and lasting artistic vision. In East Wind Over Weekhawken he takes as his subject a sleepy New Jersey town across the Hudson River from Manhattan, where he had traveled on the ferry, seeking architectural inspiration for the home and studio that he and his wife, Jo, were getting ready to build in South Truro on Cape Cod. Here Hopper depicts a characteristically overlooked area on the fringe of the thriving urban hub, presenting an image of the banal reality of American life that captures the overarching character and condition of mid-century existence in the United States. Hopper's persistent interest in the vernacular in works such as East Wind Over Weehawken further distinguished him from his peers and set him apart from the artistic movements of the 1930s and 1940s. Lloyd Goodrich wrote of Hopper's distinct style and vision, "His art was based on the ordinary aspects of the contemporary United States, in city, town, and country, seen with uncompromising truthfulness. No artist has painted a more revealing portrait of twentieth-century America. But he was not merely an objective realist. His art was charged with strong personal emotion, with a deep attachment to our familiar everyday world, in all its ugliness, banality, and beauty." (Edward Hopper, New York, 1967, p. 15) In East Wind Over Weehawken Hopper presents a quiet street in the "cold raw weather" of a March afternoon. While the houses are all in good order, the financial woes of the town's inhabitants are indicated by the "For Sale" sign and the unkempt lawns. There are no cars on the street or people visible on the porches or in the houses' windows. The only human presence is a distant group of figures at far left, imbuing the work with an eerie silence. Similar to the "For Sale" sign that is vexingly difficult to read, it is impossible to discern for what purpose the group of people at far left has convened. Hopper deliberately crops the image so that the answer appears to be just beyond the edge of the canvas, introducing an unresolved narrative that simultaneously entices and rebuffs the viewer as he or she continually tries to decipher the scene. Hopper's oeuvre is defined by works such as East Wind Over Weehawken--scenes of quiet tension that create a visceral unease in the viewer. In his closely cropped interiors, this tension is manifested through estranged human relations. In East Wind Over Weehawken, Hopper masterfully utilizes the various compositional elements and perspective to create the tension and anticipation that are characteristic of his best work. He creates a shallow, stage-like pictorial space, using the impenetrable wall of houses to vexingly focus the viewer's attention in the foreground, and the scene operates much like a film still, a single vision isolated from an overarching narrative. This is further heightened by the subject itself, which is common enough to feel familiar and yet rendered in such an anonymous fashion so as to make it feel foreign. This creates a continuously engaging dichotomy as the viewer continuously tries to reconcile him or herself with the emotions the scene evokes. The perspective in East Wind Over Weehawken is as if one is looking through a car window, having come to an intersection. Windows, whether depicted or implied, architectural or vehicular, are a central component of the Hopper's work that imbue his oeuvre with a sense of detached voyeurism--of being outside looking in. In many of Hopper's paintings and watercolors from the 1930s onward, the invisible presence, actual or implied, of the automobile succeeded the artist's earlier practice of peering through windows while riding the El trains in New York City. Hopper's effective and varied use of windows in masterworks such as East Wind Over Weehawken, Nighthawks and Room in New York not only imbues them with a sense of voyeurism, but also compels the viewer to reflect on the isolation of the individual in modern society. The sense of psychological distance and tension in East Wind Over Weehawken is further heightened by Hopper's use of form, line and color. He concentrates the composition on the interplay of architecture and employs these elements to create a sense of ambiguity and suspense that is reminiscent of the works of Italian artist Giorgio de Chirico. The repetition of triangular and rectangular forms bisected by strong vertical and horizontal lines gives the painting complexity and rhythm and leads the eye down the street; until it is blocked by the row of houses at the far left and sent back over the forms. As with all of Hopper's most successful works, there is a strong sense of wanting to get beyond the buildings, to see over them, to see behind the building in the foreground, to see around the curve in the road--yet the eye runs up and down the street unable to move beyond and continually forced back into the scene. There is a sense of thwarted exit as the diagonal of one side of the stone wall leads the viewer into the scene, while the diagonal of the other side, leads him or her out, but out to something that is beyond the picture plane. Similarly, the well-lit steps invite the viewer into the various homes, only to be rebuffed by the deeply shadowed porches; and the lightly colored window shades catch the viewer's eye, while the opaque curtains prevent one from seeing in the windows. The prominent lamppost in the foreground--the only pictorial element that spans the entire height of the composition--creates a physical barrier between the viewer and the scene, immediately relegating one to the role of observer rather than participant. Hopper began using this type of vertical visual blockade as early as 1914 in his French café scene, Soir Bleu (Whitney Museum of American Art, New York) and its function in both paintings is similar to the railroad tracks, country roads and waterways of Hopper's other major works--as a pictorial element that physically and visually blocks the viewer from entering the scene. The success of East Wind Over Weehawken is due to Hopper's arduous creative process in which every aspect of the composition, both what was to be included and what was to be omitted, was carefully planned out before he put brush to canvas. Lloyd Goodrich wrote of Hopper's method, "His pictures were conceived by a complex process that included first hand observation, memory, severe simplification, and a creative synthesis of all elements into imagery that had universal and permanent meaning. He was a highly conscious composer, and through command of massive form, full-bodied color and all-revealing light, he achieved plastic designs of great substance, power and completeness." (Edward Hopper at Kennedy Galleries, exhibition catalogue, New York, 1977, n.p.) Hopper made eight preparatory drawings for East Wind Over Weehawken, each of a different degree of finish and some only a series of isolated pictorial elements with notes on color and mood. He then translated these grey-scale visual notions onto canvas through the veil of memory to present a finished composition, which conveys his experience of the scene in his compelling and melancholic style and characteristically inspires existential contemplations on isolation in modern society. In East Wind Over Weehawken, and throughout his career, Hopper painted aspects of America that few other artists addressed. He portrayed unromantic visions of life in a broad and increasingly modern style, and, while his paintings have formal qualities in common with other Modernists, his art remained steadfastly realist. Hopper emphasized the importance of his realism as an expression of his own, deeper, aesthetic sense. Many of his younger contemporaries, such as Jackson Pollock and Willem de Kooning, increasingly embraced abstraction, abandoning the American realist tradition to form a new and internationally celebrated school of Abstract Expressionism. However, Hopper was one of the few realist artists admired by these younger painters, which is a testament to his importance during his lifetime. James Thrall Soby wrote, "It always astonished me that these young artists exempted the late Hopper from their acrimony against the realist tradition." William Seitz, the organizer of the 1967 São Paolo Biennale that included East Wind Over Weehawken alongside work by Roy Lichtenstein, Robert Rauschenberg, and Jasper Johns, similarly wrote, "He was highly regarded by advocates of both representational and abstract painting, and by avant-gardists as well as conservatives." (quoted in D. Ottinger, Hopper, Paris, 2012, p. 17) Hopper's choice, and his earnest and slightly romantic representation, of seemingly mundane subject matter in seminal works such as East Wind Over Weehawken set him apart from his contemporaries and allowed him to create a new and uniquely American iconography. Today, Hopper's importance as one of the great artists of the twentieth century is recognized on an international level. On the occasion of the most recent retrospective of his work, which included East Wind Over Weehawken, Guillermo Solana and Jean-Paul Cluzel wrote, "His uncommon sensitivity, his distanced perspective on the world, and his sense of drama have earned him a significant place in the history of modern art. Hopper's work not only casts a spotlight on the birth of American modernity, but also marks the advent of a form of artistic creation entirely his own. His work is recognized throughout the world and his paintings, with their very particular atmosphere, now form part of our collective imagination." (Hopper, 2012, n.p.) East Wind Over Weehawken is a testament to the transcendent power of Hopper's aesthetic and a masterwork of twentieth-century art that is as compelling to contemporary viewers as it was when first shown at the Whitney Museum of American Art in 1934.

[wirethroat]

Hey, congrats again on ya boy Lugosi becoming a character in SinDec!! I for one am really excited to see him start popping up in future SinDec fanart. I hope this isn't too big a request, but can you talk about him and what he's like here?👀 *I* know all kinds of things about him, but most people don't! He'll be portrayed by others better the better he's known, and plus it'll be handy to me to know more of what's different between him in the game VS him in the vampire AU. And don't worry about rambling or making the post too long!! Feel free to go ham with the little guy!!

It's not too big a request!! I love lore posts. I've had many thoughts on the Little Guy, but I've never posted because I guess talking about special inch rests is Cring now.

So, Lugosi.

It's not explicitly stated in canon, but I'm pretty sure he originated Somewhere in the industry. @disparu-gaming has stated that one of the expiraments that the G-team were conducting involved trying to see if the corruption could be contained in a pure vessel. Apparently they have a piece or fragment of Abram as well, so I headcannon that Lugosi was one of the unfortunate vessels they were testing on, and was implanted with this fragment. I can't decide whether or not he became a test subject willingly or not, but he was definitely the kind of person who would do something like that for the greater good, so I'm leaning towards the former.

Well, as it turns out, having a concentrated ball of corruption shoved inside of you has some averse effects on the psyche! Lugosi has a link with Abram, and I'm not entirely sure how strong or clear it is (never stated in canon), but if I had to write it I would probably say it extends to limited conversation and visits during dreams. However, Abram never canonically mentions Lugosi whatsoever, so I'm not for certain on that. Lugosi would probably begin experience things like emotions that don't belong to him, memories that aren't his, unexplained anger and irritability, spontaneous vomiting and other forms of his body trying to expel the corruption (similar to radiation poisoning), and severe paranoia and delusions. Plenty of things that get corrupted are given forbidden knowledge and seem to know of Abram. Viruses have a way sometimes of warping the minds of their hosts, so I like to think that sometimes those who are too lost in the Abram sauce are interested in furthering his self propagation, just like real viruses. So Lugosi experiences the god equivalent of radiation poisoning (minus losing his fantastic hair) and begins feeling this all consuming, overwhelming desire to help this guy he keeps hallucinating and feeling the emotions of. Like many other corrupted monsters, he probably has some kind of powers, so we'll just use that to explain how he escaped.

Lugosi is a very lonely character. I know he would be very young at the proposed time of experimentation/corruption, so he wouldn't have much of a background or friend group pre-Abram. Basically all he has is his faith in Abram, who may or may not even realize that Lugosi exists, or worse, may know but not care. He's in constant pain, as his body is literally being eaten from the inside out, and is perpetually under the strain of having some kind of mental link with a god who's mind is literally diseased. He has consistent delusions and hallucinations (mostly of Abram being near him, talking to him, and telling him things) and has been known to cease his preaching to occasionally stare off into the nothingness for a little while. Yet, he is a very willful person. Lugosi, obviously has a great tolerance to pain, but in addition to being resilient against his own body's woes, he also endures not having a home, and speaking almost 24/7. I think he would take very few breaks, and would only leave the podium to try and scavenge for food or write down his next sermons subject. He would sleep when he collapsed from exhaustion. Honestly I think the only reason Lugosi hadn't been taken away from his spot in the city is because his presence was too much for normal, fretful elsen to try to remove. Also, he has a knife and knows how to use it. So aside from his sermons and his faith, he doesn't have much. Even if Abram could and did speak to him, he wouldn't be able to talk much, being so busy. You can see how desperate he is for any kind of stable, genuine relationship in how he latches on to the Batter almost immediately.

But dispite his unfortunate existence, Lugosi is a highly empathetic and compassionate individual. If he was somehow removed of his ailments and given a sound mind again, he would still choose Abram, because he would genuinely think Ab was horrifically wronged and would want him to recieve justice. He sneaks the player healing tickets (he actually does this in game) because he doesn't want to offend his supposed savior, but still worries about his health regardless of his faith. He realizes that the Batter is uncomfortable talking about the entertainment district after he's all but traumatized by Jadon. Lugosi can be very kind, he just doesnt often get the chance to show it because of his frantic, end of the world mentality.

I think that his Red end, as fucked up as it is that fully comprehending the rage of his most beloved literally shatters his skull and drives him to massacre, is a good ending for him. Lugosi would want to go out with a bang, after feeling basically useless his whole life. He got to die giving his whole world proof of his devotion, even as fucked up as it is that he expressed that love by committing mass murder (haha, pun). He willed himself to survive being corrupted, he willed himself to live through his torturous, abram dominated existence, he willed himself to understand his God, and completed his life's work, destroying the church after assisting in Abram's victory.

His Blue end? Haha, not so much.

But yeah. There's my boy in a nutshell. Thanks so much for the ask! I enjoyed ranting about him.