#like he HAS to leave. this DOES serve as the catalyst for the events that end with a nuke falling over their heads.

[cdroloisms]

Yeah that moment kinda shows how he can make c!discduo listen to him and even the way how this is not healthy. I also think he might be participate in comflict bewteen cdiscduo if he didnt leave but more as an motivator but not him causing it on porpuse. At the end cdream was trying to make him by his side to have laverage, ctommy was still really depend on him and the disc that cdream have. It was a a disaster that was coming but he leave so he did not caused a new conflict but was a factor that played in a resolution

i mean ? "participate in conflict between c!discduo" he is like the foremost reason why the conflict between c!discduo even looks the way that it does honestly. it wouldn't have been about heroes and villains without lmanburg, full stop. when dream and tommy had their first disc spat, they didn't need to be handheld into figuring out a solution, yk? they had their fornite battle, tommy and dream both got their shit back, they did a trade of a stack of diamonds for a netherite chestplate, and i'd go as far as saying that both of them kinda had. fun ???? like c!tommy is reminiscing about those times IN THE LITERAL FINALE, a consistent trend with him throughout the server (he did the same during november 16th, where he had been downright excited to go back to the disc war and was ribbing c!dream about how he's never in the walls no more) and while c!dream honestly has a terminal stick in his ass and always saw the whole thing as more serious than c!tommy (hence why c!tommy was sitting there going i never realized how much that hurt you), i think it's hard to look at the way c!dream acts with c!tommy pre-vassal and really say that he hated the kid's guts over a stupid surprise attack the whole time lmao. they liked each other! they were friends!

c!wilbur being able to make c!discduo listen to him (and um, give his words the weight of the world) isn't just an inconsolable differences thing, it's really smth that stretches as far back as that first discussion about lmanburg that they ever have. it's something that applies to the duel, to vassal. c!wilbur participating and fanning the flames of conflict between c!discduo (and quite literally prying them apart in vassal, which was kind of the beginning of the end) is something that happens throughout the server, and i'd argue that inconsolable differences -> boundless sands is his clumsy attempt at fixing that. shutting the damn book on lmanburg as the one who penned the story, say youre a tyrant dream and put it in writing and burn the discs, you two can't play nice so the game's fucking over. tommy, stay in your place, dream, do as i say, etc etc. c!wilbur has to leave because of who c!wilbur is to c!dream and especially to c!tommy, it's just things were too fractured for him leaving in itself to Completely Fix Everything

[starsreminisce]

Elain paused halfway up the stairs. Slowly, she turned to look back at him. “I saw young hands wither with age. I saw a box of black stone. I saw a feather of fire land on snow and melt it.”

I've previously mentioned that the next two books would revolve around two distinct groups, setting up Elucien and Gwynriel as the central couples. This setup allows them to work interchangeably in the next two books.

One book follows Elucien's quest for Koschei's box, while the other traces Gwynriel's mission to free the maidens captured by Koschei.

However, I believe that Elucien's storyline will primarily explore the other courts in Prythian, while Gwynriel's journey will take them to the other continent. This flexibility in the order resembles a 'chicken-or-egg' scenario. Is the box vital as a key to defeating Koschei, or could the maidens potentially serve as crucial allies, akin to Vassa?

If their book were the first, Part One focusing on the Spring Court, Part Two involving the search for the box across other courts, and Part Three centering on the Autumn Court, where the box is ultimately hidden.

If it were the second book, Part One would revolve around searching for the box while being headquartered in Spring, Part Two would shift to the Autumn Court, and Part Three would be preparing for the continent and Part Four would be the final confrontation with Koschei.

In Part One, Elain reaches a breaking point, finally succumbing to the frustration of being restricted and not being allowed to contribute effectively. Two significant catalyst events unfold—one that marks the definitive end of any potential of E/riel, redirecting her attention to Lucien.

How Elain ends up in Spring Court can be resolved in two ways: either she is in a confrontation, either with Lucien or Azriel, that leaves her in a melancholy mood, prompting Feyre and Nesta to suggest a visit to Spring Court, ensuring Lucien will not be there at the moment. Alternatively, she has a confrontation with Lucien, and the emotional turmoil triggers a profound vision. Lucien realizes she has not been training her powers or her powers are connected to him.

This pivotal moment also provides an opportunity for SJM to address how both Lucien and Azriel approach Elain's powers, with the trove situation resurfacing. Their bond has played a crucial role in significant moments, such as when Elain was thrown into the cauldron, during her depressive state afterward, and again when she had the vision of the twin ravens arriving. The notion of the bond bringing them together once more emphasizes their intertwined fates.

Part Two centers around the duo's efforts to rebuild Spring. Drawing parallels to Feyre's exploration of Velaris while mastering her powers, Elain and Lucien begin to rejuvenate the court. The narrative could also take them to other courts in search of Koschei's box or seeking additional answers regarding Elain's seer abilities, similar to Feyre and Rhysand visiting the Weaver's Cottage and Summer Court.

This quest leads them to Autumn Court for Part Three.

I don't think SJM will reveal Lucien's true lineage until he comes to terms with the man who raised him. This might explain why Eris plays a significant role and why Beron is eager to establish a direct alliance with Koschei.

In a bold move to protect Elain from a genuine threat posed by Beron, Lucien challenges him to a Blood Duel or Beron does, prompting Lucien to defend his bond. This not only showcases Lucien's strength, as he fearlessly stands against powerful figures like Tamlin and Rhys, but also emphasizes his commitment to safeguarding his mate. The victory in the Blood Duel signifies Lucien as the rightful heir of another court, marking a significant moment in his journey toward accepting his true identity.

The aftermath of Lucien's true parentage, with Helion as his father, is a realization that may unfold later, possibly during the anticipated crossover.

Lucien must have suspected that Beron is not his father, but the revelation would have been a significant and complex realization for both Lucien and Helion. Imagining Helion suddenly realizing that he has a son with the female he loves would indeed be a lot to process, especially considering the emotions involved. Helion's anger over Beron's mistreatment of LoA did not necessarily provide insight into his awareness of Lucien's true parentage. The dynamics between Lucien and Helion, as well as their feelings toward each other, remain unclear until further exploration in the narrative.

If their book is next, the story concludes with Elain triggering another vision. This time, she confidently predicts the release of the maidens, marking Gwynriel as the next focus of the narrative. Unlike the first instance, Elain is in control and unafraid. Subsequently, she receives a second vision, one more distressing, which may signify the arrival of Bryce or the Asteri, ultimately connecting the two storylines.

This revelation leads them to call the Day Court their home, as Helion now has an heir to train, and Elain's visions play a crucial role in their preparations.

If their book is last, they join the final confrontation, mirroring Aelin and Rowan's pivotal arrival in the decisive battle. It's a bit challenging to envision how Elain's power would be used offensively, as SJM's descriptions of the oracle and mystics in CC and seers in ToG were limited.

However, for both books, the last chapter sees Lucien surprising Elain with a trip to the tulip fields, symbolizing a beautiful and meaningful start to their life together. As they stroll through the vibrant blooms, Elain playfully jokes that her father must have instructed Lucien to bring her here. Lucien looks at her quizzically and denies it. Instead, he shares a heartfelt memory—he had come across the tulip fields while searching for Vassa and vowed to bring Elain here one day. However, her father did ask him to give her the ring that once belonged to her mother.

[dxppercxdxver]

Hey! I’m in love with the spytown au you came up with and I’ve had some thoughts that could kind of connect

I’m writing a Hadestown Mashup AU and I got to covering Word To The Wise and His Kiss, The Riot, and I was considering thematically drawing a parallel to When The Chips are Down and Gone, I’m Gone, because narratively they’re similar.

In the song before each of these, both Hades and Eurydice are given choices, for Eurydice, Hades gives her the coins and for Hades, he has to choose to let Orpheus and Eurydice go.

Then in the Fates’ number the Fates then lay it out plainly in the way they want it to end, posing a question “What’re you gonna do when the chips are down/now?” and then telling Eurydice all the reasons she has to leave, making the decision easier for her, and telling Hades that he can’t keep them or simply let them go, and then the Fates dangle a solution in the face of their ‘victim’, for want of a better term, for Hades, it’s let the lovers go, but give them the tools to punish themselves, so his hands are technically clean and for Eurydice, it’s her ticket to the underworld.

Then Eurydice and Hades have solos about their choice before settling on a decision. I’m not sure musically on any similarities between Gone, I’m Gone and His Kiss, The Riot, but stylistically, they’re similar. They’re both quiet solo numbers for the relevant principal characters to sing about what their choice is. HKTR is a lot angrier and more rough and bitter, reflecting Hades’ character better than the mournful GIG, which reflects Eurydice’s reluctance to leave Orpheus. The key thing tying these together is the sense of despair and hopelessness as the singers know they have no choice but to go through with it.

The Fates know what needs to happen and make sure it does every time, they know what to say to Eurydice and Hades to get the right conditions for the Fated tragedy, no matter how many times they sing it.

Now think about this in terms of the Spytown AU, where Owen is both Eurydice and Hades. If we think of it in terms of an actual musical, this could serve phenomenally to highlight that they’re the same person, just stuck in a damn loop.

But if it’s a real event, it just hammers in the despair for Owen, who’s trapped by the Fates and it’s technically his fault, even though he can’t go against them, and then it’s a vicious circle specifically causing the loops as they’re the two main catalysts for the doomed walk. The first, when Owen is Eurydice!Owen, sending him there in the first place, and the second, assuring that the walk happens as intended, causing Curt!Orpheus to realise the cycles and turn, dooming them both to this over and over and over ad nauseam.

-Myth🦋

no all of this is exactly what led to me casting owen as both hades and eurydice

hades is a natural extension of what eurydice’s whole life has been leading to (clinging to everything she can keep her hands on, only to Major Extremes), just as persephone is orpheus’s traits amplified (placing positivity and Herself above the needs of those around her to some degree)

like. Yeah. these songs Are similar. and it’s Bonkers. madam mitchell i owe you my life

[impenitentrp]

Here is a preview of our plotline ! Please note that this will be serving as a starting basis to an ongoing plotline furthered by events. Impenitent will also be operating as an AU site, presenting a variety of opportunities for the originality of the site as well as to inspire character creativity.

1955.  A  decade  has  passed  since  the  conclusion  of  the  Second  World  War,  yet  while  the  Muggle  World  has  managed  to  develop  in  great  strides  throughout  those  ten  years,  the  Wizarding  World  has  been  further  plunged  into  an  all  consuming  darkness.  1945  marked  the  defeat  of  the  intercontinental  dark  wizard,  Gellert  Grindelwald,  and  for  a  brief  moment,  the  fog  of  terror  had  dissipated  from  the  atmosphere  across  Western  Europe,  parting  the  haze  of  a  warring  theatre  and  permitting  Muggleborns,  Half  Bloods  and  those  with  creature  blood  to  cast  hopeful  glances  upon  a  future  that  might  bear  witness  more  of  their  cardinal  rights  recognized  and  upheld  by  the  Ministry  of  Magic.  But  while  the  great  evil  that  had  been  Grindelwald  now  rotted  in  a  prison  cell  in  Nurmengard,  his  sympathizers  and  sycophants  remained  unbroken  and  unbridled,  free  in  the  world  to  spread  sinful  beliefs  to  their  children  and  to  sow  dissent  in  the  ministries  of  magic  to  further  curtail  the  liberties  of  those  that  were  deemed  lesser.  Like  many  followers,  however,  these  Purists  had  achieved  very  little  until  an  unassuming  shopboy  from  the  gutters  of  Knockturn  Alley  charmed  his  way  through  schoolmates,  professors  and  politicians  alike,  harboring  what  many  would  one  day  consider  immoral  and  wicked  intent.

An  orphan  boy  from  London,  Tom  Riddle  had  always  shown  an  inclination  for  the  clandestine,  even  before  his  magic  had  manifested  in  ways  that  terrorized  his  fellow  foundlings  and  caretakers.  So  when  Albus  Dumbledore  appeared  at  the  steps  of  Wool’s  Orphanage  to  personally  present  an  invitation  to  a  school  in  Scotland,  the  matron  and  children  did  not  bar  his  leave.  Hogwarts  failed  to  educate  him  in  the  art  of  restraint,  instead  feeding  the  starving  stray  his  first  tastes  of  what  power  could  be  if  properly  honed.  Loathe  to  return  to  the  orphanage  during  the  height  of  the  war  —  perhaps  igniting  the  catalyst  of  his  fear  of  death  —  caused  the  youth  to  trace  back  his  lineage  to  the  ancient  House  of  Gaunt,  descendants  of  Salazar  Slytherin.  Eager  to  learn  of  his  ancestry,  the  boy  had  visited  his  uncle,  Morfin  Gaunt,  unearthing  truths  behind  his  conception,  the  result  of  which  led  him  to  murder  his  Muggle  father  and  grandfather,  and  abscond  with  a  priceless  family  heirloom.  Using  the  deaths  of  his  family  to  harness  insidious  wizardry,  he  created  his  first  Horcrux,  embedding  the  trauma  of  their  demise  alongside  a  piece  of  his  soul  into  Marvolo  Gaunt’s  ring.  It  does  not  take  long  for  him  to  fabricate  a  second,  the  energy  exuding  pervading  his  aura  attracting  fellow  Purists  and  power - seekers  through  his  reckless  abandon.  Wielding  the  gifts  he  had  gained  from  Salazar  Slytherin  to  bring  grand  loss  of  life,  he  marches  forth,  eliminating  Myrtle  Warren  and  imparting  a  subsequent  piece  of  himself  within  a  diary,  his  mind  littered  with  ideations  of  a  glorious  world  where  he  would  reign  supreme  and  everlasting.

Spurned  by  Albus  Dumbledore  and  faculty  refusal  in  which  would  obstruct  his  motion  to  claim  a  professor’s  post,  Tom  Riddle  consigns  himself  to  a  brief  stint  at  Borgin  and  Burkes,  where  as  he  labors,  salt  permeates  and  festers  an  infectious  wound.  It  is  here  that  he  is  greeted  by  Madam  Hepzibah  Smith,  avid  patron  and  self  proclaimed  descendant  of  Helga  Hufflepuff.  A  woman  seemingly  gluttoned  with  affluence,  she  boasts  of  priceless  possessions,  unwittingly  securing  her  unfortunate  fate  throughout  a  barrage  of  gloating  conversement  where  Tom’s  attentive  temperament  lies  coiled  —  a  serpent  lying  in  wait,  fangs  poised  to  strike.  A  potent  toxin  will  soon  pass  her  lips,  its  venom  stilling  the  thrum  of  her  heart  so  that  her  corpse  can  be  thieved  of  both  Hufflepuff’s  cup  and  Slytherin’s  locket.  Framing  yet  another  innocent,  isolated  being,  the  third  Horcrux  is  molded  by  his  ceaseless  corruption,  and  he  vanishes  to  further  hunt  artefacts  to  defile,  leaving  in  his  treacherous  wake  virulent  acolytes  to  carry  on  his  bidding.

Now,  Tom  Riddle  methodically  maneuvers  taut  strings,  operating  from  the  shadows  as  he  begins  to  petrify  the  Wizarding  World,  his  sinister  plots  to  execute  all  who  oppose  him  in  pursuit  of  blood  purification  and  wizarding  rule  helmed  by  his  most  trusted  circle  —  The  Knights  of  Walpurgis  —  alongside  his  lethal  militia  of  Death  Eaters.  As  the  skies  are  cast  ever  darker  across  Great  Britain,  The  Ministry  remains  ignorant  to  the  rise  of  malignant  forces,  instead  fixating  on  their  own  preferred  transgressions  as  rumors  of  both  Creature  and  Muggle  intolerance  mark  them  unfavorable.  Those  of  creature  blood  —  most  notably,  Werewolves  —  are  now  the  bias  targets  of  harsh  injustice,  their  existence  perceived  as  a  threat  to  the  welfare  of  wizarding  communities  due  to  what  is  deemed  as  beastly  nature.  Met  with  this  imbalance,  leaders  of  these  respective  species  are  presented  with  two  options:  sign  a  registry  to  document  their  so  called  afflictions,  or  revolt  and  face  imprisonment  —  or  worse.  In  light  of  The  Ministry’s  shortcomings  in  regard  to  the  threat  of  an  ascending  Dark  Lord  and  impending  insurgence,  Albus  Dumbledore  forges  a  regime  of  talented  individuals  known  as  The  Ordinem  in  an  effort  to  better  combat  the  telltale  signs  of  the  war  to  come  where  the  wizarding  government  would  not  act.  Lines  have  begun  to  be  drawn,  both  morality  and  neutrality  blurred  as  justice  is  taken  into  the  grasps  of  opposing  views,  all  sides  contending  for  control  as  the  Wizarding  World  is  propelled  toward  ruination.

[refairy]

a billet-doux from the lighthouse.

synopsis: getting rid of an eight-limbed stranger who has followed you home like a stray cat is going to be hard when he’s essentially set up camp in the middle of your apartment.

pairing: peter parker & reader.

word count: 14k

note: click here for visuals (content warning for arachnid features on peter). this spider!parker fic took a lot out of me, so i hope you take the time out of your day to leave a comment. + s/o to aniqua for helping me out when i asked for advice. ty to the group chat for keeping my motivation alive, i couldn’t have done it without you.

[  peter parker masterlist 💌.  ]

Night falls in Queens, New York but the city never sleeps; a compendium of stimulating colors lighting it up for the world’s viewing pleasure. Look at the Earth at night and you’d see gold specks dappled on it indicating its perennial state of liveliness.

That’s not to say there aren’t nooks and crannies that are eclipsed in Hadean darkness, ones that criminals took sanctuary in, and unfortunately for you, one of these night-bedim alleyways served as a viable and particularly convenient short-cut to your apartment. Luck was in your favor, so far you had not run into any New Yorkian degenerates. 

It was even more nerve-wracking when you’re on your way back home from a raucous night out with your friends as opposed to when you’d just got off a shift at work. You had bid your farewells to them a while ago and now you were all alone, the frosty bite in the air prominent than ever. Everything sounds louder now, the rhythmic click of your heels reverberating into the dead of the night. Thick plumes of your berry breath exhaled into the air. 

You regret your decision of leaving behind your jacket — hours ago you had vehemently denied the idea of bringing it along, you didn’t want it to ruin your look so you had settled for a sleeveless fur shawl that now swathes the length of your dark honey shoulders.

Periodically, you will hear the susurration of plastic bags rustling in the wind that people have left near overflowing garbage containers. It has you throwing the odd, cautionary glance to see if there’s somebody following you, only to be filled with a fleeting sense of relief moments after.

You can’t shake the feeling of being watched. A hidden presence. But you have already surveyed your surroundings, prudently eyeing any apertures you walked by and there was nothing. Or at least that’s what you thought until you hear something.

It comes from above you — a bellicose noise that frightens you and nearly has you tripping over your own feet. 

Desperately, you crane your neck to identify the source of the sound, riddled with an overwhelming panic when you spot the behemoth outline of — your mind goes blank. You’re not sure what you’re looking at.

It’s latched onto a fire escape, all of its hands curled on the steel-wrought railings — you slowly begin to register that its body belongs to a man of average height and that it is not as big as you perceived. You don’t think it’s noticed you yet, sequestered in its position, but you cannot move. Fear has paralyzed you, rooting you to the spot as if you are an age-long tree.

It seems to mirror you and it just makes the situation all the more unsettling to you. You’ve settled upon testing your limits, you lean down to remove your heels, eyes trained intensely on the physique of this thing to see what it would do.

Strangely, it does nothing. 

It almost looks like it's hiding from you.

Your mind is running wild and you try to impoverish the ability to think, to rid yourself of these petrifying thoughts.

Tentatively, you take a step back. Your maneuver, no matter how prudent, makes its spine heckle like an alerted coyote. 

The movement is a catalyst to the succeeding events; a creaking sound, a subsequent clang, and a reverberation of the fractured railing hitting the wall and then the concrete. It loses its footing along with it, all six arms flailing, trying to scramble onto the floor of the fire escape but it also cannot handle its weight and comes down along with the creature.

It groans — you’re surprised at how human it sounds.

Then, you make the stupid decision to sever the distance between the two of you. You’re mentally berating yourself; nothing good can come of this. You rack your brain and there is no best-case scenario presented at the forefront of your mind — every denouement is macabre and sanguine-streaked. This is where the extent of your curiosity will get you killed by some eight-limbed monster.

Your self-castigation is fruitless.

The first thing you notice is that it’s covering the upper half of his face, it’s all you can focus on really considering that the most inhumane part of it so far is its additional limbs. Its chest rises and falls like anyone else's would, then turns to its side, pointing its back to you in a morose manner. You look at the back of his head full of tawny curls, a little unsure of what to do.

There’s an indignant sniffle, acute petulance rising up hard in the marrow of it. Your eyebrows fly up at the sound. Is it… there’s no way. There’s no way.

“Hey,” you murmur, voice as fragile as gossamer. You don’t touch it — you don’t know how it’ll react to your unbidden touch and in all honesty, you’re still quite afraid of it. “Are you okay?”

No response, not even a movement other than the fluctuating undulation of its breathing.

“Okay… Well, I’m gonna go now,” your voice is uncertain in your spoken declaration as if expecting it to change its mind and lash out for a viper-attack.

It whines; lengthy and, strangely enough, boyish. Then, slowly like the perpetual slow drip of syrup, it turns to face you. and one by one, its arms drop from where it was shielding the upper half of his face.

Your reaction is immediate. Your eyes widen in horror, a blood-curdling scream is ripped straight from the chamber of your throat. You fall, shuffling back on the palms of your hand. You can’t seem to rip your eyes from the horrific sight in front of you.

The arms, despite them existing in multitudes, had sustained a modicum of humanity. They didn’t have the spindly idiosyncrasy of a spider, none of the twitching that accompanied the arachnids. But the eyes — the eyes. You quake in unalloyed fear as it stares and stares at you, around you, through you.

Its head snaps around like a taut rubber-band as if examining the atmosphere for signs of life other than you in a way that leaves you terror-struck.

And it finally settles all eight of its black glass eyes on you. Unblinking.  The black is all-encompassing, with no hint of a white sclera or a ring of color around the pupils. Not the way you’d see in human eyes. You bring your gaze down to its fanged mouth, attempting to will away the odious imagery branded in your memory. An unrestrained shiver spiders down the length of your rose-stem spine.

Its head slants curiously, then it leans forward, storming the shore of personal space.

Your eyes squeeze shut, relinquishing a noise of absolute fright, “No, no!” 

It withdraws straight away, sifting away into the dark of the night.

Once it is out of your sight, you are nothing short of petrified — the same proportion of panic is instilled in you as when you try to kill an insect and it beetles along rapidly until it is out of sight but you know it's there. You could not unknow its presence — it stays with you. Your room was now infested and it would remain that way for a week until you felt comfortable knowing you had vacuumed every hidden crevice so thoroughly that it does not make an impromptu return.

When you arrive home, you ensure that your door is locked, windows shut tight and corners cleaned.

Somewhere, its voice echoes into the night; a paroxysm of shrieking.

(**)

You’ve just finished showering, your towel-clad, dewy body bathed in the afterglow of the eventide sunrays and the humid post-luminosity clinging to your skin like a shiny, translucent coat. A serene, dreamy languor descends upon you like a weighted blanket.

It’s too early to sleep despite the lethargy, if you turn in for the night now you’ll be up in the middle of the night, and come morning you’ll be exhausted again. Your agenda, torn asunder because you made the vacuous decision to sleep in the evening. Perhaps, if your itinerary was sparse the following day you would have. 

You’re plentifully lathering on a sheen of moisturizer on your body when someone knocks at your door, in an urgent succession of four careful raps. Your heart is in your throat, you do not wish to answer. It may be your friend. You still do not want to answer. The events of the previous night had left you suffused with trepidation, every slight sound leaving a motley of goosebumps on your arms and the nape of your elegant neck.

“Give me a second,” you call out, unceremoniously throwing on the articles of clothing you had left neatly draped on a chair.

You swing upon the door — and then hurriedly you slam it shut again.

You step away from the door, hands wringing together while you figure out what to do. You deliberate on contacting the police but there’s no way they would make it in time and you had seen how fast it had scuttled away with the aid of its preternatural limbs. Instead, you grab the brush from your sweep set and clutch onto it tightly as though it was a lifeline. You almost considered a knife but knew that you’d have to get close to this creature to strike him.

After a moment of deliberation, you press your ear against the door.

It knocks again, carefully, as if it knows how close you are. You jump in alarm anyway, not expecting the second knock.

What calls you to the door despite your mind’s opposition was your recollection of the phenomenon from yesterday; the lachrymose sound that came from the creature. Something that humanized him, no matter how subconscious.

You exhale, opening the door, the brush in one hand, to be met with four pairs of eyes that gleam with emotion. A shiver returns. It looms by the door’s threshold, obligingly waiting to be invited. Better yours than his dismal den. It blinks, you find that it’s much less unsightly when you cannot see the utter black of its single-lens eyes.

“You followed me home,” you state incredulously.

A conflictive look crosses its features as though it does not want to concede to this. Regardless, it gives you a reluctant nod.

“You can understand me,” you breathe out in awe.

Another nod. There’s not much else it can do.

“Can you talk?” 

It stops for a moment to collect its thoughts, nodding its head but then shaking it immediately after. It opens its mouth in the shape of a word but nothing comes out but a low vibration; a dulcet purr, illustrating the extent of its speech other than the profusion of sounds he is capable of creating.

“What are you?”

It glares at you affronted like there aren’t an excessive myriad of eyes and limbs sprouting out from it, pointing at you with its three right arms, before dropping them exasperated and trying again, this time holding two of them down. Its endeavor is successful. It points at you.

“Me? You mean like…” The silence splinters unassuredly here, the weight of your words delicately prodding the atmosphere as if breaching some forbidden territory. “Are you human?”

Its features rearrange to that of relief, its brows — you’ve just noticed them, one is unruly, unable to be maintained in an orderly state like the other — smoothing over. 

It… he nods.

Something poignant has been culled from you, your eyes roam his face, mouth pressing together to contain this sentiment you're suddenly overwrought with. “What happened to you?”

A raw, grief-struck moan. He tries to reroute it into something productive so he can make use of it but it comes back to him all the same. It's communicable, pervading the ambiance with a mantle of thick melancholy. His despondency reaches you. The silence after is received like a sombre telegram.

You want to hold him then, but your fear does not permit you to. Maybe if you closed your eyes you could be a little braver.

“What do you want from me?” You finally think to ask. Out of all the people he could have turned to, why come to you? You wouldn’t know where to begin and you voice as such. “If you’re looking for help, I don’t know- I don’t think I can help. This is something else.”

He fishes out something from his pockets — belatedly registering that he was dressed in a pair of well-worn jeans and an unremarkable graphic shirt, though torn to shreds to accommodate the supplementary limbs, something that you had failed to apprehend with your fear-addled mind. 

It was ugly anyway, your brain unhelpfully provides at the sight of the tattered shirt. It was one of those ones with some banal science pun printed at the front, the kind that barbecue grill and golf-obsessed father’s found hysterical. You don’t want to aggravate him, not when you know nothing of his personality, so this is cloistered on a promontory in the back of your head. To you, he is an unpredictable mutation and that renders him sinistrous.

A smartphone is proffered to you. You look at it askance, wondering what it is exactly that he wants you to do with it.

He is still standing in your doorway.

You regard him warily, your premeditated options splaying out like branches woven of webs. “Just come in.”

You hold your hand out for the phone, shifting out of the way when he gets a little too close in proximity to you. He prudently places it in your palm, mindful not to make contact with you which you appreciate because if he had, you’re certain you would have snatched your hand back and the phone already looks far from inviolate; it’s definitely been through hell and back. There’s an internal crack running down diagonally when you switch it on. You’ve already witnessed him fall from a fire escape by underestimating the extent of his own strength and you wager that the phone had also met the same demise.

You place the sweeping brush close to you.

A thought drifts to you. “Can you write?” 

He’s standing awkwardly in the middle of your apartment, his presence is a blight against the otherwise unmarred scenery. Startling you is the last thing he wants but he can’t help fidgeting with his fingers. The only issue is that he has the misfortune of having thirty of them and your eyes are immediately drawn to them.

He contemplates this question before giving you a nod.

“Oh,” you say. You don’t know why this takes you by surprise. It makes sense considering the variable that he was once human. “Okay.”

You look at the sullied state of his clothes and sigh. You’re disinclined for your couch to end up in the same state. He makes this more cumbersome than it needs to be. “...You can sit down.”

Bringing over a notepad and a pen, you place it in front of him and he takes to it immediately. 

‘I can’t use my phone. My fingers won’t work on the touchscreen.’

You switch the phone on, the brightness illuminating your face. A picture of an older woman and a youthful-looking man greets you; she’s hugging him at a diner, the lights dim in the brown and beige tones.

When you look at him, you can see it — the man he used to be. You can see the foundation of his humanity. It’s in the little things he does too.

‘There’s someone I need you to talk to. It’s really important.’ There’s a pause before he makes a quick addendum: ‘Please.’

“The lady you have as your wallpaper?” You question carefully, hoping he doesn’t take umbrage at your prying.

He looks pensively wistful, pained by the recollection of a memory or a thought but shakes his head.

‘No, somebody else. His name is Dr. Connors.’

“No offense but I don’t think a doctor can fix…” You gesticulate in a circular motion to his arms and eyes. “That.”

You think he rolls his eyes. It’s not as discernible with the lack of white, but you see a vague movement and that’s enough.

‘He’s not that kind of doctor. If anyone can help, it’s him. He’s good at this kind of stuff.’

“Okay…” You don’t have to scroll through his contacts at all, he’s not popular, that or he does not store all of his contacts on his phone. Judging by his state of dress, you had your doubts. “This one?” You turn the screen to him and he nods his assent.

They pick up on the third ring. An embittered greeting: “Hello?” 

“Hi,” you greet unsurely, selecting the option for speakerphone. The awkwardness makes you feel like you’re already drivelling and you’ve barely uttered a word. “Is this Dr. Connors?”

“Yes, who is this?” The curt edge is still ever-present. You bristle like a cat at the thought of being spoken to in such a dismissive manner — your mood sours.

Your eyebrows twitch with irritation and your mouth presses into a firm line. Your tone is now an echo of his. “I’m ringing for somebody, he says you can help him. He can’t talk right now.” You look at him and he nods assuringly. “…He’s- I don’t know, he’s got these extra eyes and arms. Like a spider.”

A chuckle crackles through the phone. It does nothing to soften you. “With how crazy New York has been recently, I’m inclined to believe you.” A premeditated pause. “Who is he?” 

You hear a rushed scribble: Peter Parker. 

You regurgitate the name to Connors. 

He sighs, “I thought as much.” You hear the rustle of papers in the background. He’s busy with something else. “I haven’t been at the tower but he can come by tomorrow night.”

Relief fills you when Connors is called away, the brief confabulation curtailed. Everything has been delineated in a matter of minutes though you could argue that it felt like half an hour at the very least. Peter Parker can supply the components of this mutation once he meets with Connors at that tower of his.

Speaking of which.

You startle when you find Peter already looking at you.

He drops his gaze to the paper.

‘Thanks.’ And it looks like he’s about to write something else but thinks better of it.

You sit in silence before you decide you’ve grown tired of the tense, silent ambiance. “Your name sounds… normal.”

He frowns at this. He catches onto what you really mean. The pen hovers over lined paper, then: ‘Well, yeah. I’m human.’

Guilt sluices up your throat, you swallow, then with as much sympathy as you can possibly garner to suffuse into your tone, “I know. I’m sorry. It’s- it’s gonna take a little while to get used to.”

He doesn’t offer another response. You can tell you’ve upset him. The sepulchral cobweb of your iniquity latches itself to your heart. Dangles there.

The silence is fractured by you once again. You’d think to stay quiet after agitating a spider-like mutant and it did cross your mind when you deliberate on what subject to breach next but it does not curtail your curiosity in the slightest. “What about the woman? The one on your lock screen. Does she know?”

You presume from his earlier response that this is a sensitive topic, but he doesn’t look like he’s leaving anytime and if this is the catalyst to drive him out then so be it. But more importantly, you need an opiate to soothe the tenseness you have precipitated and fracture the silence sustained by him.

“Is she your mom? You know what they say about having a face only a mother can love,” you quip, and only a second later do you register that it might not have been in good taste. Not when he’s so beleaguered with his circumstances.

He huffs out a breath. You have difficulty discerning his mood. His fanged mouth does little to help you determine it.

You perk up when you see him pick up the pen. Then put it down. Then picks it up again, ruminating something over in his mind. This time it makes contact with the paper and he writes something. 

He scribbles out what he wrote frustratedly, then opts for something shorter and pertinent. It has nothing to do with the aforementioned woman. ‘Can I stay here?’

The frenzied brunt of his eight-eyed stare now implores you.

You hesitate. So much for getting rid of him. “I don’t have another bed.”

His whole body deflates, all six arms hanging down by his side. With a modicum of relief, you think that’s the end of it.

(**)

It is not the end of it. 

He’s ensconced himself in a secluded corner of your living room.

You had come home the following day after a shift, throwing off your shoes near the entrance before you finally caught sight of it; a viscous web woven in a thick intensity. It covers the expanse of the room, a blemish in your carefully constructed room. Thankfully, the furniture is still intact. 

He’s fabricated a silkweb hammock in your living room where the space is partially vacant save for an oak drawer chest that’s embellished with a small generic tray to carry your keys and an ornate ceramic vase that was old enough to be considered an antique, filled with artificial chrysanthemums. 

Your faculty for fright has been long abandoned, now existing in remnants of your subconscious. 

Unimpressed, you pivot toward Peter and glare at him. He cowers and under any other circumstance, it would have baffled you to see him shrink when he looks as terrifying as he does.

“What the hell?” You step forward to wrest it from the crevices of your wall. It ends up stuck to you. It’s practically an adhesive, you pull your hand away, prying the texture off your palm only for it to attach itself onto your other hand. You stare blankly at your hands then at Peter. “What the- get this shit off of me.”

He stands there, noir eyes gleaming in a way that could almost be considered endearing. There was only one prominent factor that keeps it from being as such. Well, two, really. One that you’re mad that he’s made a mess that you will not be cleaning up and two: his eyes are too creepy for that descriptor and no puppy dog-eyed look will be altering your disposition.

“Now, Peter.”

Immediately, he falls forward, gently taking your hand in his, and begins to peel the web off of you like it’s PVA glue. It does not adhere to him as it did you. You notice the other four arms lie dormant. He’s gotten better at repressing the movements.

It’s something you’ve noticed about him, he’s considerate enough to be gentle in spite of his occasional bouts of vigorousness.

You barely have time to acknowledge what he’s doing before you realize, your jaw drops, and exigency flits between the two of you, your voice raising in an unnerved octave. “What the fuck are you doing? Are you… oh my God, you are! You’re eating the web!”

Peter ceases in masticating the silk, looking at you like a scolded puppy. 

“No! Don’t look at me like that, why are you eating the web? Take that shit out of your mouth.” Naturally, this confounds you like it would anybody. Outside of the basic anatomy of a spider, you hadn’t even stopped to consider that Peter may have eventually begun to exhibit other odious characteristics.

His lips purse into a disgruntled little pout, the creases between each pair of eyes pinching together into four identical frowns.

“Get rid of this,” you demand, then quickly adding, “normally.”

Sulkily, he nods in swift agreement and begins to pull the webbing from where it is annexed to your wall with each of his hands. It takes him less than twenty seconds to get rid of all of it. 

You scrutinize the discarded webbing bunched up in his hands with minimal interest. “You can get rid of that- and don’t. Eat it. What the hell is wrong with you?”

He’s very agreeable, you think it has more to do with the fact that he wants to secure a temporary residence in your home until he has come to find a safe place to settle in his current plight. You still don’t know why he chose your place for respite, not when he has a family he can go to and confide in. Or perhaps, even that Doctor you spoke to on the phone yesterday. He could have been a more viable option than a complete stranger. 

“Do you have friends you can go to?” You forage for answers you don’t think he wants you to find.

He reluctantly nods his head.

“Oh… do they know?” 

He shakes his head no. 

Curiosity loops around you like a ribbon. You want to know about them. “What are they like?”

You half expect the subject to be orphaned immediately with how closed off he’s been with the lock screen wallpaper but Peter proves otherwise when he collects the notepad and pen he had recently used.

‘They’re great. I don’t think I can go to them like this. I already tried one of my friends and it didn’t go too well. He thought-’ This is scribbled out but you can easily distinguish what was written. He does it a lot. You like to think he speaks with a lot of verbal crutches with each pause between his sentences to facilitate comprehension and process his words before he articulates them. A possible rambler. These thoughts comfort you.

‘I don’t know, he must have thought I was trying to hurt him. I don’t blame him. I look like a monster. And I think I’m scared that my best friends would react the same.’

“Give them some credit,” you reply once you’ve ascertained that he���s finished writing. “I was scared too-”

He quickly scrawls something down. ‘I know. I-‘

“Wait, I’m not done,” you interpolate, “I was scared. Still am, I think. I don’t know. You’re a good person. They might be scared of you first but they’d get used to it. I’m just some person you saw, they’re your friends. It’ll be different with them. They know you best and you’ll show them that you’re not a monster. It’s still you.”

He’s taciturn for a deliberate lull in time, burdened in thought. The silence dangles down the filament of a web.

‘Thanks. I mean it, I promise. I don’t know if I can do it, but I’ll think about it. I think you’re right.’

A smile spreads across your lips like a slow sunrise. “Yeah, I know I am.” Then your smile falters and you sigh reluctantly. “I might have a spare mattress. Just for a while.”

His answering beam makes your extemporaneous decision worth it.

(**)

He’s started occupying himself with menial tasks around your apartment. There is nothing unorthodox with what he’s doing, but seeing a man with spider traits dry your dishes when you’ve just walked in is disconcerting, to say the least.

But, there isn’t going to be any cavilling on your part if he’s decided to do your chores. He’s strangely domestic but not thorough, once you had opened the door to your smaller coat closet to find a bunch of junk hastily shoved in a disorderly manner. You had to organize it yourself. His lack of precision for cleanliness aside, you soon realized that Peter was a phenomenal cook, a lot of his dishes were Italian but others were native to New York. And like any sane person, you used this to your advantage. He didn’t seem to have any reservations and you chalked it up to his need to please you to maintain a place in your residency. You would have let him stay either way.

It takes you a while to realize that he makes smaller portions as though to only feed one person, and let him know that he can use the ingredients you’ve got stockpiled in the kitchen for himself too.

He lifts his hand up to wave at you with his right hand, the only problem is that he’s got a plate in another one of his right hands and it opens right up like he’s forgotten all semblance of control he had exercised the previous night. You don’t think much of it, you must have caught him off guard. He manages to catch it before it hits the ground.

Quizzical amusement resides in the crest of your smile — it’s only there because he hasn’t dropped it.

“What did that doctor say to you? Did you find a way to turn back?” 

He brings out the notepad that he has now claimed as his own. You didn’t realize he carried it around.

‘I think so.’

“That’s good, right?” 

‘Yeah. It is.’

He writes something else down, then you hear the scruff of the pen vigorously scribbling out what was inscribed onto the paper.

“What was that?”

He startles like he wasn’t expecting you to ask, then slowly puts pen to paper in order to reply. ‘What was what? I didn’t say anything.’

“What you just scribbled out!”

‘Nothing. Just a-’ He fumbles around for an appropriate word before he lands on, ‘-typo.’

“A sentence long typo?” You inquire in dubious amusement.

He shrugs, then picks up the pen as if he’s been heavily contemplating something for a while now.

‘I need help.’

“With?”

‘I need you to call my Aunt. You asked me about her once. 

You suddenly feel nervous. Dr. Connors had been easy and you hadn’t known Peter very well then but you find that you want to be liked by this woman. What if she was horrible? The convivial image of her hugging Peter resurfaces into your head and you banish that thought. Her eyes had reflected a surfeit of love and warmth through that picture alone; you couldn’t imagine her being unkind to anybody.

Peter senses your apprehension and offers small clemency. ‘May’s nice, I promise. I know you didn’t like Dr. Connors, he’s not easy to get along with.’

You don’t want to but you take one look at the hopefulness shining in Peter’s eyes and come to the swift realization that you can’t say no to him even when there’s another alternative for him now. Your heart flutters with the soft susurration of butterflies against your ribcage. There’s something seriously wrong with you if looking at him precipitates this reaction. “Okay, do you want me to ring from your phone? What do you want me to say?”

He looks surprised at your acquiescence for a second. ‘I don’t know. On my phone? I didn’t think I’d get this far.’ He ruminates on this. ‘Tell her I’m safe. That I’ll be back at my apartment soon and I’ll promise I’ll come see her.’

“Okay,” you return, uncertainty laced in your tone. You pick up his phone, dialling May’s number. “Can’t believe you got me doing this shit for free.”

She picks up immediately, Peter’s name is uttered worriedly and your heart clenches up like a fist at the sheer desperation in her tone. Just how long had he been missing for? You look at him through your peripheral and answer her, “it’s not him. Sorry.” You take a deep breath. “He wants to let you know that he's okay, he’s safe-”

She cuts you off and a brief needling of irritation stabs at your nerves. “Is he there? Peter?” 

You look at him searchingly and he meets your eyes then nods his head definitively. ‘Tell her I’m here.’

“Yeah,” you say slowly, “he’s here. He can hear you.”

“Oh, thank God,” the relief is tangible. “Put him on, I need to-”

You falter, your annoyance ebbs away. “I don’t- he’s… he can’t talk right now.”

“I know, Peter,” she says first, then repeats herself with more emphasis. “I know. Of course, I know, you’re my boy. I’ve known you all my life. You think I wouldn’t be able to tell if something was wrong?”

You furrow your eyebrows, you think she’s talking about the quandary he’s in, but Peter’s already clarified that no one really knows his current state other than that doctor.

Peter looks at you beseechingly, imploring you to say something.

“He’s gonna come see you soon. He’s okay, I promise, he’s safe. He’s just dealing with a lot of stuff right now, that’s why he hasn’t been home. He needs you to trust him.”

“I do,” she replies with no hesitation. “I’m worried for him.”

“I know. He loves you, May, he’s made a promise to come back to you and he will. He’s just dealing with things right now, but he’s good.”

May’s reluctance is palpable. Understandably so. She wants answers. Who wouldn’t? Then finally, “I just need him back.”

You’re thinking about a hunch you have when you utter your next words. “He always comes back.” And you know, that in your heart of hearts, you’ve said the right thing.

(Peter Parker always gets back up).

(**)

‘I’m Spider-Man.’ He tells you one day — you’re both sitting down watching a movie one night. You’d come home early and for once it wasn’t because of what you thought Peter might be doing to your apartment but you had actually wanted to spend time with him. His company was pleasant and he was funny in a corny way that had you rolling your eyes whenever he would crack a joke.

“Oh, yeah. I know,” you reply without missing a beat.

‘What?!’ He punctuates this with another excessive amount of question marks just underneath it.

You roll your eyes, scooping up a handful of popcorn. “Do you remember that Batman movie where Bruce Wayne dipped for eight years and Batman also disappeared? For eight years. And then showed up as soon as billionaire Bruce Wayne did.”

He frowns, the pinch between his brows mirrors between all of his eyes. ‘That doesn’t prove anything, I could easily be someone else.’

“Sure you could, but you just told me you were.”

He blinks, then slumps back onto the couch, disappointment coloring his face. Poor guy. He was probably expecting more excitement. It’s not every day you have Spider-Man at your house. He was counting on his persona to be more arcane. ‘When did you figure it out?’

“A few days after you showed up to my apartment. You were watching the news about Spider-Man’s disappearance. And you were really into it. I just put two and two together.” A partial truth; the disappearance of Spider-Man had left New York in a flurry of panic, there had been statements from civilians imploring for the masked hero’s return which had rendered Peter hopeless to their pleas. You had not been able to stand the malaise that had seeped into his bones and contorted his features and promptly snatched the remote from him claiming that it was your turn to watch something since you had spent hours working. He had intoned a caveat from the confines of his throat and you had rolled your eyes and told him to sit his ass down. You had hoped that a change of channel would mean a change of mood, but the news had left Peter anomalously silent and perturbed.

‘Was it that obvious?’

Your lips curve into a smile and you go back to watching the movie.

He begins writing again. The silence must have been too much for him. ‘He kind of looks like me.’

“Who?” Your furrow your brows. “Spider-Ma- oh.”

He points at the screen.

“Tom Holland? You think you look like Tom Holland?” You press your mouth shut so you don’t laugh.

Peter immediately gets defensive, the noises of the pen are more frantic. ‘Yeah. Without the,’ he pauses then proceeds to finish his sentence, ‘eyes and stuff.’ He gets his phone out immediately after to show you the lock screen photo of himself that you’ve already seen.

“Mm. Sure,” you reply in a conciliatory manner.

He scrambles to find another picture to show you, then realizes he can’t actually use the phone and you burst into laughter. “Okay, okay. Relax. You look like Tom Holland. Happy?”

He pouts adorably, nose scrunching up and eight eyes narrowing at you. ‘No. You’re just saying it now.’

You laugh, leaning against one of his arms and he shies away from your touch as covertly as possible with a flushed face and two upturned corners of his mouth that curl into a wary boxy smile. You notice, clearing your throat and subtracting yourself from him. You don’t think much of it, he must not be comfortable with people touching him. Being stuck like this must have amplified this aversion to touch.

(**)

His cheeks are distended with a big bite of a bagel that he had unceremoniously shoved into his mouth, a pair of pearly white fangs peeking out from his mouth. His sets of eyes blink innocuously, sitting up straight on the couch.

You instantly know something is up.

His silence is telling. Peter was a talker, a rambler: he couldn’t help himself, it was in his nature, talking in circles. He makes no move to get out the notebook. His quietude is suspicious. 

“Peter,” you strive for nonchalance. “Have you seen a bottle of peppermint oil?”

Guilt weighs down on his features, his fingers twitch for a pen and you know that if he was capable of speaking, the apologies would have come pouring out. That or terrible falsities that he had no capability whatsoever in making them sound truthful.

You try again. “I’ve been using it for my arm — it’s been hurting.”

His head whips up to look at you then with wide, kitten-round eyes full of concern. Gotcha.

Hesitantly, he rises up from where he’s sat and ambles over to the window, then fixes you with a remorseful stare.

“You,” it doesn’t take you long to connect the pieces, mouth falling open incredulously. “You threw it away?!”

His hands raise up defensively. He grabs the notebook and writes something hurriedly. ‘Sorry! I thought you were just using it for,’ he struggles to come up with a word before settling on, ‘perfume.’

“Peter, I have perfumes that aren’t oils,” you explain. “Why would I need to use peppermint oil as a substitute?”

‘A change of scent?’

“No,” you intone dully.

‘I’m sorry.’

You sigh. “It’s fine, just don’t do it again.”

‘Does it hurt bad?’

Not really, just mild discomfort, but you kind of want to make him sweat a little. “Yeah. A lot.”

He looks like a wounded puppy. ‘I am so sorry. What can I do?’

“You can eat more for one,” you comment light-heartedly. “I notice you don’t eat even though I make food for the both of us. Don’t waste my efforts. And my ingredients. I’m buying so much now and you hardly use it for yourself.”

‘You don’t have to make me anything. You’re already doing enough by letting me stay here. I know I’m not-’ He doesn’t finish the sentence.

Your eyebrows knit into a tight frown, the annoyance you feel infiltrating through, it cusps the jagged edge of your voice. “Shut up. I’m not gonna stop feeding you because you feel weird about it.”

It renders him motionless.

“Doesn’t your body need more now?” You don’t wait for his reply, you don’t need to know, all you know is that you’ve hardly seen him eat something substantial. Everything is left untouched in your fridge even though you stock it more than usual now that you know there are two of you there. “Don’t say shit like that to me. Ask for more food if you want. What, do you snack on flies instead?”

His face screws up with a disgusted grimace and he shakes his head.

“No? Then eat what I give you at least. You don’t even make stuff for yourself when you’re the one that’s cooking.”

‘I don’t want to.’

You sigh, then lick your lips and nod. “Feed your body.” You look at him and repeat it again. “Eat for your body. You live in it, it holds you up, so treat it like the people you save. Treat it better than that, but if you don’t care about what you’re doing to yourself then think about the people who you do care about. I thought you were planning on going back as Spider-Man?” 

‘What if I can’t-’ he hesitates with the pen, ‘go back to how I was? They wouldn’t want saving if they saw me like this. I’m trying so hard to tell myself well, who cares what people think? As long as they’re safe I’ll be okay but it’s not true. I do care. I want them to feel safe too.’

“You’d still do it,” you say this with so much assurity because you wholeheartedly believe it. You keep your own thoughts about how they don’t deserve his altruism if his appearance was an encumbrance for them, to yourself. They could save their damn selves if that’s how their brains operated. See if they came out unscathed without the help of New York’s one and only Spider-Man. “That’s the type of person you are.”

You don’t know if anything is going through to him, you don’t even know if you’ve said the right thing. Ultimately, the choice is up to him and you know only he can decide where to go from there.

“There’s a city waiting for your return, Peter. We’ve both seen it.”

You can only hope for the best.

(**)

Over the past few weeks, you had gotten accustomed to the arachnidian presence in your home, whose geometry you had become so inured with that you no longer felt the exacerbating need to place him under your wary scrutiny.

“Um. Hi,” an eager, unfamiliar soft-spoken greeting reaches your ears. Peter gives you a minuscule, bashful wave with his many hands, his eyes honey-glazed and cocooned in warmth.

You, laden with ennui, pay it back without thinking, “Hey,” then saunter off to wash your face and apply a mask to rejuvenate after a long enervating day. Customers had been haranguing you and your fellow co-workers for hours upon end, a conveyance had gone awry and it all came back to the rest of you. The time spent on the phones to the crew of delivery men was perceived as a respite. At some point, the diatribes blended in with one another and you had managed to discount them with the imprecise collective statement you had given the customers who had flounced in earlier, exigently demanding for a detailed explanation that you did not yet have.

You stop in your tracks not even a second later. You walk back to where he is standing. 

“You spoke,” you state rather blankly, your sapped brain is processing this at the leisurely rate of honey drip. “That, or I’m more tired than I think.”

He beams, enlivened, forgetting that he is sharp-toothed. “No, you’re right- you’re right. I think what Dr. Connors is doing is really working for me.”

Your own smile is saccharine sweet, marmoreal teeth like tiny cubes of sugar. You like his voice — boyish and charming, finding that it suits him well. “Yeah? I’m really happy for you. Did he say how long it would take?”

“Not yet, but it shouldn’t be too long, right? My voice came back pretty soon, so,” he shrugs, his smile widens when he sees that you’ve returned it. He looks brighter, happier and it reflects in the terror-allure lustre of his black lenses.

“Did he focus on getting your voice back first?” You inquire, gladly indulging him in his excitement. “It is what you use the most, so it makes sense.”

“Uh, no, no… Not really. I think I just got lucky,” he replies, then scoffs out a self-effacing laugh. “Well, I think I would have liked it more if he could’ve gotten rid of… y’know, first, but beggars can’t be choosers.”

“I think it’s better this way, you can communicate easily,” you express openly and unabashedly. “I like your voice, it’s nice.”

“Oh,” this takes him off guard, red bestrews the apple of his cheekbones, circumscribing around his lower set eyes. “Thanks.”

“And here I thought spiders were supposed to be cold-blooded,” you tease, taken with the shade of color imbuing his skin.

“What- what is… what do you mean?” He’s either playing dumb or he hasn’t connected the dots just yet, your money’s on the former. That kind of confusion can’t be contrived so easily and you’ve found that Peter is somewhat earnest. He doesn’t want to lie if he can help it and on the rare occasion he does, he’s not very competent.

You laugh. “Nothing.”

He smiles back, though quizzically, as though he can’t help reciprocating it despite his confusion.

“What are you gonna do when you’re back to normal?”

His smile freezes then metamorphosing into indecisiveness and a scintilla of reluctance. “Uh, I don’t, I don’t know. See May? I know she’s been really worried about me and I’ve not been fair to her. And I wanna talk to her about something.”

You nod your head in agreement. When you had spoken to Peter’s Aunt a few weeks ago, your heart had ached for her, the desperation exuding through the phone was palpable and for a second you thought she knew about Peter’s predicament when she had told him she knew, but Peter had known otherwise. “I think you should. She deserves it.”

“This is— it’s kind of weird,” he begins, black lenses searching yours before he shakes his head. “I don’t know, it’s nothing, I’m just thinking about things too much. My brain is probably shrinking down to spider size.”

“It’s okay, you’ve had a weird couple of weeks. If things don’t make sense to you right now, you can always come back to them later,” you opine with a placating undertone.

“Yeah. Yeah, I guess.” He doesn’t sound very convinced, to you he sounds despondent. You can’t comprehend why.

“Are you okay?”

He offers you a conciliatory tight-lipped smile. “I’m fine. Thanks for helping me.”

There’s a lacunal omission — you do not press him further. You’ve learned that if he really wants to let you know, he will. 

“Do you wanna watch a movie?” You ask instead.

“Uh, yeah. Yeah, that sounds really nice,” he decompresses, the tension leaving his body like the air from a balloon. “Have you seen Star Wars?”

“Only the first one with John Boyega,” you say. “He’s pretty.”

Peter’s assent comes effortlessly, breathing out a laugh. “Yeah, he is. They messed up Finn in the other movies. I thought he was gonna be force-sensitive— I mean, they hinted at it- they hinted at it so many times and then they made him into, I don’t know, some kind of background character. I don’t know what they were thinking. He would have been so great if they did that.”

“It would’ve been cool if he was,” you concur. In all honesty, most of your information about Star Wars came from the internet.

“Did you- do you wanna watch the originals? They’re really cool— Oh! One of my friends had a Millenium Falcon. I uh, helped him build it, it was fun. It’s around seven thousand and five hundred pieces. They have instructions with it though, so anyone can do it.”

“Like a toy?” You question with a raise of an immaculately groomed eyebrow.

He deflates at this. “Yeah, it’s- yeah. I guess.”

“Cute,” you remark with a smirk. “You’re a little spider nerd.”

He straightens up defensively. “What! No! I’m cool!”

Your lips widen into a teasing grin. “Sure.”

“I mean it,” he insists. “I am!”

“Mm.”

“Okay, what do you like to do?” He asks, his cute little baby face pinching into a scowl.

You recline back, surveying him with an amused expression. “Take a wild guess.”

He ponders on this. “Clothes?”

You tilt your head to the side, glancing at him through your peripheral vision. “Right on the money. I like fashion.”

“That’s—” He is rummaging his brain for something to taunt you with. It’s only fair. He gives up when he can’t find anything, collapsing back onto the couch. “—so cool. That is so cool. That is so not fair.”

You laugh, tipping your head back on the soft plush of the couch. He always stares at you, lovelorn, when he thinks you’re not looking. Look at me.

“Face it, I’m just way cooler than you,” you sigh dramatically. “Wait. I wanna show you something.” You climb off the couch and run off into your room only to emerge a minute later with a heavily embellished scrapbook. You jump back onto the couch with a little bounce, bringing up a leg and sifting through the pages before you find what you’re looking for.

Peter ardently watches the animated eagerness displayed openly on your face.

“Look.”

He nods, a little dazed, still looking at you.

You roll your eyes, shaking the book a little. “At this, dummy.”

He snaps out of his reverie to see a page full of shades of purple matching the compilation of pictures and neatly printed words accompanying it. He doesn’t get it, but it looks nice and you look excited over it.

“It’s nice.”

“It’s got one of my favorite runways. Naomi Campbell in Versace. I want this dress so bad,” you smile mischievously at Peter. “And the gun.”

“You’d look great in it. Gun included. As long as it’s not being pointed at me, I can make an exception.”

“Oh, Spider-Man can make an exception, huh?” You regurgitate teasingly. “Lucky me.”

“I’ve had a lifetime's worth of guns shoved in my face, I don’t need another one.”

“Still not used to it?” You tease and he gives you a pointed look.

You subside into quietude, the sound from the television lulling you into a sense of security, ghosts of smiles echoing on your countenances. You both recall the night with the insides of your cheeks bitten. The full force of the smiles kept hidden in the recesses of your mouths.

“It is fun,” he quietly says later, when you’re in the middle of the first Star Wars movie. “We should- we should try it.”

“I know, I was just playing.” You’re silent for a moment. “Yeah, I’d like that.”

(**)

There’s a melancholic shift in the atmosphere.

Peter’s been having sleepless nights. He roams around your apartment like a ghost — a diaphanous, white memento. 

You can’t fault him for his restlessness; it’s been a couple of days since his last meet-up with Dr. Connors with nothing to show for it. He doesn’t say much, he considers the contents of these meetings surreptitious, even insignificant. They regard his own physical state but he speaks of them in such a dismissive manner. His mood dampens and he offers only polite, perfunctory responses when you bring it up, eager to orchestrate the subject to something light-hearted.

It was then you began to concoct assumptions. These conjectures were not all bad, not to you, but you knew that Peter wanted to return back to his normal state.

“Can we talk? I need to talk to you. I think,” he says one night when you’ve gotten up from your room for a midnight snack (it’s 2:34am but anything between 12am and 4am is categorized as midnight) and a glass of water.

“You think?” You question sardonically with a raised eyebrow, tiredly swiping away at the dregs of sleep from under your eyes.

“Just. Listen to me. Please,” he implores and your features rearrange into something accommodating to show him you are. You are listening. You sit down next to him, setting your glass down on one of the cup mats.

“Okay. I’m listening.”

“Uh, so… Dr. Connors offered me a place to stay,” he admits finally.

“Oh.” You don’t know what to say. This divulgence of his leaves you with lead lodged into your throat. You realize you do not want him to leave.

“I know you want- want me out of here.”

You do not refute this empirical statement because it was true. You had wanted him out of your apartment. He had stood in your doorway and ruined your peace, had the temerity to ask you to let him stay with you. He had terrified you so deeply that night — to the point of paralyzation, then vexed you another and you had still grown to enjoy his company, still developed feelings for him. But at one point you had been afraid of him. So you hear him out.

“I said no to him,” he continues.

This augments your mangled train of thought. You were a stranger to him, he had not known of you before that night. It did not make sense for Peter to reject such an offer. “Wouldn’t you feel more comfortable with him than someone you didn’t know?”

“He- um, he asked me recently,” he interjects.

“I don’t understand,” you confess, at last, then startle when you see all eight of his stygian-black lenses filled with unshed tears. “Why are you crying, Peter?”

“I don’t know,” he chokes out. “It really hurts.”

Your heart aches. This love does not kill you, but it feels like it is. His presence is a hot knife. “What can I do?”

“I feel, I feel like- I know what you think of me.” You don’t think it’s what he wants to say — it’s in his frustrated disposition, directed entirely at himself for not getting straight to the point but it comes out of him anyway. “You’re scared of me. Like this.”

You hold back the obvious proclamation of: well, you are a giant man-spider. “I’m not, not anymore.”

“Yeah,” he nods, abdicating himself from this conversation. “Okay.” You refuse to let it happen. You’re tired of him withholding things he wants to say to you. You want it straight. 

“Don’t do that. Let things out, you don’t have to worry about saying the wrong thing,” you tell him, as casually as you can — you don’t want to pressure him if it’s upsetting him this much, but you still want something. 

“I just want you to look at me.” There is so much longing in his voice that his heartstrings may as well be yours. His tug and yours gravitate towards him with the momentum. His thoughts come out as fragments and you do your best to fix them together.

“I am. I’m always looking at you.” You should know, you’re always looking at me too.

A trickle of sentiment escapes at this, then siphons out all at once like he’s poured too much out and he can’t stop it, words toppling out.

“If I looked like- If I didn’t have the, y’know,” he can’t even begin to bring himself to say it and opts for an easier way out so he doesn’t humiliate himself any further, “I don’t even know what I’m trying to say, I just don’t want you to be afraid of me.”

You think he does know what to say. The words just won’t come out right, cloaked in that fear of rejection.

“Peter, I’m not afraid of you.” You shuffle closer to him. “I haven’t been afraid of you in a long time.”

“I like you,” he blurts out, then looks frustrated with himself. “And that’s still not what I want to say…” He trails off.

You can’t stop the laugh of relief that seeps out of you and Peter winces, misconstrues it for you laughing at him.

“You’re so dumb,” you say.

He says nothing. He’s already bolstered himself for your rejection. There was no reason for someone like you to settle for someone like him and certainly not as he was now. He was expecting it but it didn't stop the hurt — this sharp incensed fireplace poker twisting in his chest. Hearing the words from you were an unutterable pain, thicker than any grief. 

This lovelorn heart of his may kill him.

You laugh again, disbelief and above all, relief, thick in your voice.

“I get it, you can stop,” he says quietly, voice piano-string tight. “Just forget I ever said anything.” He takes a deep finalizing breath. “I’m gonna… I’m gonna take Dr. Connors up on that offer.”

Your face screws up confusedly. “What?”

Peter looks pained. “I don’t think I can stay here. It’s not good for me.”

“I don’t want you to leave,” your admittance comes easily, your honesty imbibed into the depths of your cadence. “We both like each other, I don’t understand why you want to suddenly leave.”

Bewilderment addles his features, eyes widening. “Oh. Um… I don’t—”

He tilts his head to the side, confused.

The misunderstanding belatedly registers in your mind and your own features smooth out.

He points to the ground with his forefingers as if he’s grounding himself to reality. He’s discombobulated enough for the rest of his arms to follow suit as though he’s lost the ability to coordinate once more. “What is happening right now? Like, what are we talking abo-”

“Peter?” You grin.

“Yeah?”

“Shut up.”

“Yeah, yep. Shutting up.”

Five seconds haven’t even passed before he pipes up again. “Just for um, y’know, clarity, does this mean we’re… together? Like, we can kiss and uh, stuff?”

“Peter!” You exclaim in a playfully scandalized tone, creating a scene for simulated shock. “It hasn’t even been a minute and you’re already thinking about sex?”

His defensive eruption comes out like a volcanic explosion, a mottling of red clambering onto his pale skin. “No— that’s not— no! Stop. That’s not what I said.”

“That’s not what I said. Stop!” You mock him with an exhilarated laugh, a myriad of butterflies fluttering about in the pit of your stomach. Happiness is a ray of sunlight spilling over you. You want to stay in this warm spot for the rest of eternity.

(**)

Your head is primly set on Peter’s lap, attentively listening to him ramble about the intricacies of ancillary abilities and their potential. He talks about how many people he could help on a larger scale, how much easier and undemanding it would be now that he’s better. It’s the first time he’s described himself as better. Your heart swells. He’s filling it up to the brim, producing so much love you don’t know you’ll ever be able to contain it. It always fits though. You know your heart will always accommodate with how much fondness you hold in your heart for him.

“I used to call them web-shooters. You would attach them onto your wrists and you’d be good to go,” he explicates the semantics of said shooters while massaging your scalp. “So this is kind of an upgrade? I dunno, I think it’s pretty cool! It’s so much easier than refilling cartridges and carrying them around. What if I run out during a fight? It’s happened before, and ever since I’ve been making sure to refill them before I head out but sometimes I can’t, y’know? Like, I’ll forget or I won’t have the chance-”

You could listen to him for hours. You really could, but you know that given the chance, Peter would end up talking for days straight. “Can I see?”

Eyes wide. “Wait, really? It’s… kinda gross, so you don’t have t-“

Your lips wreathe into a fond smile when you look at him in the eyes, your own flitter across his face so you can see all of them. “I want to.”

His lips curl up and he agrees. “Okay.” Holding up one of his arms he scans the room for something to latch onto. There’s an imperceptible angling of his wrist, a thin viscous web comes out in a thin density compared to the others you had seen and clutches at a bottle of perfume that’s nearly emptied out.

Delight eclipses you, followed by a shriek of laughter.

It falls into his hand with ease and he gives it a little shake from side to side to show off his little talent and then settles it onto the table in front of you.

“Cool. Get something bigger. Get that,” you point at a water flask.

He grins, a pleasant flush imbues the apples of his cheeks. “Maybe later.” Tentatively, he slips his hand in yours, all of the others itching to follow suit. “Is this- is this okay?”

You grasp onto another one and tug him down, your mouth ghosts the sculpt of his jawline, lips marrying the flesh there imperceptibly. Peter’s eyes flutter shut and his hand tightens around yours, keeping you warm and safe.

(**)

He’s not here. The panic is gradual; it creeps up on you like an insect, taking root in your core. Your endeavor to corral your thoughts fails, your mind is being sent into overdrive by one singular thought: Peter is not home.

His outings had always been covert, it was difficult to commute to wherever this tower was in broad daylight, so he’d always be around the apartment, probably bored out of his mind and entertaining himself with whatever you had laying around. Which admittedly was not enough for his active mind. He’d taken to writing down a bunch of formulas that were beyond your comprehension. It had not occurred to you that his intellect would be off the charts. It was honestly entertaining to know that he was so smart but still lacked common sense.

You will yourself to regain your composure, he was safe. He had to be. Nobody would be stupid enough to pick a fight with an arachnidian mutant. You think about the people of New York and quickly this train of thought is abandoned and in its place worry begins to fester.

You go to your kitchen and promptly you are mollified with the sight of a sticky-note on your fridge.

Hi. I think Dr. Connors has something. I’ll be back soon. 

There are a bunch of scribbles where you can barely descry the writing — you grin; he had struggled over what valediction to use before he settled on signing it off with his name and emoticons to soften the message. You find that this mental image is terribly endearing.

Peter :) <3

Then in a much smaller print: P.S. Hope your day was good. Can’t wait to hear about it when I get back.

You leave the sticky-note where it is, now lax with relief, walking out of the kitchen and spotting Peter’s notepad on the table. You pick it up, flipping through the pages of the conversations you’ve had with him, a soft smile pulling at your lips. There are a few arbitrary notes too, essentially conversations he’s been having with himself that he can’t type into his phone anymore. Much like the earlier epistle, a lot of them are endearing.

Dinner. Delmars? Chinese food? Note to self: Google nice restaurants when your fingers work.

Take pictures. Need my camera :(

Sight-seeing. No, that’s dumb, she’s a local. Unless with webs? When I’m back to normal. Ughhhhh!!!

MJ would like her. After offending her accidentally. Talk to MJ first…? No, MJ can’t shut up around pretty girls either.

You flip through a couple more conversations you’ve had with him, and then you stop on a page that has your heart pounding so hard you can feel it in your ears. It’s your name, written over and over again. 

There’s nothing else that accompanies it, no hidden essence, but you know what it means. You feel his tender yearning through the text and it fills you with an unfiltered, moon-large pure emotion.

You spend the next few hours dreaming of a boy with beetle-black eyes.

(**)

Your window is ajar, the cluster of pale stars glowing in the night sky.

Not only that but the lock is now broken and a good portion of your apartment is in disarray like a mini-tornado had taken your furniture and spat it back out again in various alcoves nowhere near the original positioning. You were a worst-case scenarist but this strangely does not worry or irritate you in the slightest, instead, it fills you with a semblance of hope. This hope is an opiate for your heart and a thought drifts to you like a pillowy cloud. The first clear thought in days: Peter.

It could have been anyone, and it should have been a worrying thought but not hearing from him had left you clutching at splintered shards of optimism within you.

The door to the spare room is tightly shut, evening light pilfering from underneath it, you close the distance between yourself and the room, twisting the doorknob, someone pushes it shut from the other side in a flurried panic. You hear the discordance on the other side, something falls, then shuffling and you hear a crash.

“Peter?”

You hear more subdued shuffling from the other side of the door. A subsequent bang reverberates through your apartment. You flinch back at the unexpected sound.

“I’m opening the door,” you announce tentatively, then walk into a winter-white room. He had made a spider lair of your spare room, consisting of thick, impenetrable webs. If you thought the web hammock was disorderly, this was enough to send your brain haywire. Just the thought of cleaning it up precipitated the beginnings of a painful migraine.

Then you look at Peter, he’s curled in on himself, arms wrapping around his head protectively and your ire dwindles to its last thread.

“Oh.” It’s all you can say and you rush over to him, falling to your knees, attempting to pry his arms from himself. He makes an inhumane noise to voice his refusal and your heart seizes up at his interception. 

It didn’t work. Any progress that was made was lost and he was back to where he had started.

Slowly, once he comes to the realization that you won’t be leaving, he evinces himself, all four pairs of eyes pinched into a defensive glare. Your eyes fall to the chelicerae that blend into his maw. He senses your pitiful look and they twitch in response. They’re an extension of his skin, the same color, dappled with the same light consistency of freckles as the ones on his cheeks.

His mouth is slightly ajar, fangs elongated, lips lacquered with the drool that is now pooling onto your floor.

You shiver involuntarily and his anguish becomes palpable. He’s expecting an avalanche of incursions.

What you do next is without an ounce of hesitation, your hands reach for him and cradle his cheeks, your lower palms rest on his twitching chelicerae. “It’s okay. It’s okay.” Using one sleeve, you wipe away the excess drool. Your sleeve comes out half-drenched. “I’ve got you.” You give him a once over to make sure he isn’t hurt, then your hand returns to his cheek.

He leans into your touch without reserve, eight eyes sliding shut, the coolness of your hands serving its purpose as an alleviating balm for his skin and his irate nerves.

“Do you want me to call someone?” 

He doesn’t register the question, its inquisitive nature disregarded. He’s focusing solely on your tone, determining your cataloged moods intrinsically like it’s the only thing he knows how to do.

“Peter?” You prompt again, voice as fragile as gossamer, tucking back a few of his locks back that had escaped due to his exertion. “What do you need?”

He nuzzles deeper into the softness of you then hisses in pain and subtracts himself from you. Your eyes vetting him worriedly, roaming over each inch of his face to find the source of his distress. “What’s wrong?”

He stretches his mouth open in response, your eyes are drawn to the fangs. He repeats this motion and you mirror his action and point to your own teeth. 

“Your teeth? They hurt?” You prod for an answer you know you’re not going to receive, your hand outstretched to hold his face again and he slinks back, closing his mouth shut.

“Hold on.” You move to get up and Peter formulates a sound that resembles a whine. “Just give me a second.”

You leave your room only to come back a few moments later, a tube of dental gel clasped in your hand. You’re not sure if this would mitigate the pain for him, but it’s worth a shot. 

“Peter.” He looks up at you, recognizing his own name. You take this as a good sign. He had the capacity to feel and compartmentalize your emotions through tone.

“Open your mouth.” You open your mouth in demonstration, unscrewing the cap of the gel and setting it down to the side. He reflects the movements with his own mouth, holding it open. You use this opportunity to climb into his lap carefully so as to not alarm him, all three sets of arms wrapping around your waist, swathing you into an embrace.

His voice resonates low in the parlor of his chest.

“Yeah, I know, baby,” you return his hug, hesitantly detangling yourself from him a few seconds after. “I gotta put this on you though, your teeth are hurting your mouth, right?” You open your mouth again and he regurgitates this motion obligingly. He’s strangely complaisant for all of the theatrics he had displayed so far. “That’s it,” you croon softly, “good boy.”

You squeeze out a substantial amount of gel onto your thumb, anointing a thin layer of it onto the surface of his gums. You prudently survey his face for his reaction and watch his face contort discontentedly but otherwise allows you to continue your application.

He closes his mouth around your thumb, you can’t hold back your smile at this, you tap your thumb in his mouth as best you can. “Stop it. Ah. Open it.”

He opens it and the second you move he closes it again. His eyes coruscate and that’s when you pinpoint that he’s doing it deliberately.

You grip his chin firmly in one hand, your lips quirk up into a smirk. “Uh-uh. Stop playing with me.” You give his cheek a light admonishing tap with two of your fingers. The chelicerae twitch almost playfully. You retract your thumb that is now lacquered in spit and make an exaggerated pageantry of disgust. “That’s nasty, your spider drool is all over me.”

Slowly, you rub the gel into the gums around the root of the fangs. When you turn your gaze to him, he’s already looking at you.

(**)

You dial Dr. Connors’s number to ascertain the details of what exactly had happened. It did not make any sense, the progress seemed so efficient. You had both shared your exultation with each other at the development and were so sure that the process of amelioration could only increase from there. Not once did you mull over the fact that whatever Dr. Connors had been administering could have been detrimental to Peter’s state.

“Hello,” the sense of urgency bleeds into your voice the second he picks up. You do not give him a chance to exchange greetings or pleasantries. Not that you think he would. You had only had one conversation with Dr. Connors and it had been curt and concise. “What’s happening to Peter?”

Disbelief coats his voice. “He’s there? He’s with you?”

“You didn’t know?”

“He refused to tell me,” a beat. “We have… history.”

You don’t know what to make of that, so you settle on a vague statement, “You sound old.”

He deadpans, unimpressed with your conjecture. “He was a student of mine.”

“Not helping your case.” You feel a little vindictive and if you were in the mood you would have even enjoyed being the catalyst of his fraying patience. 

“My point is,” he emphasizes sternly, fed up with you already. Good, you think to yourself. “He pushed past his impulses and isolated himself in a safe environment, but it won’t be like that for long.”

A safe environment. The thought makes the seeds bloom into fully blossomed flowers in the garden of your svelte heart.

“Okay, so what do we do from here?”

“There’s not much we can do.”

“What?” It renders you numb and lifeless. The room seems to swelter, tearing at every nerve ending, leaving you feverish. You shake your head, irritation overtaking you. “You said— you said you could fix it and you just made it worse!”

“No,” he says carefully, coming to the realization that Peter did not have this conversation with you. “I didn’t. Peter knew the risks.”

Your anger metamorphoses into confusion. “How could he have known? He wouldn’t have gone through with it if he did.”

“As smart as he is, people don’t always think things through when they’re desperate.”

What he’s saying is slowly starting to make sense to you but you are still incensed and therefore not capable of having this level-headed conversation with his calm and collected self. Besides he had the time to take in this information, you didn’t. “You didn’t even stop him?”

“He would have done it with or without my help — it was better to observe him than to leave him to his own devices. And,” he’s reluctant in his admittance. “He helped me many times even when I didn’t deserve it. I wanted to return the favor.”

“So what? You’re giving up on him? What dumb fucking serum were you working on if all it did was reverse the process? You’re a shit doctor.”

The line is silent, Dr. Connors doesn’t take the bait. “It happened to me too,” he divulges after careful deliberation. “It’s an irreversible process.”

“Something worked for you. It’ll work for him too,” you insist. “You have to try. I don’t know what Peter did for you, but you have to return the favor.”

He relents with a deep, beleaguered breath. “Okay.” You hear him move around. “Will you be able to neutralize him if it comes down to it?” He speaks on the subjugation of Peter with such ease and you take umbrage to this, brows furrowing at the insinuation.

“What?” You question sharply, rose-stem spine straightening up as though you wield a blade in your center. “Why are you talking about him like that?”

“So, that’s a no,” he remarks casually to himself.

You’re incensed by his insouciant reply, your blood red-hot and violent. “You-” Your voice is strangled. “Fuck you.” You move the phone away from your ear and hold the speaker near your mouth, vitriol infusing into your tone like poisonous spider venom, your eyes burn, and your voice cracks. “Fuck you. Fuck you. Stay away from him.”

You hang up and throw your phone onto the couch and you cry, long, loud and hard, a never-ending circle of sorrow.

You don’t know how to help him.

(**)

You’ve surrendered to this revelation; you and Peter were in need of succour. It’s been a few days but you notice that Peter’s state is deteriorating, whatever is happening to him is affecting him more deeply than you realize. With a resigned sentiment, you know what you have to do. If you had a better option you would have already gone down that route, but you didn’t know who you could trust with this information. Even the only person you could turn to was considering the probability of Peter becoming something he’s not. A distorted carcass of what he used to be.

He’s the only option you’ve got and it’s why you made the pre-emptive choice to call him over. If you didn’t have so much on your mind, you’d have questioned him about why Peter never disclosed the location of where he was residing for the time being, especially if there was a possibility that things could go downhill. Which they have. It would have been useful for both of them.

Something to ask Peter if he… this train of thought is truncated immediately. No. You would not dwell on the negatives.

The potential ramifications of calling Dr. Connors over are not lost on you, you’re keeping every conjecture in mind. It’s not good for you, it’s leading you into overthinking. You regret it one second, but then convince yourself you didn’t have any other choice the next.

You’re soon met with the austere face of a bespectacled middle-aged white man in a suit, a hefty aluminium briefcase in hand. If you hadn’t liked the man over the phone, meeting him in person had solidified this scorn. So, he had a face to match his rude telephone manner. Sure, he might have been a busy man, but if he could be rude then you would reciprocate and on top of that, all that nonchalant talk about Peter set you on edge, gloss-lacquered lips stretch back, teeth bared into a defensive snarl.

You survey him with distaste and he soon becomes fatigued by your acrid scrutiny, sighing, “are you going to let me in?” You almost say no to be petty, but move out of the way.

“I have some rules before I’m even letting him in your sight,” you state resolutely.

“Rules,” he regurgitates, unamused. He considers this for a moment.

“There’s no choice. It’s not a question,” you interpolate.

“Okay, let me hear these… terms,” he relents, setting the briefcase down onto the table. His eyes linger on a notepad, promptly you swipe it up, away from his prying eyes. He shoots you an exasperated look, but directs his attention elsewhere.

“You don’t do anything to hurt him, I don’t care what he does, you don’t touch him other than helping him. Got it?”

“He wouldn’t agree with that term if it means he could hurt someone,” he points out reasonably.

“I don’t care,” you cut him off. You know his morality would never allow another person to be hurt in his stead. Peter was selfless and you did not have to be acquainted with his masked alter-ego to be vigilant of this empirical truth. “He can argue about it when he’s back to normal.”

Connors opens his mouth in protest.

You feel sick to your stomach, you want him to shut up and agree with you. His refutations and ambivalence are making you more anxious than you already were. Your mouth trembles, your heart hammers in your chest. If anything happens to Peter you think you could kill him. With a terrifying clarity, you know you mean it. You really mean it. 

“Shut up. I don’t care, I don’t care.” You’re painfully aware that this is being said with a brand of petulant scorn singular to a child but you don’t know what else to say to get through to him. “As long as he’s okay, I don’t care about what he does.”

He looks at you like he wants to murder you after you interrupt him, jaw clenched. The thought of Peter having friends in high places — or heroes — passes your mind but you have not deemed this feasibility as pertinent and brush it off. You weren’t going down without a fight. Even if he did have powers as Spider-Man did.

Then as if catching himself, his features rearrange into something that teeters the line of complacency. A calmer surrogate. “What would Peter say about that?” He goads. The remnants of his anger are prominent.

There’s a tempest in your blood that needs quelling. “I’ll just let him hate me. I can live with that.”

“Can you?”

“If it means he’ll be okay.”

“You’ve only known him as the monster he is.” His voice sounds distracted, submerged in despondency that you do not have the capacity to care for. Not after all that he’s said. Not right now.

“No. I’ve known him as a human. You… He’s clinging onto it. You can feel it too. You wouldn’t be here,” your features smooth out once you’ve said it out loud. Your period of lucidity stretches on with this realization. “You know it too. He’s different from the rest of us.”

“Yes,” he finally agrees. “He is. His resolve is better than mine was.”

You are circumspect in accepting his help, but you do anyway. What more could you do? You were not acquainted with the influential people affiliated with Spider-Man nor were you a scientist or doctor of great prestige. You could claim to protect him all you wanted but for how long. How long could you keep convincing yourself that you could shield him from the adversities? He couldn’t stay cooped up in your apartment forever, Peter had friends and family who were and still are looking for him.

Above all, you realize, albeit begrudgingly, that Connors is right. You’d known it before he came over, but giving him the option to put Peter’s life in jeopardy felt wrong. You wanted to know that he’d do everything he could before he even stopped to consider that. 

“Yeah,” you yield. “Yeah, okay.” 

It does not absolve him of your scrutiny. You intend to follow through on your promise if anything happens to Peter.

When you bring him, you hope you have not sent him to his death.

Connors is cold and clinical, any and all amiability that was extended to you is thrown out of the window. His words are few and he looks at Peter like he doesn’t even know him.

His communication with you, however, is unanticipated. He lets you know the procedure as if you were the one who was transfiguring into a giant spider.

“I’m going to sedate him,” he states.

You look at Peter, who blinks at you, oblivious to what’s happening. Your lips press into a line and your eyes close shut, your reply caustic, “Sure, pick an arm. Any arm.” You hold one of Peter’s hands, intertwining his fingers with yours, allowing the sedative to run its course.

“Have you ever heard of the Lizard?” Connors inquires quietly after a transitory period of silence. He picks up a vial with a translucent liquid filled halfway. 

“Yeah, the Bugle was all over that even when-” It’s like a lock clicking into place. ‘It happened to me too.’ You’re stunned into silence, mouth parted in shock. “You’re him.” 

“Yes,” he replies.

You gather your wits, scattered thoughts aggregating on top of each other. “I don’t- I don’t understand. Why would he go to you? You were- there was a fight.” You’re on edge, you’re not sure what you’ve done. How were you going to get Peter out of this? You school your features into a blank stare at the arm that was administered with a sedative.

Connors doesn’t need you verbalizing your thoughts. “You don’t have to worry about me doing anything. If anything, you should worry about what he’s going to do.”

“Oh, I’m sorry for the fucking skepticism, you just told me you were one of New York’s most infamous villains and not to mention his,” you make a wild, frenzied gesture at Peter, “enemy. He’s done nothing to hurt anyone. He came here. What the fuck did you do? You- you went on a rampage.”

“I know what the Liza- what I did,” he hisses, acerbic, “and I’m trying to stop Peter from repeating the same mistakes.”

“He won’t,” you insist and you wholeheartedly believe in him not to. “You wanted to turn people into whatever it was that- you know what, I don’t wanna do this. Go into the other room, I don’t want to see you near him until he’s awake.”

It’s something he heeds and the dearth of his presence makes the room more bearable and allows you to collect your thoughts and you didn’t know if the Lizard was dormant inside of him, waiting to be unleashed but you had realized that Connors was trying and that’s probably the reason why Peter had seeked him out in the first place.

He stays for two full days, occupying your couch for most of the time he spends at your apartment. Connors doesn’t sleep much, the light of his laptop reflecting onto his glasses. He doesn’t hide anything from you, the utilitarian contents of his work would have left you none the wiser and you suspect that he’s aware of the matter. You ask him about the things you see, he answers. The exchange is comprehensible and straightforward. 

Peter vanishes after a while. In actuality, you are grateful for his disappearance, it means that Connors no longer has a need to stick around and you’re no longer on the precipice of trepidation every single time you see him inject an unknown serum directly into his bloodstream.

Connors asks you if Peter has ever come back and you tuck your hands into the pockets of your jacket, clutching at a freshly written note, your lifeline, and tell him that you haven’t. 

His visits eventually dwindle down to none.

(**)

Spider-Man’s return is a front-page headline and the relief you feel is draped atop of you like French silk strung up on a clothing line, wind-stung and airy. You leave the news on as background noise while you fold the soft linens peacefully, tucking them safely into an unoccupied drawer. The sun is at its zenith. Your steps around your apartment are fairy-light, unencumbered.

He is safe for now, thwip, thwip, thiwpping around New York to take the brunt of its problems. To face danger head-on. 

Spider-Man gets back up. Spider-Man returns. Spider-Man saves the day.

[someone-to-watch-movies-with]

Why I’m angry: shock value is not tragedy

Tragedy is an ancient form of storytelling, and I was personally hoping for a real tragic end to Killing Eve. Specifically, I was looking forward to a good cry after some variation on a Romeo and Juliet ending. I say this to emphasize that I have no problem with Eve or Villanelle dying if it makes sense for the story and leaves me with a feeling of catharsis. But this ending was mere shock value, with none of the elements you see in tragic storytelling.

In a real tragedy, the hero’s downfall is caused by their own tragic flaws and events they set into motion. What flaw of Villanelle’s led to her death? Wanting freedom from the 12 who had stolen much of her life? Wanting to change and become something new? Loving Eve? Are we to believe the writers see queer love as a tragic flaw? 

I and many others are angry because Villanelle dies for what seems to be no coherent reason at all. It’s not glorious or operatic. It’s not romantic. It’s not a noble sacrifice. It’s not redemptive. It’s arbitrary and abrupt, with no greater meaning for our heroines. This ending is just bullets cutting them down at the moment of triumph out of a sadistic cruelty toward the audience.

Carolyn has no coherent motive to have Villanelle killed, at least none that is shared with the audience. We might assume Konstantin’s note says Villanelle killed Kenny, but the audience and Carolyn know from Season 3 that Kenny was killed by Konstantin. Eve even calls Carolyn out on knowing who killed Kenny in the finale when they meet at the pub. There was CCTV of Konstantin in the building just before Kenny’s death, and Konstantin confessed he was there but it was an accident that Kenny died. Carolyn spared Konstantin at the last moment because she loved him, and that’s all there is to it.

Furthermore, even if Villanelle had killed Kenny, why would Konstantin implicate her in the murder? Konstantin loved Villanelle like a daughter and would not have wanted to bring Carolyn’s vengeance down on her. Making her the killer would undermine V’s whole arc in Season 3 about not wanting to kill anymore. Nothing in her reactions and body language in the Season 3 finale scene where Konstantin faces execution suggest she played a part. For these and other reasons, it doesn’t work as a retcon to make Villanelle the killer. Villanelle did not kill Kenny.

So even though it might seem like the information in the note should be a catalyst for what Carolyn does, the contents are not revealed to the audience and the thing we would most easily assume (about V killing Kenny) doesn’t make sense. The note then just serves as a MacGuffin to bring Pam to Carolyn so she has somebody to monologue to in the finale.

The only plausible motive we’re left with is the fact she wants to get back in the good graces of MI6. She tells Pam she is homesick for MI6, but that, “you don’t go back to MI6 emptyhanded.” WTF? Why? In the words of Eve, For what?

Carolyn is a sloppy mess of a character with no coherent motives throughout the entire series. From what we know, these are at least some of her past flip-flops:

(1) Young Carolyn is British intelligence, infiltrating the 12.

(2) Sometime later she defects to Russia. We know this because we hear from Vlad in S4 about how angry his colleagues are over her betraying the Russians the last time they worked together. That’s why they leave rats in her flat: a rat for a rat.

So she (3) must've returned to the MI6 fold. Maybe she was with Konstantin during this period (2-3)? Surely this would be explored in the spin-off (but fuck you SWG, I’m not watching!).  So anyway she went back to MI6 and that's where she is when we meet her in Season 1.

(4) During S4 she's back with the Russians, in that terrible flat containing the rat smell. Why? It never seems to make much difference  to anything that happens except to setup that 30 second chat with Hugo in the finale about his girlfriend being a spy.

(5) In the finale she's fucking over Villanelle to get back in with MI6 for the third time.

Carolyn clearly gives no fucks about national allegiances. So why is she going to kill Villanelle, a person who she was BFFing around Havana with earlier this season, just to get back into the good graces of MI6? A group she’s already defected from at least twice?

There is no plausible story explanation for what happens, so it’s not tragedy. We cannot feel catharsis because there’s no way to connect these events to the flaws and actions of our heroines.

Villanelle is just dropped dead by some bullets from the sky for no reason whatsoever. She had no agency in what happened to her. That’s shock value, not tragedy, and I’m so tired of sadistic self-aggrandizing writers thinking their work merits the “tragedy” label just because it causes the audience pain. 

[ddarker-dreams]

Darling Fighting to Escape Yan Childe / HCs.

Warnings: Yandere themes, minor character death, and unhealthy relationships. Note: good luck to everyone pulling for the whale boy !! let us celebrate his rerun with some hcs. (reposted due to it not showing in tags).

Childe:

It would be an event that Childe gradually works up to. He’s already confiscated your Vision — and your weapon by extension — so you’re reduced little more than a declawed cat. You can hiss and curse at him, but that’s the extent of your resistance in this current state. That’s when you notice certain things out of place. A door inconspicuously left open there, a weak lock in usage there.

He wants to see how you’ll resist. It’s a thrilling game of cat and mouse, or at least it is for him. Childe is just that confident. He feels no matter what you pull, he’ll stand as the victor in the end. You resolve yourself not to let him get what he wants so easily. If it’s a fight he wants, you’re going to deliver the most brutal, ruthless one possible. Nothing will be sacred in what will likely be your final showdown.

Through some sneaking around and planning, you manage to find where he’s stashed your belongings, and that’s when the chase begins. You’re sharp enough to know he’s allowed you this much due to his inflated ego. That doesn’t mean you won’t seize the opportunity, so you run, planning on heading to a port town to get far away from Schnezaya. As long as you’re deep in Fatui territory, he has an unfair advantage.

A trail of blood will be left in your wake. Fatui Agents that had been alerted of your escape and hunted you down, underestimating your abilities, met a swift death. They showed you no mercy, so why should you show them any? This is the logic you’ll force yourself to repeat when crimson taints the snowy earth beneath your feet, the sickening scent of iron festering in the air.

Childe was content to sit back and watch for some time, finding pleasure in seeing your abilities evolve. He loves knowing that it’s all because of him. Just like when he fell into the abyss that pushed him past his limits, he’s pushing you past your limits, making you an even more tantalizing opponent to subdue. The twist being his personal interest, naturally. Childe’s fun is ruined with the Tsaritsa herself catches wind of his little dalliance, wholly unamused that her men are being slaughtered for what she considers, “A lovers spat.”

That’s when he steps out of the sidelines to reign you back in himself. Truth be told, he does miss your presence, the push from Tsaritsa just served as the final catalyst to get you back. Thus marks the start of the real hunt, with you as his adorable and unsuspecting prey. He gets chills every time he thinks about it.

Another aspect that really gets him going is how you must be thinking about him nonstop. Even if you’re hundreds of miles away physically, he’s certain you’re constantly looking over your shoulder, haunted by nightmares of him when you’re brave enough to sleep. Childe has always wanted to be the center of your universe, so even if it’s in a negative way, he’ll take what he can get.

True to his word, he’ll catch up with you, but not without playing a few mind games first. He is still a little sulky that you decided to slink off and leave him behind. Isn’t he your beloved husband? A husband who provides everything your heart could ever desire, might he add? Childe pushes down the sting of your ultimate rejection — the rejection of his selfish love — smothering it in bloodlust.

You realize the edge you have over him right away. You’re fighting to kill, he’s fighting to incapacitate you. It’s not much, but it’s better than nothing. The conflict would be full of blood, sweat, and tears. Childe starts out talkative, like this was nothing more than an everyday occurrence. He’ll ask you how it’s been going, if you’ve missed him, what you plan to do to earn his forgiveness; all in a rather lighthearted tone.

As the fight progresses, however, he turns eerily silent. You should’ve been down by now. Any other opponent would have been. You’re aiming for his heart, his brain, his jugular; he’s aiming for your legs or to knock you unconscious. He might make a sly comment that you should feel lucky he’s going easy on you.

Childe doesn’t want to use his Foul Legacy on you for a few reasons. One, he wants to prove he can defeat you even without using his full strength, as extra salt on the wound. Two, he’s partially concerned by the madness that consumes him when it’s in effect; the last thing he wants is to kill you. However, the deadlock between you two doesn’t seem to be ending anytime soon, and he’s had just about enough. The option is growing awfully more tempting.

In the end, he manages a slim victory, which could be attributed to your exhaustion from being on the run for weeks in a foreign country. Childe doesn’t concern himself with the pesky details. When you collapse, every ounce of your energy used up, he just sort of... stares at you with vacant eyes. In what could be considered a moment of brief lucidity. The risk that you took to break free, making an enemy of the Fatui in the process, all so you could get away from him.

Childe would normally feel so pleased after a good fight like this. However, as he lifts your unconscious body up, he’s uncharacteristically silent. Your wounds that need immediate treatment will be dealt with. Without pain killers, of course, you do deserve punishment for your transgressions against him. And that will conclude your first — and likely your last — escape attempt from the Eleventh Harbinger.

[ofoceansandtombsanew]

If SnK Characters Had Visions

tags: gn!reader, a genshin au, headcanons

a/n: a repost with some edits. 

eren

pyro sword

ironically despite his love for freedom and things associated with it, eren’s inner fire would pairs better with the flames of pyro 

he’s the guy you were forced to team up with despite thinking he’s really sketchy (even if he also happens to be hot and your shoulder angel and shoulder devil often fight over whether or not being hot is enough to balance out being shady). basically, good ole enemies to friends to lovers party

despite the smirks and how he teases you, eren has a titanium wall enhanced with geo around him and he never lets you in when you ask personal questions such as where he’s from and his family and things like that. he misdirects every time and only seriously tells you to leave it alone if you keep pressing

still even even there are things he is hiding, eren seems to at least care enough about you that he comes to your aid when you’re fighting opponents giving you a hard time and glaring away adventurers looking to ask you to join their party instead but you aren’t sure sometimes

you have definitely smashed at least once. twice. thrice. who knows but you swear they were all accidents. very hot accidents that lead to you wondering if you can really trust him and leads eren to wondering if he is letting things get too out of hand emotionally when he knows he’s getting too attached to you for things to be good

at least he can put his money where his mouth is, enemies are easily overpowered

his story: eren is visionless. in fact, he was always intended to be visionless. the pyro archon found gifting him a vision too dangerous and avoided it entirely deciding eren’s inner rage and ambition was an indicator of bad events to come. after all his yearning for a vision to give himself the ability to fight against strong enemies and never receiving one when his friends did, eren decided to get a delusion which he fought about with his childhood friends but their words didn’t reach him. now he works for the fatui

your first meeting with eren wasn’t by chance, it was all planned from his need for help to often requesting your help on assignments. his plans were to use you and your potential connections and abilities to serve the greater purpose of his schemes, but eren does eventually come to genuinely care for you. but does he love you enough to turn against whatever the tsarista ymir is planning? who knows

armin

hydro catalyst

hydro and armin just go hand-in-hand with one another and while he isn’t the most adept with weapons, his skills as a mage are second to none with strategies that overwhelm his enemies completely

armin’s abilities lead to him being a great healer and he wishes to take that knowledge to the medical field when he feels his days adventuring are over

because of his abilities, the locals in a sumeran village he stays in often goes to him when they need to be healed though some often see armin’s stern side if what they’re asking him to heal is ridiculous or they got hurt doing something stupid

the party strategist who keeps track of the many quests you may take at a time and organizes them from most to least urgent to help decide which ones should be done immediately and what quests can be put on the backburner until you can get to it (though armin would honestly prefer you, yknow, didn’t accept so many requests at the same time)

you often enjoy listening to the stories armin weaves better than any bard and you’ve probably even asked why he didn’t become one when he’d clearly be so popular but adventuring is what armin has always wanted to do since he was a little kid. leaving small mondstadt to discover what the world holds and when he was invited to study in sumeru, he took his chance

his story: though he wasn’t strong growing up, armin recognized his lack of physical strength and thus improvised with the hand he was dealt and worked around it, a vision he was soon blessed with. had a large fight with a former friend after finding out his desire to obtain a delusion and armin hasn’t been home since though he says he worries for a friend back home that seemed lost when his best friend left their town but he hasn’t been able to bring himself to visit or write her back

you have wondered if this friend back home was someone armin is romantically interested in but he vehemently denies it to which you tell him you think he is protesting too much, it’s fine if he has a crush back home (except it isn’t and it bothers you too much to tell him). but armin clumsily tells you that if he really liked her, he would’ve gone back to mondstadt ages ago but he hasn’t because he enjoys traveling with you

mikasa

cryo claymore

with a tragic childhood, it’s no wonder mikasa would have a cryo vision. her skin runs cool and she’s as reserved as her vision would imply. but mikasa cares deeply about those she travels with and it in shows in her protective nature

but mikasa’s skills on her own are decent enough to get the job done to the point that sometimes she snuffs your abyss mage target before you can get to it (but even if that can be annoying at times, it’s reassuring to have mikasa in your party)

she always makes too much when cooking but at least you know you’re always taken care of

the party member who has way too much of anything just in case you run into something. unexpected trip to the snowy mountains of dragonspine? mikasa somehow managed to fit 90 bottles of Frostshield Potion and Warming Seelie bottles in her bag

it can be hard to get her to loosen up at times but give her a drink or two at a tavern and she smiles a bit more easily and you actually got her to dance with you a few times while a bard sang a cheery tune

once you had to cancel a bounty you initially accepted when you realized mikasa had a cold she tried to hide from you and took care of her the entire day though she insisted she was strong enough to fight. initially you suggested she stay at your lodgings while you went to handle the bounty with another adventurer you both knew, annie. but you ultimately decided against it when mikasa seemed distraught and spent the rest of the day by her bedside while she slept and held her hand (she hasn’t said it, but she appreciates the fact you stayed. it always feels like people she cares about leave her behind and she can’t help if you’ll follow the same pattern)

her story: gained her vision at a young age after the witnessing the deaths of her parents and realizing the cruelty of the world she lived in. is on a quest to find her childhood friends and met you along the way. you joined parties after encountering mikasa fighting a ruin guard during your travels and you stepped in to help and she decided to aid you in a quest to pay you back from there you kept running into each other and you both decided to form an official team

one night surrounded by the light of soft dandelions, mikasa tells you about her childhood friends she is looking for. one she knows has gone off to further his academic studies and another she fears is walking down a path of darkness and how she felt they both left her. at that, mikasa asks if you can stay by her side

levi

anemo sword

is this guy even human? probably not but levi would use his vision to give him an extra burst of speed and it makes him unbelievable fast when he decides to pull out all the stops and holds one of his blades in reverse

the quiet protector of the city he resides levi is a vigilante who made a promise to an old friend and he strives to unlock the secrets of the abyss order and destroy them once and for all

but to the unsuspecting of mondstadt, levi is just the town’s grumpy librarian who obsesses way too much over cleaning and will hunt you down to the ends of the earth if you borrow a book, funny enough that’s how you met and it was a terrifying experience

levi prefers to take care of enemies quickly and with as little mess as possible and as such tends to go overboard, even on hilichurls and slimes (you are sure you once saw a geo slime run the moment he saw levi approaching and you felt pretty sorry for the thing)

levi isn’t much of a cook but he makes great drinks and his tea is one of the few things that give you energy in the morning and you’re sure it is an attack booster. it’s a nice quiet moment for those both of you though and you often find yourself staring at your companion and noticing how long his eyelashes are before looking away before he can see you (he always does)

(no lie a quarter of levi’s jobs is keeping hange’s experiments from getting out of hand)

his story: has had his vision since he was a young child living in the slums of an unknown placed and had to fight everyday for his survival. one day, he found a masterless vision in the rubble of the area and once he touched it, it began shining. like i said, you met because you had an overdue library book and nothing was scarier than levi ackerman raining down from the sky in a plunge attack of fury asking you with a dark voice “where’s the book”. you get laughed at whenever you share that story. you always turn in your books on time, that’s for sure

despite the scary encounter though, you still stop to talk to levi whenever you can since you find him surprisingly charming. the grump adds to it, you suppose. he began helping you with requests after you discovered his identity as a vigilante and you helped him with keeping said identity hidden. funny enough, everyone thinks the vigilante in question is a rogue hilichurl because of how short they are much to levi’s annoyance and your amusement

hange

pyro cataylst

hange the vision (and hilichurlian) eccentric uses their vision in any way possible to further their research whether it be using it for bombs, a power source for light in the home,

hange is a catalyst user and their abilities in your party are better suited to support than a heavy attacker but you need to be weary of their cooking most of all. hange has the highest rate of making suspicious meals

as one would guess, hange is an enthusiastic vision researcher though their methods of doing so is a bit… unconventional. they think the academics in sumeru aren’t doing enough and took things into their own hands and hange thinks that visions could be used to as an energy source that could benefit the whole continent and in order for that to happen, visions need to be understood completely

would honestly love to get their hands on a delusion to study the properties and what makes them tick and if that can lead to better understandings of vision

despite their high energy and dedication to their cause, there are times when hange’s happy demeanor fades and they wonder if their research is ever going to get anywhere and if being made they head of the alchemy department was a mistake

you have spent a lot of times putting out the fires that were a result of hange’s experiments but you still have fun with them since their personality often leads to you both having some wild adventures you can share stories about at a local tavern while occasionally coughing out smoke

their story: hange couldn’t tell you how they got their vision because honestly, they didn’t even notice until days after when going through their messy research piles a vision that shone brightly when they touched it and so their vision was obtained. but what exactly they did to be gifted such a thing and when it happened, hange can’t tell you. their vision greatly aids their research though

honestly probably joined your party after witnessing a stroke of genius usage of your vision and asked you to help further their research in visions as a whole by observing your vision in action and you found it a bit hard to say no after your ego was stroked so much

jean

electro sword

jean the swordsman with an electro vision to boot, jean’s vision is often used as a band he forms around himself to shock enemies and keep projectiles from affecting him and he ultimately sends a shockwave of electro to temporarily paralyze enemies, making it easy for jean to finish them off

the adventurer trying way too hard to prove himself and has probably made up some stories about his adventures to impress those from home, especially his parents who didn’t want jean to become an adventurer in the first place but he does his best to reassure them

jean is from fontaine and it shows in his cooking, but fancy and hard to pronounce it may be, it’s pretty good and filling

despite all his boasting, jean is actually a skilled fighter and is pragmatic and observant and because of this, jean’s potential to actually become the greatest adventurer in the land is something he can obtained after a few years of experience

jean has a tendency to lecture you a lot when you do something he thinks is stupid like ‘putting yourself at risk unnecessarily’, the hypocrite is one to talk. but once when drunk, jean confessed to you that he didn’t think he deserved his vision since when he earned it, he wasn’t able to save someone important to him and he worries that if he isn’t careful, you’ll share the same fate

his story: jean’s vision story is one he would rather forget since his first bout adventuring resulted in the loss of one of his former party members against a ruin hunter they were requested to destroy and his friend marco took a hit that was meant for jean and perished in the battle. lightning struck and a vision appeared while jean finished the battle himself

you joined forces when jean found himself in over his head against a group of treasure hoarders and tell him it probably would’ve been easier if he had some friends with you. you were fresh out the guild, a new adventurer, and you were looking to have a travel companion and asked jean outright to be yours. he accepted after some ego stroking but jean promised himself it would be different this time

[romanticoutcast]

Now that you somehow mentioned it I’d love to know how you’d see tom and his personality evolving, like how he would behave 8-10 years later(whether it’s in a canon or non-canon setting)! Bc i have my very own interpretation of late-teen/young adult sawyer and I love to know other opinions abt this kind of stuff— (btw I already read and loved some of your fanfics (those where he isn’t ded lol) so I have an overall idea but i love annoying ppl)

okay okay so...i have a LOT of thoughts about tom’s personal character development both in canon, and what it might lead to in the future.

this is all gonna seem like an unnecessary summary of tom’s character, but it’s all leading up to a point i sWEAR LMAO.

i think conspiracy could serve as a huge catalyst for tom’s character development, among other things. throughout the sequel novels, he continued to worm his way out of situations he deliberately put himself and others into multiple times, mostly by his own cleverness, while always making a big show of it. the more he proves himself in the public eye, the more he wants to do it again and becomes willing to create dangerous problems just to do so. he shows the town time and time again how smart he is, how special he is, how promising his future will be. in conspiracy, tom doesn’t impress the town in court with his detective skills, like he’s done so often before. it’s not another opportunity for him to show off, the way he wanted it to be. instead he makes himself look like a liar when confessing his harebrained schemes, because everyone knows none of it makes any sense at all, and so far tom has been nothing but a beacon of intelligence and common sense in their eyes. he becomes speechless and cries about all the ways his stupid mistakes have made jim suffer, and he’s gone too far this time to fix it. he humiliates himself publicly. just as tom’s rise to glory in st. petersburg was always a public matter (like he tried to make it), so is his downfall.

he got such a big head from all this past “”success”” that he truly believes it’s impossible for him to fail. once he does, he panics, loses all of his self-assurance, and tries to get jim out of the trouble he got him into the fastest, most straightforward way possible. tom, the one who is constantly lording his intelligence over huck’s head and scolding him for being a “saphead,” desperately tells huck that he wishes he had just listened to him instead of going after glory, that he was an idiot for playing with fire. it’s obvious that the events in conspiracy have taken a huge toll on tom’s arrogance and pride, and one can only hope that he won’t mess up the same way again after this.

warning, this take on tom’s character has a LOT of sawyerberry. another catalyst for tom’s growth could be huck leaving st. petersburg. i think it’s safe to say that although tom loves huck as his best friend, he takes his friendship for granted. huck needs to get out of town, find himself to gain more confidence and make relationships outside of tom so that he’s not so codependent on him. tom needs to realize just how much huck doesn’t need him, how much huck can thrive outside of st. petersburg and without tom. huck has always been a compassionate, generous person, and tom needs to become more appreciative of all the traits he dismissed before.

also, huck influencing tom to think outside of society’s set of rules that he, for the most part, is so stuck in. huck influences tom to adopt more abolitionist sentiments. strictly speaking in a romantic sense, the realization that tom might have feelings for huck causes him to go through the very long, difficult process of struggling to accept what he feels and decide whether he’s going to stay inside his comfort zone, where it is safe, or leave it and everyone inside. him realizing he just might be part of a marginalized group of people, a group of people that a christian town like his would find the feelings he feels, that he didn’t ask for, despicable, could be a huge wake-up call.

basically i feel that through nothing but fate (and huck) humbling tom a LOT could he go down a much better path than if he just continued to make a great name for himself all the time in st. petersburg. always staying within the comfortability of his hometown and having everyone inside of it think so highly of him all the time isn’t a challenge to tom’s worst personal flaws. going against the grain of society alongside huck just might be though.

in the end i just think of a young adult tom as someone who is still too proud at times for his own good, still gets wound up too easily over good literature. but instead he moons over books within the strict safety net of his brain. he’s just as clever and cunning and capable as he has ever been, but through years and years of reflection and the very difficult process of bettering himself, he decides he doesn’t want to go to the country’s greatest law school, or become judge thatcher’s apprentice, or president! he doesn’t feel the need for the same glory he used to!! he just wants to be with huck, and so they live in a humble house on the countryside, where they’re afforded some privacy.

he’s still himself, still a somewhat deeply flawed guy. but he’s trying to be better.

[cappymightwrite]

How do you see Jonsa playing out in the next two books?

Hi!

Oof that's a big question and I probably have more of an idea regarding Winds than I do Dream, to be honest. There's certain things I feel fairly confident on, but within that there are a few ways things could go, which I'm undecided on. So, I'll list those, but beneath them give some variables/extra thoughts. Now I could be wrong, this is just my opinion... but here we go!

Jonsa in The Winds of Winter

Sansa will be leaving, or more specifically, fleeing the Vale, perhaps as early as the end of Alayne II

I have no doubts about this happening, what I'm less sure of are the events that will enable this departure. Although there are a few Chekhov's Guns in play that seem likely to pay off early in Winds:

The mountain clans have been "growing very bold," ever since the Blackfish, the former Knight of the Gate, left in AGOT, but this mention of them becoming more unruly is stated in ASOS, Sansa VI, and then again in Sansa VII — "The mountain clans were being troublesome as well [...] The Vale of Arryn might have been spared the worst of the war, but it was hardly the idyllic place that Lady Lysa had made it out to be." There are also members of the mountain clans who have met Sansa Stark, including Timett One-Eye, because in AGOT they decided to follow Tyrion and fight in the battle on the Green Fork, Timett and Shagga then become part of Tyrion's household in King's Landing.

Ser Shadrich also seems like a gun that's about to go off — we first meet him in AFFC, Brienne I, where he tells Brienne "You are not the only hunter in the woods. I seek for Sansa Stark as well," and for a large bounty too. By Alayne II of AFFC, he has met Alayne Stone, and by TWOW, Alayne I, it seems fairly clear that he knows exactly who he's dealing with — "A good melee is all a hedge knight can hope for, unless he stumbles on a bag of dragons. And that's not likely, is it?" Something is going to happen with this guy, for sure.

It is also possible that Harry the Heir will be injured or even perhaps die during the tourney of the Winged Knights. If this does happen, I think it would serve to create a opportunistic moment of chaos, in combination with the mountain clans attacking, in which Ser Shadrich could then make his abduction attempt.

So, I can't exactly say how things will go down... maybe there will also be a sudden shift in her perception of Petyr as her last resort protector that will make her feel unsafe? Nevertheless, I'm sure something will go down though, and it'll be the catalyst needed to propel Sansa north, in the direction of the only living relative she knows for certain she has... to Jon Snow.

Meanwhile, Jon will be warged into Ghost

I'm pretty confident this is what's happened, because the last word Jon says in ADWD, Jon XIII, is "Ghost", and this idea of warging in order to avoid death is introduced in the prologue of that same book. I've talked a little bit about how warging in ASOIAF, at least to me, seems very Old Norse inspired — this idea of the hamr and hugr.

But where is Ghost-Jon going to be? I think it's likely that Ghost-Jon will break out of where he's being kept in Jon's chambers, and then head south... I think this is likely because one of Jon's last thoughts is a reference to Arya — "Stick them with the pointy end." Plus, as we know, Jon was planning to go south to Winterfell in order to rescue her, though of course we know that girl wasn't Arya, and Jeyne Poole is now actually heading towards the Wall.

I'm not 100% certain Ghost-Jon will head south, it may be that he stays at the Wall to guard Jon's body? I'm not sure. If he does go south though, I think that could be very interesting, because it could enable a crossing of paths with one Sansa Stark. In fact, I explored that idea in my very first Jonsa fanfic, heavily inspired by the Old Norse-Icelandic Eddic poem Völuspá — Varg-hamr/Wolf-skin.

Sansa will be the Girl in Grey that Melisandre foretold

I'm 100% a believer in this theory. It's her. It's Sansa.

"[...] I have seen your sister in my fires, fleeing from this marriage they have made for her. Coming here, to you. A girl in grey on a dying horse, I have seen it plain as day. It has not happened yet, but it will." – ADWD, Jon VI

"It has not happend yet, but it will", and in The Winds of Winter.

The girl. I must find the girl again, the grey girl on the dying horse. Jon Snow would expect that of her, and soon. It would not be enough to say the girl was fleeing. He would want more, he would want the when and where, and she did not have that for him. She had seen the girl only once. A girl as grey as ash, and even as I watched she crumbled and blew away. – ADWD, Melisandre I

That last line... oof, that's Sansa, but more specifically, it really alludes to Alayne Stone, as well as the dismantling of that identity, the reclaiming of Sansa Stark. I explored a similar kind of crumbling/shattering imagery in my meta about Alayne II, AFFC:

She went up as Sansa, comes down as Alayne, but will “press on” as Sansa. Also the imagery of something “coming down”, i.e. falling away, breaking away is significant. We are seeing the dismantling of Alayne and the reclaiming of Sansa, though this is masked by every time she calls herself “bastard brave” or “I am a bastard too” in this chapter. But this breaking away, the fragility of this guise is literally mirrored in the landscape around her: "Here and there the stone was shattered from the strain of countless seasons, with all their thaws and freezes. Patches of snow clung to the rock on either side of the path, blinding white." – AFFC, Alayne II

"She crumbled and blew away" recalls, to me, the image of Alayne Stones descending from the Eyrie to the Gates of the Moon, and how those are, unknowingly, just barely hinted at, her first few crucial steps towards becoming Sansa again — and Jon is intimately connected to that, as noted in my meta.

Sansa and Jon will be the first Starks to reunite

It could be, like I explored in my fic, that they first meet with Jon warged into Ghost, with Ghost-Jon saving Sansa from hunters — possibly Ramsey's men, not knowing who she is, but just looking to torment a vulnerable girl?

"I saw water. Deep and blue and still, with a thin coat of ice just forming on it. It seemed to go on and on forever."

"Long Lake. What else did you see around this girl?"

"Hills. Fields. Trees. A deer, once. Stones. She is staying well away from villages. When she can she rides along the bed of little streams, to throw hunters off her trail." – ADWD, Melisandre I

Either way, this theme of seeking safety will be prevalent:

"The girl," she said. "A girl in grey on a dying horse. Jon Snow's sister." Who else could it be? She was racing to him for protection, that much Melisandre had seen clearly. – ADWD, Melisandre I

I'm uncertain whether Sansa will actually be present for whatever catalyst/action is needed to return Jon's spirit (his hugr) to his body (his hamr), of if she'll turn up post-return. But I do very much like the idea of her meeting Ghost-Jon first though, and maybe this bit in Feast is a hint towards that:

There was ice underfoot, and broken stones just waiting to turn an ankle, and the wind was howling fiercely. It sounds like a wolf, thought Sansa. A ghost wolf, big as mountains. – AFFC, Alayne II

In any case, I think she will make it to Castle Black, clearly ticking off the Girl in Grey prophecy, and then will be instrumental in Jon's recovery. Possibly, maybe, they won't reunite at Castle Black? They'll reunite somewhere closer to Winterfell? My instinct is Castle Black, but I think I've seen a bit of debate on that. What I'm fairly certain on is that Sansa will soothe Jon with her sweet singing at some point:

[...] Sansa, brushing out Lady's coat and singing to herself. – ADWD, Jon XIII

But this theme of healing goes both ways, they will help heal each other, "protect one another, keep each other warm, share [their] strengths." And this will be in distinct contrast to all the other unbalanced relationships they've experienced previously.

Their previously hidden dynamic will be revealed to us

I think Winds will be the book to finally reveal what Jon and Sansa's relationship was like pre-canon. E.g. were they always distant, or was there a time when they weren't? Moreover, I think we'll be able to have the definitive answer on whether the pre-canon crush/kiss theory is a thing or not — I discussed it in my most recent post on Jon + the Byronic Hero, with several previous metas included on the topic.

Hopefully we'll get some shared memories revealed to us in any case!

A forbidden romance will develop between them

I've talked about whether or not we'll get a full blown romance in Winds previously, as well as some (not that serious) speculation that Jon may actually parallel Elinor Dashwood from Sense & Sensibility, in terms of how he initially conceals his feelings for Sansa. So, check that out, if you're interest... but forewarning, everything I write tends to be pretty long, because I literally cannot control myself... I mean, case in point right here, lol.

Reclaiming Winterfell (+ Knights of the Vale)

I think they will return to Winterfell before the parentage reveal, but probably some confusing, angsty feelings will already be underway. I do tentatively think Stannis will win the battle in the ice, because the Night Lamp theory is so compelling (or it was last time I read it)... but then I think things will, without a doubt, go down the shitter for him, and yeah, I will cry because Stan is my problematic fave, ok? I expect things to get very dark in that section of the narrative, and for Jon's return to his body to be a part of that dark descent, but I'm hazy on the exact details. Beyond that though...

I think it's very likely that the Knights of the Vale will be instrumental in the fight for Winterfell, because you have Sansa (as Alayne) meeting several knights in her chapters, becoming very familiar with the Vale houses, and you also have this piece of foreshadowing:

"[...] Jon Arryn's bannermen will never love me, nor our silly, shaking Robert, but they will love their Young Falcon... and when they come together for his wedding, and you come out with your long auburn hair, clad in a maiden's cloak of white and grey with a direwolf emblazoned on the back... why, every knight in the Vale will pledge his sword to win you back your birthright [...]" – AFFC, Alayne II

The Vale, as of yet, hasn't been a fighting presence in the wars at play, so that's another Chekov's Gun that needs to go off. Add to that the Royces' strong connection to the First Men, to the Starks, as well as those mysterious distant Stark cousins:

"Your father's father had no siblings, but his father had a sister who married a younger son of Lord Raymar Royce, of the junior branch. They had three daughters, all of whom wed Vale lordlings. A Waynwood and a Corbray, for certain. The youngest... it might have been a Templeton, but..." – ASOS, Catelyn V

...it seems like the Vale has been primed by the narrative to become key allies of the Starks moving into Winds, and later Dream.

The end of the line for Petyr Baelish

I'm not exactly sure where this will fall in the order of things, but it is pretty heavily foreshadowed as taking place at Winterfell:

"[...] I dreamt that maid again, slaying a savage giant in a castle built of snow." – ASOS, Arya VIII

"Look, here comes a giant to knock it down." He stood his doll in the snow and moved it jerkily. "Tromp tromp I'm a giant, I'm a giant," he chanted. "Ho ho ho, open your gates or I'll mash them and smash them." Swinging the doll by the legs, he knocked the top off one gatehouse tower and then the other.

It was more than Sansa could stand. "Robert, stop that." Instead he swung the doll again, and a foot of wall exploded. She grabbed for his hand but she caught the doll instead. There was a loud ripping sound as the thin cloth tore. Suddenly she had the doll's head, Robert had the legs and body, and the rag-and-sawdust stuffing was spilling in the snow. – ASOS, Sansa VII

I think it's probable that Littlefinger will arrive with the Knights of the Vale — if Harry isn't dead already, maybe he'll fall in battle. Certainly, Jon will be with Sansa, but potentially the great Stark winter round-up will have gotten under way and there may be other Starklings present during his trial as well? Either way, Sansa will be instrumental in his end... but actually, maybe also Sweetrobin too? Now that's an interesting thought, because afterall, Petyr did murder his mother.

Jon's parentage will be revealed, resulting in much angst but also relief?!

Like I said, I think the reclaiming of Winterfell has to occurr before the reveal, so this monumental moment could be a good half-way point in the book. I've played around with how I'd personally like the parentage reveal to impact Jon and Sansa's relationship, in my fic Beneath My Bones. In that I leant more into Jon being the most aware of his feelings, and then Sansa coming to a full realisation post-reveal.

I don't know for sure if that will be the dynamic, but in the above metas I linked that's sort of where my instinct is on the subject. I like the idea of the reveal causing a lot of mixed emotions, for it to be this double-edged sword... the long awaited answer to Jon's questions about his mother, but an answer that completely disorientates him for a hot sec. Ultimately though, I'm always in favour of the reveal resulting in a doubling down on Jon's Stark identity, rather than him suddenly taking up the mantle of Aemon Targaryen (if he does have a Targaryen name, I think that is most likely what it is).

I think they will probably be back at Winterfell for this. That seems to be the most impactful setting for this to occur, particularly when you consider the recurring dreams Jon has of the crypts — maybe we'll actually have him go down there, to face the statue of Lyanna? Also, it's generally considered that Howland Reed is going to be the one to spill the beans, so it makes more sense to me that they'd cross paths at Winterfell, rather than the Wall, or anywhere else in the north.

Northern political players and inheritance crisis

I lowkey really like Barbrey Dustin as a character, and I like how she reflects that, actually, northern allegiances and relations are a bit more complex that they first appeared, way back in AGOT — not everyone loves the Starks, not everyone gets on with each other.

Once the Boltons have been dispatched, there's going to be a power vaccuum in the north, centered at Winterfell. We know Lord Manderly has already planned ahead for this by sending Davos Seaworth on a mission to find Rickon Stark on Skagos. So, I do think there is going to be a really interesting dynamic between the northern lords and the reunited Starks, with Jon and Sansa at the head of the Stark contingent. Indeed, there's several factors to consider when thinking about who is going to inherit, either the wardenship, or Robb's crown:

Most Immediate Obstacles

Rickon's whereabouts and fate — you could get a power struggle for regency if Rickon becomes a major factor, and isn't unduly killed (please god no). The Manderlys certainly seem interested.

The annulment of Sansa's marriage to Tyrion — another Chekov's Gun, which I feel has to come back into play in Winds. Say Rickon isn't killed off, and there's a struggle for who has control over the north as his regent... marrying Sansa would strengthen that position as regent quite substantially, so there may be a vested interest in the north to dissolve this unconsummated marriage.

The perception of Jon as Rhaegar and Lyanna's son — was there a secret bigamous marriage? Which holds more weight, being Rhaegar's son or being Lyanna's? Jon was made Robb's heir, but does that still hold water?

Less Immediate Obstacles

Bran's whereabouts and fate — is Bran going to join back up with the Starks in Winterfell at some point? He is in the north, so isn't miles away from the great Stark winter round-up I see happening.

Arya's whereabouts and fate — currently in Braavos, but likely to catch a boat back over to Westeros at some point in Winds.

My instinct is that the northern politics subplot will be deliciously factional and messy, as a stark (heh heh) contrast to what it is that makes the Starks the heart of the series:

"[...] When the snows fall and the white winds blow, the lone wolf dies, but the pack survives. Summer is the time for squabbles. In winter, we must protect one another, keep each other warm, share our strengths [...]" – AGOT, Arya II

But also as a contrast to the threat of the Others, the real, most pressing issue everyone in Westeros needs to face, together. What I'm worried about, and unsure of, is whether or not Rickon may in fact die somehow. But I do think it would be a wasted opportunity not to have this regency crisis, because it seems fairly well set up with the Manderlys. That being said, maybe GRRM will do it, have it on the brink of being resolved, then cause more chaos by having him killed? I don't know. Really, in terms of foreshadowing, the two big contenders for becoming the ruler of the north are... Jon and Sansa.

I know what I'd like, which is for them both to rule the north by the end of the series, together in a loving and supportive partnership, that harks back to Ned and Cat, but this time better, more honest. How we'll get to that endpoint, I'm not sure, but I think someone is going to be put forward as the favoured monarch of the north, though ultimately, my instinct is we'll get Queen Sansa... but also consort/king Jon, and part of their regeneration of the north will be to resettle the Gifts with the displaced wildlings.

A Jonsa marriage will be hinted at as a solution

There's a lot of marriage foreshadowing and imagery within both Jon and Sansa's chapters, and I think the narrative in Winds, building on the developing romance between them, will really start to foreground this possibility. BUT I think it won't be without its obstacles, chief among them the marriage to Tyrion. We need an annulment, or we need him to die. I know I've mentioned Chekov's Gun as a literary device several times already, but this is another key one... I wouldn't be surprised if it's used against the Starks/the north in some way.

So, I'm unsure if we'll get a Jonsa marriage in Winds, but I do think it'll be hinted at in some way, either as just a logical narrative answer, or by the characters themselves, possibly. GRRM will want to leave some key moments for Dream and I wouldn't be surprised if a marriage between Jon and Sansa is held off until then, because lets not forget... there's also a war against the Others that is going to be going on! Marriage, and one motivated by love (but with definite political advantage), could fit really nicely into the bittersweetness of the last part of A Dream of Spring.

Jonsa in A Dream of Spring

This is where it becomes a bit hazy...

There's several plot points left unresolved at the end of A Dance with Dragons, extending back to Feast, as well, so it's easier to continue on those narrative threads and speculate about Winds than it is Dream, I think. That being said, I can tell you what I personally think the vibe of the ending will be trying to emulate...

Obviously, The Lord of the Rings is a big influence on GRRM, but looking one step before that, to Tolkein's influences, you have the Gylfaginning section of the Old Norse Prose Edda. Huh, what?

Ok, this is building on my belief that GRRM is heavily inspired by the myth of Ragnarök in relation to the storyline up north with the Long Night etc. I have an ongoing meta series about these parallels (coz I study Viking and Medieval Norse and I've got to put that knowledge to use somehow!). Eventually, I will talk about how I think the "dream of spring" in the final book will draw from the descriptions of the aftermath of Ragnarök, as detailed at the end of the Gylfaginning. But here's the key passage in question:

53: Then Gangleri asked, "Will any of the gods be living then? Or will there be anything of the earth or the sky?"

High said, "The earth will shoot up from the sea, and it will be green and beautiful. Self-sown acres of crops will then grow. Vidar and Vali survive, as neither the flood nor Surt’s fire destroyed them, and they will inhabit Idavoll, the place where Asgard was earlier. To there will come Thor’s sons Modi and Magni, and they will have Mjollnir with them. Next Baldr and Hod will arrive from Hel. They will all sit together and talk among themselves, remembering mysteries and speaking of what had been, of the Midgard Serpent and the Fenriswolf. Then they will find in the grass the gold playing pieces which the Æsir had owned. [...]

"In a place called Hoddmimir’s Wood, two people will have hidden themselves from Surt’s fire. Called Lif [Life] and Leifthrasir [Life Yearner], they have the morning dew for their food. From these will come so many descendents that the whole world will be inhabited [...]

I'm very much a Jonsa optimist and it's due, in part, to the above passage. Yes, I think ASOIAF will end in a "bittersweet" way, but I think too often more emphasis is placed on the bitter than the sweet when we consider that ending, and also when we consider Jonsa's ending too. Basically, I think the "dream of spring" is very much tied to Jonsa, in fact, it doesn't really work without them, not fully at least. Because you have this appreciation of the natural world in both their narratives, this fantasying about possible future children, the desire to reclaim (Jon) and rebuild (Sansa) Winterfell... all of that is evident in the last chapter of the Gyflaginning.

To parallel the Old Norse, I do think we'll see the Long Night end, just as the Fimbulvetr/Ragnarök end, and then spring will come: "green and beautiful." Unquestionably, there will have been painful losses — key figures, like Óðinn + Þórr, die in the final battle — representing the "bitter", but there will also be those who survive to then re-establish a new order: "Then they will find in the grass the gold playing pieces which the Æsir had owned."

I mean, not to be too literal about it, but I think Lif and Leifthrasir will be echoed in Sansa (Life) and Jon (Life Yearner), because, come spring, they will be the ones to continue on the Stark line, and from them "will come so many descendents." And I don't think that really works if you've got Jon exiled at the (fallen) Wall again. I think it only works if they are in the same place, at the same time, together... because that's the sweet to the bitter — this abundant spring after the harrowing winter, the promise of future generations, of life and love preservering, despite all the pain and loss (the bitter).

One of the things about the end of the Gylfaginning, which is commented upon by scholars, is that it likely represents the transition from pagan belief into Christianity, the end of the old gods, the old order — the Prose Edda was written by the Icelander Snorri Sturluson in the 13th C., so notably post-conversion. There is a (maybe unintentional on the part of its author) bittersweetness present, this feeling of an end of an era, to the conclusion of the Gylfaginning, that you likewise see reflected in the ending of The Return of the King (and we all know how influenced by Old English and Old Norse Tolkein was). So, taking into account all that GRRM has said about how he wants to tonally emulate Tolkein's conclusion, this is the vibe I expect from the ending of ASOIAF.

But whether we'll ever actually get that bittersweet ending though... who can say!! Also, maybe everything I've said will be completely wrong! I think it would make for a good story though ;)

Thanks for the ask!

[seacottons]

uni!au with ateez — [ part one ]

—[ san - performing arts ]

ironically, you met when you helped him after a taller male shoved him down whilst in a heated argument.

he burst out laughing when you asked if he was okay.

“don’t worry, we’re just practicing our lines!”

you quickly glanced up at the building and grimaced once taking sight of the gleaming silver ‘performing arts building’ plaque.

of course.

to say you were embarrassed was only scratching the surface.

you had no regrets, because the incident was the catalyst that formed your friendship and eventual relationship.

will never let you live that moment down.

“remember when you tried to save me from mingi?”

“i thought we promised not to bring that up again-”

“why can’t i? i was saved by an angel that day?”

san invites you to both his dance and theatre shows.

will appear to be very professional on stage, but you catch his eyes frantically darting to the crowd to try and spot you.

and once he does, he will repeatedly smile and wink in your direction.

you’re always early, so you manage to snag a seat in either front two rows.

likes when you bring him bouquets as a congratulation gift after his performances.

gets very loud backstage just to let everyone know you bought him a gift.

a huge show-off.

is very good at facial expressions.

you fall for every time he pretends he’s crying or hurt when you don’t give him attention.

he will imitate different characters and repeat after actors while you two watch movies together.

“it sounded sexier when i said it, right (y/n)?”

is a very clingy cuddle bug.

and a leech.

will always have his arms around you while walking at campus.

loves to give you back hugs.

is the type to wait outside for you until you finish class.

and takes you to the cafeteria afterwards for lunch.

embarrasses you in said cafeteria by spinning the lunch tray while waiting in line.

also likes to spin your phone just to freak you out.

also the type to excitedly text you about the donuts and coffee they’re giving away at the library’s breezeway.

likes to refer to you as ‘angel’.

will beg you join the different clubs he’s in.

and then brag about you to the others once you do.

will hype your choice of attire even if he’s already seen you earlier that day.

the type to also sneak you a latte in the middle of your class.

also the type to sneak in with you during your auditorium classes.

you regret it sometimes because he leaves no room for you to pay attention to your professor.

often times, so much so that you have to lightly pinch his side in protest.

“do you want me to fail this class?”

he likes to participate in the many events held at campus.

everyone knows him.

challenges you to dance offs in the middle of campus.

you refuse and push forward a startled mingi instead.

“mingi wants to have a turn this time!”

also likes to lay in your arms whilst you play with his hair.

“were you a cat in your previous life?”

he will then proceed to meow in your ear.

“i’ll take that as a yes.”

—[ hongjoong - fashion design ]

dating him would consist of always admiring his new projects.

supplying him with unhealthy amounts of coffee.

trying out new pieces he made.

offering to carry his overly large portfolio binder sometimes.

sitting down and listening to him rant about how his roomates fail to wash clothes properly.

he has a guide taped to the washing machine with the different symbols of clothing labels.

“no, san, you can’t use shampoo as detergent.”

“but seonghwa finished all the detergent!”

using seonghwa’s lint rollers to remove all the fabric fibers stuck on hongjoong’s clothes.

you scold him while cleaning the bleeding scratches on his fingers from his sewing needles and pins.

“don’t worry, it’s nothing i can’t handle.”

“but i don’t like seeing you get hurt, you bum.”

you bought him strawberry bandaids because he thought they were cute.

sometimes, when he has time, he’ll custom make clothes just for you.

he insists on having multiple matching outfits.

will ask you to model his work for his social media page.

thinks you look best in skirts.

you’ll be the source of comfort during presentation week.

he’ll be a wreck whilst making a new collection.

but you’re always there to pick him back up.

most of the time, you’re the source of his inspiration as well.

you insist he shouldn’t sit for hours writing essays or sketching numerous ideas for future work.

but he’s stubborn as a mule.

nights with him include binge watching fashion shows or cute cartoons.

or painting your nails.

you both enjoy coffee dates when you have time.

he tells you he wants to open a fashion line one day.

you’re trying to stand still as he plucks numerous pins into the dress you’re trying on.

“what do you think i should call it?”

“hj couture? does that sound too basic?”

he pauses momentarily before spooling the leftover red thread.

“(y/n). i’ll call the line (y/n).”

—[ wooyoung - culinary arts ]

invites you to his dorm and cooks for you.

his apartment always smells of warm spices and comforting meals.

pretends his roommates’ teasing doesn’t affect him, but the tips of ears always glow red.

will always bring over leftovers he made in class.

“i just thought you wanted to try this mille feuille.”

“which one is better? the salted rosemary loaf or the oregano and olive oil one?”

loves to bake and cook with you.

will make your birthday cake from scratch and will go all out decorating it.

has an annoying habit of taking pictures of you mid-bite.

“delete that right now.”

“but babe, you look so cute.”

“jung wooyoung!”

will wrestle with you as you attempt to take his phone away.

“okay, look! i swear i’ll delete it!”

he saves it in a hidden folder.

calls you his ‘cupcake’ or ‘sugarplum’.

teases you nonstop when you fail at something in the kitchen.

“babe! no! gentle folds! you pulverized those poor blueberries!”

“but the instructions say to mix!”

“the dough isn’t supposed to be blue!”

he’ll whine nonstop about how much he hates baking bread in class.

“do you know how abnoxiously long the fermentation process is!? i’m losing my mind.”

will wave and yell your name to catch your attention if he spots you nearby at campus.

you hear him every time.

he’s just that loud.

drags you to new restaurants just so you can rate them with him.

also drags you to go cutlery shopping.

accidentally dropped a plate in the store.

and when the employee came sauntering in the aisle suspiciously-

“(y/n) did it.”

once gave you food poisoning by accident.

you never wanted to eat scallops again.

you don’t mind his hands smelling like garlic or ginger most of the time.

or stained with spices.

“turmeric is a bitch.”

“woo, who wears white while cooking with turmeric anyway?”

will show off and brag about his knife skills.

demands to race with you to see who can chop the vegetables the quickest.

“you’re going down, (y/n).”

“uh- i don’t think i ever stood a chance to begin with.”

he lets you win sometimes though.

will beg you to visit him at his part time job at the cute cafe not too far by.

you always try to when you have the time.

and when he finds out you went to the rival cafe across the street one day..

“on a scale of 10 to 10, how bad is kang yeosang’s cooking?”

“what?”

“answer the question, (y/n).”

“woo, it’s 3 a.m.”

the next day, you explained that you were merely invited by your classmates to that particular cafe because one of them was a former employee there.

he childishly ignored you with crossed arms and a subtle pout.

“your jajangmyeon is much better. they didn’t even like the food there!”

he finally perks up with a large smile.

“wait, really?”

you think he looks endearing with his apron and chef’s hat.

will post cheesy captioned pictures of you after serving you delicately decorated plates of food.

‘two delicious meals for tonight, hehe.’

“gross. did you really have to say that?”

—[ jongho - kinesiology ]

you met him at the university gym and instantly clicked.

found yourself months later agreeing to go out with him.

a giant goofball.

sometimes makes faces at you while you exercise across the gym.

makes sure you watch him when he deadlifts.

loves when you hype him up.

opens all the jars for you.

and cuts all the fruit for you.

“why use a knife when you have my hands, love?”

you nearly choked on your saliva when he punched open the watermelon.

“can we ever just have a perfectly sliced watermelon!?”

“no- unless i break my arm one day.”

insists you jog with him around campus early in the morning.

likes to practice wrapping elastic tape on you.

you own half of his hoodies.

takes you to watch basketball matches.

then challenges you to a match when you go on dates to the park.

will persistently tease you about your poor aim.

and will absolutely not let you have the ball for more than a few seconds.

“stop cheating!”

“i’m not cheating! you just suck!”

joined you in some of your elective classes.

will also wear sleeveless shirts because he knows how flustered you get while his sculpted muscles are on display.

“what did professor kim just say?”

“what?” you tore your gaze from his biceps to glance at his face.

“are you staring at my arms again?” he snickers.

“no,” you say too quickly, face heating quite considerably.

despite his teasing, he’ll always baby you and take care of your needs.

has the cutest gummy smile.

you like to call him your gummy bear.

he hated the name at first, but grew to accept it over time.

likes to randomly pick you up.

sometimes will throw you over his shoulder.

has a habit of patting your thighs.

sometimes asks you to sit on his back while he does push-ups.

your eye bulged at the sight of a mop of ruby hair.

“don’t say anything.”

“you like apples so much you dyed your hair red?”

“i lost a bet.”

“you look cute though.”

you tugged at his tresses, smiling as you admired the shade against his tanned skin.

“baby?” you brushed his bangs away to display his forehead.

“hm?”

“you’re the apple of my eye.”

“i’m-,” he sucked on his teeth and pursed his lips, face scrunching in a mock grimace, “i’m going to throw up.”

[sexyglances]

Tian and His Guilt Over Being a "Replacement" for Torfun

Tian is so wracked with guilt over Torfun's death, and he is so used to thinking his life is worthless that he only sees himself as someone who has ruined her beautiful work and bestowal at Pha Pun Dao. Tian brandishes his "troublemaker" epithet as a self-flagellation device so that every time he hears Torfun's name he can feel pangs of guilt that he can never live up to her immaculate legacy.

Tian may be the one currently at Pha Pun Dao, but he feels with every guilt-ridden fiber of his being that it should be her there, not him. To himself, any value he adds is nothing compared to what she would have done.

But here's the thing, Torfun was not a savior or a saint. Yes, she had a good moral character, and she was committed to doing good work beyond what the typical person does, but that shouldn't be used to deify and idealize her. Torfun was still only a regular person. A regular person who was trying her best to serve the people at Pha Pun Dao in any way she could. Just like Tian is only a regular person trying his best to serve the people at Pha Pun Dao in any way he can. But again, Tian carries so much guilt and shame with him that he can only see himself as the cheap counterfeit version of Torfun. And while he does acknowledge when he has accomplished something good, he is also quick to throw that feeling away once something goes awry.

Every setback he has is a reminder to himself that he is a fraud. Torfun is the person the village deserves, he's just the person who made her go away and replaced her with himself, an easily broken knockoff that ends up hindering situations more than helping them.

However, what Tian lacks the perspective to see is that while Torfun may be gone, what is important is that Tian is still there. He is still alive and is making the active choices to be in Pha Pun Dao. These choices are coming from within himself, not from Torfun. These choices are a part of him, part of his character. Tian believes he is nothing but a curse, but what kind of curse keeps making the active choice to help others like Tian is doing? What kind of fraud is sincere in their intentions like Tian is? It's Tian himself that is no longer letting his life be a meaningless nothing.

And while no person can be the perfect stand-in for another person, there is immense value in learning from someone else and continuing on with what they shared and building on their legacy. Tian isn't letting the progress that Torfun started stagnate. Unfortunately, Tian has conditioned himself to focus more on the bad consequences of his actions than on the good influence he has had. Not to mention, all the bad outcomes Tian feels guilt over happened because of someone else's greed and destruction, not his own. His friend drove extra recklessly and ran over Torfun because he wanted the car if he won the bet, the villagers lost their tea buyers because the buyers couldn't cheat them anymore, the school was burned down because Sakda didn't want anything encroaching on his tea monopoly. None of these bad outcomes came directly from choices Tian made himself. He may have been at the beginning of these events, but he didn't make the choices at the end. The actual choices Tian has learned to make are not out of greed.

Torfun's notebook that Tian has kept in his possession may have been something he stole in shame, but also, Tian having that notebook with him unlocked a part of himself that goes beyond simply what a troublemaker does in shame. He read what Torfun wrote and applied it to his own life and made it his own. She may have described the schoolkids in the notebook, but it was Tian's choice to take that knowledge and actively leave his life and go to Pha Pun Dao to continue teaching them. She may have written her recipe for bi-color stir-fried veggies down, but Tian didn't just let it languish on the page, he actively chose to learn the recipe, make the dish, and improve his cooking skills instead of relying on others to feed him. She may have written a page describing Phupha as the Green Giant, but Tian and Phupha's relationship grew through the fellowship of Tian's active desire to help Pha Pun Dao, it didn't just magically appear because he used a simple description. These are the real consequences of his actions (plus so many more like coming up with the souvenir tea bag idea), not whatever bad acts others might take in response.

Tian's willingness to be humble, to serve others, to stay and forge human connections in order to help build a community is coming from inside himself. That's not what a simple troublemaker does. The actions Tian takes have evolved past Torfun's legacy and have become something new and different from her. She may have been a catalyst for this change in Tian, but she's gone now, and he's here, and this drive he has, this drive to keep helping, is all his own.

He just can't see the value in that, in himself, yet.

[dracosaurusrex]

D.L.M

Part 3 to Notebook!

Summary: Draco Lucius Malfoy. His thoughts and the sound of his name.

Pairing: Draco Malfoy x Gryffindor!Reader

A/N: This newbie of a writer is thankful for your support! I’m trying to experiment with my style a little bit more, but I hope this chapter suffices. The goal was to be a little bit more show than tell, but I’m still working on it!  :)

Anyone who passed by Draco in the library might’ve thought there was something wrong with him, because at this point the boy had spent nearly thirty minutes reminiscing the memory, staring at the ceiling all while remaining fixed to the seat you were in previously. Ever since that very moment, he made an effort in pushing thoughts of you away. He very much preferred to control how much impact you had on him by keeping the interactions minimal and straight to the point. Thankfully for him you made that easy, for you only spoke to him when needed. It was so easy that it bothered him at the same time, leaving him in a constant tug-of-war state between his mind and heart. Before allowing himself to be consumed with frustration any further, Draco took a stand to leave the room and mindlessly walked about, so that he could clear his mind.

As soon as he stepped out of the library, he immediately took note of how quickly the night was drawing in. His feet took him through various corridors, making the route to the Great Hall purposefully long in hopes that he wouldn’t see you. The sight of you would only serve as a catalyst to plunge him deeper into his emotions. He broke out of thought when his ears began to fill with the loud chatters of students occupying the hall. He was greeted with the familiar warm lighting and savory aromas from the dinner that was being served tonight. As he scanned the Slytherin table for his group friends, his focus landed on you. Of course the Gryffindors had to be seated next to his house. In addition to that, he couldn’t help but notice how cheerful you were around your friends. Your eyes were focused on the two girls sitting across from you as you held your fork midway, about to place the food in your mouth until you started laughing at something either Hermione or Ginny said. The warmth of the lighting in the room made your features illuminate even more. He smiled inwardly, but was pulled away from your laughter when Pansy called him over.

“Draco! What are you doing standing there? Come here!” The girl beckoned him to join her and his group of friends, to which he obliged. Before he took his seat, he focused his vision to where you are, seeing that a wide smile was still plastered on your face. You and your friends had your attention on Ron as he and Hermione jokingly argued with one another. Your eyes glittered and it seemed like you tried to prevent yourself from laughing. Failing at that, another giggle escaped your lips and your group followed. The scene only lasted for a couple of seconds, but Draco couldn’t deny the envy he felt for your circle. 

“You okay, mate? You stood at the entrance of the hall for three solid minutes.” Blaise asked. “You’ve been acting weird since potions. What’s going on, Dray?” Draco reached for a sausage and placed it on his plate.

“Nothing’s going on. No need for you to concern yourself.” He replied nonchalantly. The truth was that Draco was far from normal. The platinum-haired boy was usually vibrant around this time of day. His dinner time typically consisted of conversations about their days, which were often laced with several insults and obnoxious laughter. But, tonight he was wrapped in scenarios of you and him in his mind. When he tied the moment you shared in potions to the groundbreaking sensation of your first interaction together, he couldn’t help but allow those thoughts to fill him. The pull that he felt towards you was strong, and he wanted more. ‘But how?’ 

Breaking his thoughts, Blaise interjected once again, “You looking rather sickly, mate.” This time, his group chimed their concerns as well.

“I’m fine! What’s up with you all getting up in my business?” Draco said coldly. He didn’t intend to. He even felt a little bad as he started to fumble with the sad piece of sausage that sat lonely on his plate. He felt eyes on him as he reached out to add some potatoes to his meal. An awkward silence lingered in the air until Goyle cleared his throat.

“So, Crabbe, how’s your face feeling?” Recalling the incident at potions, Draco burst in laughter to which Blaise and the rest of the group followed. 

“Seriously ridiculous, Crabbe! I’ve never seen anyone mix up so many ingredients in my life. How brilliant!” The weight of his emotions slightly lifted from his shoulders, so he took an opportunity to steal a glance at you. Eye contact was made for a good two seconds before you looked back to your friends with a small smile plastered on your face. Feeling like his normal self again, he found himself engaged in conversation with his friends.

“Hey, so a trip to Hogsmeade is scheduled for this weekend. Are you guys planning to go?” Pansy asked. The air was much more lively now.

“Down for a round of butterbeers? This week has been a monster.” Everyone was in agreement to the suggestion, but Draco’s thoughts once again drifted to you. He imagined what it would be like to go on a date with you. He subconsciously slapped himself hard, which drew back the attention on him.

“Merlin, you are acting so weird today. First, you look like you’ve seen a ghost, and then you’re cold. You seem to have pulled yourself out of your rut, but here you are slapping yourself.” Blaise listed the number of observations much to Draco’s embarrassment.

“With all those observations, I am beginning to assume that you’ve got a crush on me. Is that so, Zabini?” He smirked, earning a punch in return. Blaise, on the other hand, began to piece the fragments of info together. After all, there’s never been a night where the platinum blonde was silent. His usual arrogance was at a low today. His emotions constantly fluctuated throughout the time he was there. There must’ve been something or someone who knocked him over real bad for him to act that way. He couldn’t believe it at first, but he didn’t deny the possibility of Draco actually having feelings for someone.

“Wait a second. Does Malfoy have a crush on someone???” Blaise asked a little too loud. Draco choked on his food in response, and started glaring.

With shock of the lack of his friend’s response, he exclaimed, “No way! You do!”

“D-Do not! You’re an idiot for thinking up of something so stupid!” He defended. He never stutters, yet he stuttered within that one second, causing his friends to peak more interest. Curiosity loomed through the minds of those around him before the boy was bombarded with questions. Draco tried his best to contain his blush, but his ears grew warm and red, revealing himself even more. His image was dissolving at a fast rate and he grew desperate to prevent it from getting worse. He made sure to kill Blaise when they got to the common room. 

“Who is it!? I must know!” Pansy said, extending the ‘must’ in her statement. Draco had enough. The frustration that he wanted to avoid had erupted in response to the invasion of privacy that he felt.

“You don’t have to know, and it’s absolutely no one!” He finally exclaimed as he stood up to leave the hall. While he approached the exit, he locked eyes with you again. Concern filled them as they followed his figure into the night. You took a look at his friends who were left dumbfounded at the Slytherin table. Although you weren’t involved in the altercation, you felt the awkward tension from where you were, so you started fumbling with the leftovers that occupied your plate to mentally excuse yourself. Your friends paid no attention to the events that occurred, but it ate away at you and only left you in your thoughts. The only thing that distracted you at this point were the cookies that have been served for dessert. Remembering the first time you met the boy, you took one and wrapped it carefully with a spare handkerchief you kept in the pockets of your robe. After storing the delicacy, you took a stand and bid your friends goodnight not long after Draco had left, and started your way to the Gryffindor tower.

The cold breeze hit your face as you remembered the events from today. You remembered the countless moments where you felt your heart pound against your chest. You recalled the intensity of the eye contact that was made during potions. The silent affection that was shared between the both of you through the form smiles and glittering eyes. You remembered the shock that overcame you when Draco met you in the library, which soon turned to embarrassment due to your messiness, only to be further replaced with admiration for his small act of kindness. You took a break from walking and fished out the familiar green notebook. The mere sight of it made your heart beat a little faster just as it did when he placed it amongst your belongings. You didn’t hesitate to take in the bits of details that were characteristic to him as you resumed your route to the common room. If you were being honest with yourself, you were doubtful of a chance to actually examine it once you got there. House rivalries prevailed, and anything that was associated with Slytherin was strictly looked down upon.

‘How pathetic’ you thought as you approached a corner. 

Without a second to spare, you shifted your mind to the cover. His name was already embedded on it, but when you flipped to the very first page, you saw that his name was written on there as well. However, it was not quite the same. It was written in a slightly different fashion that conjured butterflies within you.

You looked around to see if anyone was around before you read his full name aloud.

“Draco Lucius Malfoy” Admiring the sound of his name from your lips, you repeated it several times--each time reeling in memories of the brief encounters you had with him. You couldn’t help but smile to yourself.

“What a handsome name--Draco Lucius Malfoy….” You closed your eyes and envisioned him before saying it again.

“Draco Lucius…” His face appeared in your mind once again. That boy with the platinum-blonde hair, sleek attire, and lean stature, with the silver eyes and pale skin, with a voice that was alarmingly silky and alluring--the name that belonged to that boy was...

“Draco...Lucius...Malfoy.” You say once more with adoration. Although the sound of it was pleasant to your ears, the moment you had to yourself came to a crashing halt.

“You might wear it out if you keep saying it, sweetheart.” You felt bricks--mental bricks--falling down on you. If your heart rate wasn’t sped up fast enough, it increased even more. Your senses were livid at the sound of the voice you wish didn’t belong to Draco, but it was definitely his voice. With eyes wide, breathing heavy, you turned around frantically to be met with the devil himself. You were stunned with the way the moonlight caressed his features when he came out of the darkness. He was incredibly handsome, and you couldn’t let out a noise. Your e/c eyes scanned him, but ended up becoming fixed to his piercing silver hues. He took a step towards you with a smirk gracing his lips. Before he could come even closer, you turned to walk away as swiftly as you possibly can. You stopped a bit after hearing your name being called out.

“Y/N!” You turned around to look at him. His smile had widened, and his hands were shoved in his suit pockets. You waited expectantly, curious about the words that he was going to use next. You could imagine him teasing you to no end with this encounter. What came out of his mouth, however, shocked you to your core.

“I-I like the way you say my name!” You didn’t have a response for him. Instead, you clutched his notebook tighter to your chest, and ran as quick as you can. Your heart was racing and your face was hot. Yet you knew that your feelings had deepened.

Once you arrived to your dorm, you were literally and figuratively breathless. You stashed your bag on the side of your desk, and threw yourself onto your bed. As your hold on the object loosened, a smile of disbelief filled your expression. 

‘What a day’

A/N: Once again, feedback is very much appreciated! Thank you so much, and I hope you enjoyed!

Here’s Part 2!

Taglist: @m-winchester-67 @bbeauttyybbx @un-limit-edd @poetontheblock @tttyrus @stretchyice

[recentanimenews]

SPOILER-FILLED REVIEW: Talking About That Evangelion 3.0+1.0 Ending

  A note on safety: The following movie review undertook the strictest of safety procedures to watch the anime film in cinemas in Japan, including washing hands with disinfectant before and after, sitting in seats apart from others, going to a cinema outside of the busy metro area, and wearing a mask during the entire runtime of the movie. We strongly urge everyone to follow the recommended safety protocol in your country and always wear a mask when in public — not just for your sake, but everyone else’s as well.

  For those who are outside of Japan and want to know how the latest (and final) Evangelion film stacks up, we have already published our completely spoiler-free review. For those that want to know more, please read on.

    After the airing of the NHK documentary which followed Hideaki Anno and the four-year production of Evangelion: 3.0+1.0 Thrice Upon a Time, the unofficial “spoiler ban” was lifted by Studio Khara on March 22. This means, as much as Khara is concerned, we are free to discuss anything and everything Evangelion: 3.0+1.0, like how [omitted for spoilers] kills [spoilers] and LCL [spoilers]. 

  Seriously though, if you don’t want to read any spoilers for Evangelion: 3.0+1.0, then leave. Immediately. Close the tab, don’t scroll down.

  This is a warning.

  I’m not kidding.

    I’m putting an image here as a buffer. It's sweet right?

    If you scroll past the next image you will be spoiled for everything in the film. This is your last warning.

  "Asuka" as a kid

  Welcome to Evangelion: 3.0+1.0 Thrice Upon a Time where I may have lied in my previous review, cause things go tumbling down — but in a good way. You’ll have to forgive me if I don’t recall the exact right terminology here on out: between the Doors of Guf, the hundreds of Evangelion models and ships we see, and that ending, it’s hard to keep it all in one head. That’s why this film has four directors. 

  If you’re already here, you’ve probably read the synopsis going around the internet right now. Yes, it explains what happens on screen, but experiencing it is a different story. Evangelion 3.0+1.0 takes a lot of cues from The End of Evangelion in its final act, but prior to that it is mostly a story of growth for Shinji, where he rejects being depressed (after a heart to heart with black-suit Rei, who then turns into LCL), learns that things aren’t 100% his fault. Shinji goes on to tackle his source of depression head-on; owning up to his past mistakes and taking down his father, who is now literally just a vessel of his own desires.

  Unholy Gendo

  Something truly missing from Evangelion 3.0, and one of the reasons I loved Evangelion 2.22, was just the gang hanging out together and interacting with the — very scarred — world around them. That scar has vastly grown throughout the 14 years Shinji was missing from the actual 3rd impact (the one at the end of 2.22 was a “near-impact event”) which saw the world covered in the red haze we saw in 3.0. Luckily, WILLE has purification pods that keep the core-ification of the world at bay. We saw that being used in the 12-minute preview, but throughout the film, they’re used extensively to keep the Evangelion wandering the landscapes on the red earth away from the villages that are helping the WILLE cause. They need to get food from somewhere.

  This is where we spend a lot of time learning how the characters from Shinji’s class all survived, got paired off, and that Asuka is staying (and is probably in love) with Kensuke. She confesses to Shinji that she loved him when they were kids, but 28-year-old Asuka can’t keep loving someone who hasn’t changed in 14 years. Shinji does accept the confession, saying to her that he loved her too, and she turns into LCL — though that’s in the Anti-Universe and after Asuka meets the “original” Asuka (I’ll get into that). As I said, it’s The End of Evangelion 2.0.

  Rei discovering herself in the village

  One of the nicest parts of the film is black-suit Rei discovering human emotion and society in the village. Being a clone that likely spent all of her time locked in her room (and without the love of the now inhuman Gendo, which original Rei got), it was unlikely that she learned anything that makes humans human. The concept of “hello” and babies from Toji and Hikari confuses her as she finds a place herself in this village. Admittedly, it was sad to see her go and turn into LCL (from a lack of LCL exposure), but serving as the catalyst for Shinji to get over himself and face his demons was worth it … I guess?

  After this, Shinji grows up. Even Mari on a re-introductory sniff claims as much. During his time in the village, he discovers how the settlement stays afloat and that the 14-year-old son of Misato and Kaji (the latter perished in the real 3rd impact) helps keep the village alive. A picture of Shinji and Kaji Jr. helps warm Misato’s chilled heart and gives her the confidence to let Shinji pilot Unit 01 again, much to the disdain of multiple members of the WILLE crew.

  All of this is nice. Unlike the despair and hopelessness felt in 3.0, the entire first three parts of the film are uplifting and bring moments of joy. Seeing black-suit Rei smile as she came to terms with herself was just utterly beautiful.

  Then Shinji decides to get in the robot. 

    This is where I’m going to get into the Hideaki Anno talk, because this film, as well as the rest of the anime versions of the Evangelion franchise up to this point, is basically just a self-examination of the man’s mental state. In the spoiler-free review, I called Evangelion: 3.0+1.0 the antithesis of Evangelion: 3.0. And that’s true, but it is also an antithesis to The End of Evangelion: A rejection of the depression Anno felt while creating the 20-plus-year-old film. There’s no doubt in my mind that the journey of Shinji through these Rebuild films is the journey of Anno creating Evangelion, with 3.0 being the lowest point.

  But this isn’t just felt in the story of 3.0+1.0, it’s also felt in the way it was presented. The entire final act of the film is basically a happier version of the “tumbling down” scene from The End of Evangelion, just with some more interesting aspects to it along with some inventive filmmaking — including making Lillith’s face live-action. That was haunting.

    This includes the above scene, which got a lot of flak on social media for being very poorly animated when it appeared in a trailer. Even I was confused over the inclusion of such poor animation in what is one of the most hyped anime films of all time. Funnily enough, it was Anno trolling. The scene comes from the ending, where the two Eva’s fight through the history of Evangelion, with this scene either representing a testing stage for CGI or one of the many Evangelion video games. The poor animation makes sense in the film … mostly.

  Over multiple film-like sets, the two Evangelions duke it out — one with Shinji, the other Gendo — over their ideals. This takes them to Misato’s apartment, the school, and even where Pen-Pen (or his offspring, I don’t know how long Penguins live) resides in 3.0+1.0. Before cutting to each of the different scenes, an Eva smashes through the set wall and onto a production stage. 

  I also said in the spoiler-free review that Anno “takes everything he knows about animation and filmmaking to deliver the perfect end to Evangelion,” and it shows when you see the (animated) production stage filled with props, miniature cities, and controls that you’d probably see on a production stage for a live-action Evangelion. Again though, this part is animated.

    Mari at the End

  The surrealness doesn’t end here. When Shinji “wins” and chooses to reset the world without Evangelion, the animation breaks. Shinji devolves into key animation, then layouts, then into a storyboard, which is then broken by Mari bringing color back into Shinji’s world on that beach. No “how disgusting” here, only happiness.

  The film ends with an adult Mari and an adult Shinji at Ube Station. As the music of Hikaru Utada’s “One Last Kiss” swelled up through the speakers, the animated backgrounds slowly transitioned into a live-action drone shot of the area surrounding the hometown of Hideaki Anno. 

  A poster for Evangelion: 3.0+1.0 showing Shinji on the tracks outside Ube Station, which I discussed when the poster was first released. 

  This is how I know Hideaki Anno is done with Evangelion. While yes, he has said he is done and feels no personal connection to the franchise anymore, the end of the film is a deeply personal one that clearly shows the anime creator cares about his creation and is now happy enough to see leave home and become its own thing — if anyone else chooses to pick it up.

  Shin Evangelion (the Japanese name for the film) is the true form of Evangelion that Anno set out to create over 25 years ago. While it wouldn’t have looked anything like it does now, the emotion poured into one of the longest animated films ever made makes that point as clear as the bright blue sea.

  Some other various interesting spoiler points:

  I’m not sure if character designer Yoshiyuki Sadamoto was lying about him not knowing Mari’s story and just making that one-shot chapter of the Evangelion manga on a whim or whether Anno took what Sadamoto wrote and expanded on it, cause Mari was right there in school with Gendo and Yui exactly as the chapter laid it out. Unless she’s also a clone...

There’s a really good shot of CG Asuka trying to force-feed Shinji, which was a direct evolution from this test footage back in 2018.

On the topic of Asuka, she had a small version of a purification pod in her eye that, when opened, unleashed an angel, and in turn let her meet her “original.” It’s not explained whether the original is Langley Soryu from the TV anime series or not.

Also, she’s a clone, like Rei and Kaworu as part of the “Shikinami” series. Interestingly, Mari Makinami also has “nami” in her name...

Ritsuko did nothing but shoot Gendo, mimicking the scene from The End of Evangelion. The shot was as useless as her character arc in the Rebuild films.

This film has to be set in at least the third continuity of Evangelion, as the TV series is directly referenced in the production stage and thrice does mean three...

Sakura is one of the most grounded characters in the film, with her asking the true question of “why the heck are you letting him in ANOTHER Evangelion?!” Let’s hope the live-action world she is now in is good to her.

      Evangelion: 3.0+1.0 Thrice Upon a Time is currently showing in theaters across Japan, there’s no word on an international release at this stage.

        Daryl Harding is a Japan Correspondent for Crunchyroll News. He also runs a YouTube channel about Japan stuff called TheDoctorDazza, tweets at @DoctorDazza, and posts photos of his travels on Instagram. 

  Do you love writing? Do you love anime? If you have an idea for a features story, pitch it to Crunchyroll Features.

By: Daryl Harding

[wickwrites]

Burning as a Motif for Humanity in Violet Evergarden

I think, when watching Violet Evergarden, most of us picked up on fire as a motif for Violet’s trauma – the violence and destruction she witnessed in the war, and the violence and destruction she engendered with her own hands. I’m not going to go into this too much because it’s all pretty self-explanatory, if not trite, but here are some quick examples of fire as a motif for her trauma just to lay the groundwork for the rest of the essay:

In frame 1 (episode 8), Violet draws first blood on the battlefield, and the once contained fire from the felled soldiers’ lanterns spread quickly through the forest, a symbol for how one small act of violence can cascade into large scale destruction. In frame 2, Gilbert stares at the carnage in front of him, horrified. In frame 3, the major is shot, and all we get to see is a screen of flames. In frame 4 (episode 12), Merkulov stares into a fire as he schemes about re-kindling the war.

I want to follow this (well trodden) opinion up with a more encompassing statement. That is, fire, in Violet Evergarden, is not limited to representing the destructive power of violence and trauma. Instead, it is a motif for humanity itself – an embodiment of the full range of experiences and emotions that make us human.  

To show this, I’m going to start off at the beginning of Violet’s journey, focusing on how her disconnect (from herself as well as others) is illustrated in episode one. For instance, her initial struggle to move her now mechanical arms as she sits in her hospital bed in the opening sequence is an excellent embodiment of her dissociation from her own body and lack of agency. I want to, however, focus on two scenes that are particularly relevant for our discussion:

First, the scene where Violet spills tea on her hand:

And second, the scene where Hodgins insists that Violet is burning:

These scenes are similar: in both, someone asserts that Violet must be in pain, specifically due to burning, and in both, Violet rejects that statement. In the first, however, that burning is physical. And in the second, that burning is emotional. Regardless, Violet is so removed from her own body that she is incapable of feeling either. Her mechanical hand is therefore an embodiment of her inhumanity (ie. her “dollness” or “weapon-ness”). Like her, it is cold, mechanical, insensitive, without life or agency. After all, up until now, all she’s been doing is killing on command, without the ability to think for herself, experience her own pain, or sympathize with her victims’ pain.

When the screen shows that Hodgins is indeed correct, that Violet is literally on fire (frame 1), that fire is depicted with restraint. Flames engulfs Violet’s body, but those flames are from a streetlamp enclosed in glass. It is controlled and distant. This encapsulates Violet’s current state; she is literally on fire, but that fire is so compartmentalized and suppressed, and she is so far removed from her own experience, that she is incapable of feeling it.

In frame 2, we are viewing Violet in a flashback, from Hodgin’s point of view. Although we’re offered a close up shot of her bloodied hands, we see, about two cuts later, that Hodgin is actually observing Violet from afar (frame 2.5). This distance demonstrates that he cannot bring himself to reach out to her, something that Hodgin confesses he feels guilty about literally 5 seconds later. They were, at that point in time, and perhaps even now, unable to connect.

In frames 3 and 4, Hodgin is speaking again. We get this super far shot of Violet’s body. The camera is straight on, objective, and unfeeling. This unsympathetic framing has two functions. First, it distances us from Violet. Our inability to see the details on her face and her relatively neutral body language gives us, the audience, no real way inidication her thoughts. Second, it distances Violet from herself. As someone who experiences dissociative symptoms from PTSD, this is a very poignant way of framing what it feels like to be removed from your own experience. Hodgin’s line, “You’ll understand what I’m saying one day. And, for the first time, you’ll notice all your burn scars,” further drives home the sense that Violet is completely estranged from herself. It almost feels like we are looking at her, from her own detached point of view.

We’re going to move on now, but we’ll get back to these frames later in the analysis, so hold onto them.

Throughout Violet’s journey, fire comes up again and again. Specifically, it shows up in moments of emotional intimacy, connection, and healing. Let’s see what I mean by this:

I have here a collection of moments that all occur at the same narrative point in their respective mini-stories: the moment where one character reaches out to another, sympathizes with them, and literally pulls them of their darkness. For example, frame 1 (episode 3) shows Violet bringing a letter from Luculia to her brother. It expresses Luculia’s gratitude and love for him, and ultimately mends their relationship. In frame 2 (episode 4), Violet and Iris share a moment of emotional intimacy and connection, which is the beginning of Iris’ story’s resolution. In frame 3 (episode 9), Violet’s suicidal despondency is interrupted by the mailman, bringing her a heartwarming letter from all her friends. In frame 4 (episode 11), Violet comforts a dying solder by a fireplace.

It’s not that other modes of lighting do not exist – modern looking lamps show up repeatedly in the show. Even Iris’ rural family has them, so I can reasonably assume that, no, the above moments do not all coincidentally use lamps because that’s all there is in this universe; the usage of fire during moments of catharsis is deliberate, and establishes that fire can also bring hope, kindness, and love.

Now that we’ve explored the dual nature of fire as both destructive/constructive, painful/cathartic, let’s go onto the thesis of my essay. Why do I say that being on fire is to be human? Let’s go back to the scene where Hodgin tells Violet she’s on fire (episode 1, on the left), and compare it to the scene where Violet finally realizes that Hodgin was right and that she is on fire (episode 7, on the right):

In these sequences, there is a notable shift in framing and perspective. In frame 1b, we finally get to see Violet’s blood-stained hands from her point of view, as opposed to from Hodgin’s point of view in 1a. Violet becomes aware of her past as an actual agent choosing to kill, shown through the first-person point of view. Similarly, the medium, straight on shot of Violet looking down at her hands (frame 2a) is replaced with an intimate first-person, close-up view (frame 2b). In shots 3a and 3b, the difference in framing is most pronounced. In 3a, we get this straight on, long shot. In frame 3b, the camera’s detachment is replaced by a claustrophobic closeness. While this framing does an excellent job at conveying the panicked feeling of “everything crashing down all at once”, it also demonstrates Violet’s new-found awareness of herself. While before, the camera was used to alienate, now it is used to create a sense of painful awareness and intimacy.

These series of shots are the first in the entire show, I believe, of Violet's body from her own point of view. Their co-incidence with her awakening self-awareness characterizes the state of “being in one’s body” as a precondition to self-connection, or more specifically, to Violet’s understanding of herself as neither a weapon nor a doll, but as a human. Correspondingly, this pivotal moment serves as a catalyst for her subsequent emotional development. From this episode on towards the finale, we’re launched into a heart wrenching sequence of events: Violet’s desperate grieving for Gilbert’s apparent death, her attempted suicide driven by newfound grief, and most importantly, Violet receiving her first written letter, an act that is strongly representative of genuine human connection. Following these events, Violet’s emotional connection to both herself and others only continues to grow; during her two final jobs of the story, she breaks down crying in response to the suffering of her clients, demonstrating a level of compassion—if not empathy—that she seems to have never been able to tap into before.

At the same time, Violet acquires a new sense of agency, making plot-driving decisions that no longer require other characters’ validations. Most poignantly, in episode 12, she chooses to stay on the train to fight Merkulov, explicitly going against Dietfried’s order for her to leave. Her reason?

She doesn’t want anyone to die anymore.

And it’s this moment, for me, that consolidated her as a character with true agency. Up until now, all her major decisions have been framed in relation to Gilbert: she killed in the war because Gilbert ordered her to, and she became an Auto Memories Doll because she wanted to understand Gilbert’s enigmatic “I love you”. Now, however, her motivation is purely her own—she fights, simply because she doesn’t want anyone else to die. It’s a line implies an intimate knowledge of loss. It’s a sentiment motivated by compassion. It’s a raw and extraordinarily human thing to say.

When Violet embarks on her journey to decipher Gilbert’s love, she is devoid of many traits we consider inherent and possibly even unique to being human—suffering, compassion, altruism, love, agency, and the interplay between them. As an Auto Memories Doll, she learns to live, experiencing all these emotions she had never had the luxury to experience before, and we quickly realize that she cannot know what love is without simultaneously wrestling with her trauma. She learns that yes, sometimes the fire destroys and sometimes it burns, but sometimes it thaws too, and you cannot have one without the other. You cannot choose what the fire does to you; you cannot choose what you want to feel. Thus, to be on fire is to know the anguish of its destruction, but it is also, and more importantly, to know the catharsis of human connection, to be the warm flame that pulls someone else out of the dark, to be pulled out of the dark yourself. To be on fire is to be human.

[bytheangell]

I Just Want to Feel Something Today

(A s02e11 inspired fic) (Read on AO3)

“Emotions serve a purpose. You don’t go through what you just went through, witnessing all that death and not feel something, Jace! It’s not good for you! Just feel something. Whether you think it clouds your judgment or not.”

Clary’s words catch Jace by surprise. He expects anger, denial, frustration… and he supposes, in a way, that’s exactly what he gets. Except instead of being aimed at him, those emotions come from Clary on behalf of himself. She’s upset, but she’s upset because he keeps pushing away anything that would make him actually stop and deal with everything that’s happening. She’s not mad at him, but at the way he is thanks to years of careful conditioning to push his emotions aside and lock them away so they aren’t a distraction.

And she’s right. It isn’t that he hasn’t felt anything, it’s that he’s buried every feeling he gets the moment it starts to form. He’s ignored every negative emotion because he hasn’t had time to deal with any of them, and he’s pushed away any remotely positive emotion he’s felt because he doesn’t deserve to feel anything good, not now, not after everything he’s done.

How long has it been since he let himself actually feel something, good or bad, all the way through? He certainly has plenty of emotions to choose from. Plenty of moments and events to focus on.

Not here, though. Not now. There’s still work to be done and plans to be made. He’s done enough damage already that a few more hours of keeping everything neatly tucked away won’t hurt. So he waits until he’s certain Clary is long gone and calls the elevator to face the rest of his day.

---

It isn’t long before Jace finds himself on the rooftop of the Institute, thankful for the solitude it provides him. He hadn’t realized how stifling the walls of the Institute felt until he’s outside of them, breathing in the fresh air, letting the slight breeze run through his hair the closer he walks to the edge of the roof overlooking the city.

It’s easier here, he thinks, to try and let go. This isn’t the first time he’s escaped to the roof to be alone and process things, and he’s sure it won’t be the last. It’s been so long that he wonders if he remembers how to let it all go… no, not go. How to let it all in.

“You’re hurting,” Alec had said as they sparred earlier. And Jace was - he still is. The hurt never stops, not now, not when there’s evidence of the pain he’s caused at every turn. It’s in the stress lines on Alec’s face, in the way the other Shadowhunters won’t meet his gaze, and the way the Downworlders would meet his gaze - but with nothing but hatred in their eyes. The pain is the easiest thing to let himself feel because it’s what he thinks he deserves the most - the disappointment, the anger, the despair.

He feels his chest tighten with emotion, too many to pick apart and name, and does his best to fight the urge to swallow it all back down and walk away, back inside where he can justify putting back on the mask of Being Okay.

Instead, Jace allows his mind to move on to something else he’s been effectively ignoring. Because after the Soul Sword his next biggest problem is Simon and the fact that he’s a Daylighter now, with all signs pointing to Jace’s blood being the catalyst.

Jace feels nothing but dread at the idea of this being true. There was so much going on at the time that he hadn’t considered the possibility that his blood is the reason Simon can walk in the daylight now. If that’s true it doesn’t just put him at risk, it puts Clary at risk, too. And not just from the other vampires but from the Clave. The Clave would hate this revelation. Worse, the clave would fear it, fear the possibility that Nephilim blood could be used to rid the vampires of their biggest weakness. There’s no telling what they’d do to him and Clary if they found out, and that’s a thought that genuinely worries him in a way that not much else does.

“No matter what, your secret’s safe with me. (...) You have nothing to worry about, I got your back.”

Loath as Jace is to admit it, even just to himself, he does trust Simon and believes when Simon swears that he isn’t going to say anything. If it were anyone else Jace would be worried they’d use the knowledge for blackmail later, to hold it over his head as leverage, but it isn’t anyone else. It’s Simon. And yeah, Jace trusts him, for whatever that’s worth.

Somewhere between the jealousy and the nearly dying to save Simon’s life, there’s witty banter and mutual appreciation. Simon has nothing to lose and everything to gain from sharing their secret with the other vampires, but he won’t. Jace thinks of Simon’s attempts to hug him, of casually affectionate touches and warm smiles and the fact that he’s… hell, they’re friends, aren’t they?

Clary stood by him out of perceived sibling loyalty. Izzy and Alec would always do the same. But Simon? Jace has so few people on his side that Simon’s loyalty isn’t something he takes lightly. Surprisingly, the idea of having Simon so resolutely in his corner is such an overwhelming realization that the relief of it brings the first tears to Jace’s eyes. Once they start they don’t stop, especially not as his thoughts turn to Clary.

“What else are you hiding from me?” Jace wishes he could blame Valentine for his fallout with Clary, but he knows that wouldn’t be true. It’s Jace’s fault he didn’t tell Clary sooner - he had plenty of opportunities, plenty of time, but more than that: she deserved to know. He’d just been too scared, too selfish to do it. He said he didn’t want to ruin things with her and Simon but that was just another lie. He wasn’t afraid she’d leave Simon for him once she knew, he was afraid that she wouldn’t. That he could have her now, and she could have him, but she wouldn’t want him the way he still wants her.

Because deep down he’s still just a scared, insecure boy, using that carefully crafted bravado to cover up the truth of what he’s actually afraid of: not being good enough. He knew it couldn’t last forever, but as long as Clary didn’t know she had a choice he could avoid the reality of her not choosing him.

Except now he may have lost her for good, and not just to Simon.

Of course, she doesn’t trust him now. She may never trust him again, and he wouldn’t blame her. He let her down, not for the first time, but arguably the worst time since they met… and that’s saying something, considering everything they’ve been through.

Jace remembers how hurt she looked at the realization that he kept something so important from her, and the tears fall steadily now. He lets that pain in, he lets it mean something. She practically begged him to feel something so it seems only fitting that he feels this the most. Jace closes his eyes against the tears, only to see the image of Clary walking away from him in his mind’s eye. The ache of it knots his stomach, the fear that she may not come back to him, not as a lover or as a friend, is paralyzing.

He lets it in. He feels it, all of it.

The tears continue to fall and Jace continues to feel everything from the past few hours, the past day, the past week. Everything he pushed away. Everything he buried, finally allowed to break through the surface.

Regret. Anger. Relief. Sorrow. Loss. Hope. Fear. Sadness. Love. Pain. Loss.

He feels all of it.

There’s a sound behind him and Jace knows it’s Alec behind him on the rooftop before he ever hears his parabatai speak. He reckons he could take a minute to collect himself and brush this off without Alec pushing it - he already silenced the sobs that shook his entire body only moments before. Another thirty seconds and he could give some bullshit excuse about being upset over Clary and move on to whatever Alec came looking for him to talk about. Alec knows when Jace wants to talk and when he doesn’t, knows when he can push and get something out of Jace and when it was a lost cause. It’s why Alec asked him about the Downworlders and about Clary while they sparred earlier, knowing that Jace needs a side of distraction with his honest conversation. It’s easier to talk between punches, to discuss emotions while simultaneously having a physical release for them.

This? Crying, with no singular reason or cause, just because... just because he tried to face his emotions and became immediately overwhelmed by the weight of it all? He doesn’t do this. They don’t do this. They do eye-rolls and thinly veiled admissions of not being fine - but also not wanting to talk about it - in between hits with a staff. They do brief moments of serious conversation while literally pinned to the ground and unable to escape.

They don’t do falling into each other’s arms in tears... and yet that’s exactly what Jace wants to do right now.

“Jace, you okay?”

No. He isn’t okay, and no amount of sparring is going to fix it this time around. There aren’t enough distractions in the world, which is unfortunate, because they’re about to summon a Greater Demon to the Institute and Jace can’t get his fucking shit together. At least, not on his own. It took Clary’s influence to get him to this point, and he knows what he needs to move further. Maybe not to closure, but to something close.

So he turns around, eyes bloodshot and face streaked with tears, and gives Alec what is probably the most lost, helpless look he’s ever willingly allowed anyone to witness.

Alec doesn’t say he’s sorry, or ask what’s wrong - he simply moves to close the space between them and wraps his arms around Jace, pulling him close. Jace allows himself to be pulled, to be tucked into the firm but gentle embrace of his parabatai.

After a moment Jace tries to pull away, to shrug off Alec’s comfort as the guilt of not deserving it settles again, but Alec holds firm. Jace came up here to be alone, but maybe being alone isn’t what he needs just then. Just like keeping everything bottled up wasn’t what he needed, either. It took Clary to realize that, and it takes Alec’s insistent presence for him to realize that he needs these moments of comfort from his brother that he’d never allow himself otherwise.

They stay this way, silent except for the slowly quieting sobs from Jace until the tears stop completely. Only then does Alec finally loosen his grip around him enough for Jace to pull back.

“Feeling things is overrated,” Jace manages, and the words startle a laugh out of Alec despite the situation.

“Clary?” Alec hazards a guess, not that it’s a difficult conclusion to reach.

“Clary,” Jace confirms. “Among other things.”

“Do you want to talk about it?” Alec offers, sounding as uncertain in asking as Jace is in his answer.

“No,” Jace admits. Except he’s starting to realize what he wants isn’t always what he needs.

Jace sighs.

“But maybe I should.”