#this would be one HELL of a callback

[guardianspirits13]

It's been 7 long years.

The final season of Percy Jackson and the Olympians has just begun to release.

The Ares and Apollo cabins are in a dispute over ownership for the flying chariot.

The counselors sit around a table in the Big House.

Percy has just learned that he's (probably) gonna die in the next month, when Clarisse and Michael begin to bicker. Percy has had it up to here.

He starts clapping rhythmically. There is a lull in the room as they stare at him.

He claps faster.

"Oh golly, the road's getting bumpy, cause I've got me some friends who just can't get along-"

[umblrspectrum]

i love this brand of image so much

[ceaselesswatchersspecialboy]

Unlikely but what if in TMAGP at some point they hear the last tape of TMA and specifically Basira’s ‘I’m sorry, and good luck’. I think that would send me to the shadow realm.

[taketheringtolohac]

like on the one hand I feel bad for the guy who was complaining to his friends that everything out of peoples mouth was something about sex or cock or penis (which, not even true! but whatever) bc clearly someone did not warn him that people were going to be saying shut during the movie (as evident by him saying to them “just watch the fucking movie”) on the other hand like. fuck you man you’re going to this whole thing and that’s part of it???? sorry that you didn’t like it some of us were having a good time and like, doing our thing. which is again, the thing you do when you watch the movie, generally speaking. sorry you didn’t know but also man at least get a few blocks away from the theater

[sayangrafayel]

LADS react you knocking someone out for insulting your man and firmly saying "That's what you get for insulting my husband!"

A fun request and also a callback to my old post HAHAHA. How would they react to this? And the fact that you guys are not even married yet?

Sylus, Xavier, Rafayel, Zayne, Caleb.

Sylus

Are you joking. This man would be so proud of you. He wasn't even bothered by the insult, he even secretly thanks the stranger because he loves this badass ruthless side of you.

And also, you firmly saying he's your husband? He's already thinking of which ring he should get you because he loves the idea of him being "husband" all the time.

The next day you see him browsing for rings, "What.. are you doing?" "Well, you called me your husband so I thought I should really get you a ring. If it happens again, the ring would hurt them even more."

Xavier

Was so confused because it happened so fast. I mean, yes, he is fast too but he always brushed it off if someone somehow insults him.

So to see you stand up for him like that was a bit surprising.. but in a good way, because you know he would do the same to you too, right?

"Did you call me your husband?" "Sorry, I was-" "No, I liked it. A lot. We should go to HR and update our relationship status." "Xavier, that's not how this works!!"

Rafayel

After seeing the knock out punch he smiled happily "That's what you get for messing with my bodyguard!" He didn't register the word "husband" at first.

"Oh, so I'm just your bodyguard now? Not bride? I called you my-" He finally registers it "YOU CALLED ME YOUR- WAIT, MY POOR FISHIE BRAIN NEED TO PROCESS THIS."

He calls you his bride quite often but you always act like it wasn't a big deal, while in fact, it was a big deal and you get so giddy hearing it. So this is a form of revenge on him too, in a way.

Zayne

He also didn't care about the insult. Being a doctor, he's used to getting cussed out by upset patients or family of patients, some people grief differently and sometimes they lash out at the doctors and nurses.

So seeing you knock someone out in a single punch and hearing your words made him feel... he actually has someone who stands up for him now. Still, as a doctor, he has to check on the poor (and rude) stranger first. And of course your knuckles!

While applying first aid kit to your knuckles he remembers your words, "Thank you." "Hmm?" "For standing up for me, and for calling me your husband." You start to blush because.. did you really call him that!? You didn't mean to say it out loud! "We should make it official soon, what do you think?"

Caleb

HEAR ME OUT. I would love to have reader knock the stranger out in one punch but what IF- you didn't and they tried to punch back but Caleb stopped it with his evol, making them kneel in front of you?

"Did you really think I'd let you land a punch on my wife?" After making the man apologize to you, the rest went by a blur because it happened so fast and Caleb wouldn't let you see it. (I mean you remember what happened to Viper right?)

He came back to you with that familiar smile that you love so much, "You called me your husband!!!" "Caleb, what the hell happened-" "Can you call me that again? Your husband? Say it again, please!"

[iicaru2]

astarion’s character development is incredible to me because of the sheer amount of detail and accuracy. he doesn’t change entirely as a person after he kills cazador— he mentions himself that he keeps thinking about it, even though it’s all over. which makes sense, since 200+ years of trauma isn’t going to go away after a night.

but after killing cazador, and giving up ascension, he’s so much lighter. the usual harshness he has in his tone of voice is dulled, if not entirely absent in certain dialogues. he still has a long way to go in terms of healing, but he’s finally secure enough to start that process. he’s still him, but a weight has been taken off his shoulders, so he’s finally able to live without constant hyper-vigilance, looking over his shoulder for danger.

even the way that he refers to cazador changes: in almost every instance prior to completing his personal quest, he speaks cazador’s name with hatred. viciously. afterwards, he says his name like it’s just that. a name. someone that’s gone, and inconsequential, who can’t hurt him anymore.

i think my favorite callback is that, in the conversation you have with him after long resting, whether you romanced him or not, he thanks you for talking him out of it. now that he’s out of that hell, he’s able to see just how much continuing down that pattern of abuse would have changed and ruined him. specifically, the last line he says is “this is a gift, you know. thank you - i won’t forget it.” which is the exact same line he says after you allow him to drink your blood way back in act one.

as someone with ptsd and some pretty specific trauma, astarion means quite a lot to me as a character, so i’ll always admire just how much love was put into the way he grows over the course of the game. and, of course, this is a huge reason i can never bring myself to ascend him. he’s easily earned a spot amongst my favorite fictional characters ever and i cannot stress enough how glad i am that a story like his exists.

[princedetectives]

ok but really even without all the dramatic au stuff i like doing to them, i really think atlus accidently made one of the most interesting dynamics from what was definitely just supposed to be a cameo. the second coming of the detective prince and he's so different from the first. from how he is you'd maybe expect akechi to not really care about the title or even be kind of bitter about being placed in the shadow of someone else he hasn't even met, but no,

he actively mirrors naoto. this sweater is the only canonically confirmed callback but i've sniffed out others, even down to the way they hold themselves.

like, clothing is one thing that could just be for the public image, but come on. it's part of his SELF image. his status as the second detective prince is vital to his view of himself.

and q2 all but proves he respects naoto deeply. and it all makes sense because he really is proud of being a detective, of course he'd be a fanboy of one of the most well-known young detectives out there. i can imagine he relates to the image he has of naoto a lot.

and it's not like it places him to live up to the achievements of naoto or anything, to a degree maybe yes, but not enough to the point that it's a burden. because he's piggybacking off of his legacy and blowing it out of the water. akechi is FAMOUS, much more than naoto was, i imagine. people would hear about the first detective prince and go, "who? i only know akechi." the title only benefits him, publicly and personally.

and it'd be so interesting if they met, because it's not like one is living in the others' shadow. akechi has to live up to naoto's reputation because he's the successor to naoto's legacy, placed on his shoulders by the force of the public. naoto has to live up to akechi's reputation because he's the new big thing, he's what everyone is interested now, he's who was chosen to succeed him. they live in each others' shadows. it's an ouroboros of reputation.

i just think they're neat. they'd get along too, i bet. they definitely got along in q2! they're the only ones in the whole world who can relate to each others' experiences of growing up as a detective prince. they're both big nerds. they're both competitive. PLEASE imagine placing these two in the same room together. it would be so INTERESTING.

and don't even get me STARTED on how Crow looks a hell of a lot like naoto's persona

[intrepidacious]

time after time [9]

series summary: After what starts out as a fairly normal mission, you find yourself stuck in a time loop. Which would already be bad enough in itself if it didn’t also mean having to watch Bucky die over and over again.

pairing: bucky barnes x f!reader

word count: 12.9k

chapter warnings: suicidal ideation in a time loop context; general angst; in many ways, this is a callback chapter but also a step forward; is exposition a warning? please note that my blog is rated 18+. minors dni. ageless/empty blogs will be blocked without warning.

a/n: i wasn't sure i was gonna post tonight until like an hour ago but hey, it's friday 13th and i'm feeling lucky 🫶🏼 we're in the home stretch now folks

series masterlist | main masterlist | read on ao3

nine: out of the past

Home smelled like dish soap and warm cookies.

From your childhood, you remembered that sweet scent wafting from the kitchen to every adjourning room until it knocked on the front door from the inside, welcoming you in its embrace. You never appreciated it as much as you should have, then; maybe children never did. But when the bad days found you, later, you recalled that smell, and it offered a bit of comfort to you, no matter how dismal your surroundings actually were.

At the Compound, smells didn’t linger. No matter how many trays were left out to cool, the air purifier kicked in way too soon and got rid of all sugary traces that tried to stick. It did break your heart a little, but you didn’t know enough about vents to try to mess with them.

The Tower was different, though; a lot of its functions hadn’t been overhauled since 2016, and because all FRIDAY systems were still getting regular service updates, it was simple enough to make minor adjustments to the rest of the set-up. Not that you were baking a lot these days. It was nice to think about it, though. To return from a grueling closing shift and let your nose guide your way home.

Today, it guided your way towards disaster, instead.

"Why are you trying to burn down my kitchen?"

"I got bored," Bucky said, reaching into the oven with his bare hand. You flung up your arms automatically before you realized it was the left one.

You quickly crossed them in front of your chest instead, squinting at the smoking tray. "What are you doing?"

"Making an offering," he muttered distractedly, slapping the crisp pastries with your only good dish towel. "What’s it look like."

You were going to kill him.

"Did your landlord take away your oven for safety reasons or why exactly aren’t these charcoals Made in Brooklyn?" You still hadn't changed the door codes, so you couldn't exactly accuse him of breaking in. It was deeply annoying. "Do you know what time it is?" you said instead.

"Twenty-two forty-five," he said, completely ignoring your first question and not really answering the second. "So you don’t want rugelach?"

"Love rugelach. Prefer them edible."

Maybe you could salvage this. It’d been a long day already, but you’d had quite a lot of coffee and a few minutes should suffice to stop most of the smoke, right?

Otherwise, it’d just linger.

You let out a sigh. "Gimme a sec."

"Could you not—"

With one swift, practiced move, you reached behind and pulled on the thread, teasing time backwards little by little. You watched Bucky return the cursed tray to the oven, his motions jerking, like an old tape that’d been rewound too many times. You found yourself moving into the hallway again, backwards, your shoes returning to your feet, your bag—

Your grip slipped, and you tumbled straight into the coatrack, pulling several hangers noisily down with you. Your ankle twisted with a cracking noise that made tears well up in your eyes.

Great. Just great. Exactly how you’d wanted your evening to go.

"What the hell are you doing?"

Grimacing, you glanced at the time on your phone. You’d barely made it back four minutes. You’d been aiming for six.

"Just take your damn rugelach out of the oven, idiot," you called out sharply.

They still smelled kind of burnt, but not as bad as before. Wincing, you threw your sneaker at the wall to gently roll your foot. It had already started swelling, but at least it didn’t seem broken.

With a relieved sigh, you wiped your cheeks and leaned against the wall to catch your breath. When you opened your eyes again, you flinched backwards, bumping your head.

Today was a dumpster fire.

"What?" you said through gritted teeth when Bucky kept staring at you with raised eyebrows. "This was your fault."

"I magically pushed you into the wall?"

"You just demonstrated your impeccable baking skills. Ow, fuck." Maybe you should just spend the night on the floor. It seemed like the best idea right now. "Why are you bored?"

You didn’t really expect him to answer, but it was the most interesting tidbit of your reset conversation, and you’d promised to share those things.

"Did I say that?" he asked, squatting in front of you. He looked tired as well. There was a long tear through his shirt that you hadn’t noticed earlier. "Why’d you keep your fall?"

"I didn’t keep it," you said disdainfully. "That was a one-time occasion. I overestimated how much energy I had left for my reset."

His frown deepened. "Does that happen a lot?"

"Sometimes," you shrugged. "It’s not like I have a floating health bar I can check every time, you know."

"Sounds impractical."

You huffed. "For once, I agree with you."

He had a pensive look on his face, and you didn’t know what to make of it. Finally, he blinked back into the present and held out his hand. "Come on, Twelve. You should go to bed."

You were too exhausted and aching to question any of it, then. The fact that in all this time since you were introduced, he’d never offered to help you before; or that this was the first time he’d given you that nickname. You didn’t want to ask when you did notice, afterwards, and you couldn’t come up with an explanation on your own until you got a little more used to his military speak, and you remembered what he’d said to Sam.

I’m keeping an eye on her.

You were the danger that was standing right in front of him, and he knew it. He made sure to keep reminding you of the fact that you weren’t to be trusted; that he was watching you.

Then, you remembered telling him about your longest jump backwards being eleven minutes, and you started resenting the nickname a little more. Because no matter which reason was the right one, deep down, you couldn’t fault him for thinking that you weren’t, could never, be good enough.

That was later, though. Right then, you just took his hand.

* * * * *

It doesn’t make any sense.

His hands are still wrapped around your wrists, a light pressure on your pulse. His touch is the only thing tethering you here, cold and warm fingers, and that look of his that you can’t even begin to describe.

I never hit the ground.

"What do you mean," you say quietly, barely a question. "I saw you fall. The loop reset."

That’s how it goes, no matter what else happens. No matter what you do.

"But it reset before I hit the ground," he interrupts your looping thoughts, and there it is again. That awful, useless hope in his eyes. "I don’t remember dying. It didn’t hurt."

You freeze, unable to look away from it. From him. "So, this past week, you always …"

Up until this moment, it hadn’t truly sunk in that Bucky becoming aware of the loops would also mean he’d recall dying; every aspect of it. The pain, the frenzy, the desperation.

Your unwillingness to witness his last moments any longer.

"Doesn’t matter now," you hear him say through a layer of fog and nausea, and how the fuck does he keep doing this? You crave getting that glimmer of optimism back, the sense that there’s another option to explore, a new angle to twist things around in your favor. "We found our loophole."

You blink several times. "What do you mean?"

"Think about it." His thumb swipes across your wrist, gently, and the band tingles. "No more pointless missions that put you and Sam in danger. No more wasting time on trying to save me when it never works out. I can reset us on my own terms."

It’s like something cracks inside you, releasing a cold rush of dread into your bloodstream. "No," you say, "no, that could’ve just been a glitch, we don’t know what’s going on. We have no control over any of this."

Bucky’s face hardens, the triumph that split his mouth into a grin only moments ago a distant memory. "You mean, you don’t."

"Didn’t you just tell me that suicidal behavior can’t be our solution?" you say, unable to hide the bitter edge in your voice.

"That’s different." He drops your hands, finally, as if he’s just noticing he’s been holding onto them this whole time. "You know it’s different."

You can recognize the self-loathing radiating off him all too easily. Useless.

"Forget it," you say, shaking your head. "I won’t let you."

"You won’t let me?" Somehow, he still sounds vaguely amused, and it’s making your blood boil. "Then what’s the alternative, we keep meandering around while I continue to get myself shot every day?"

"I don’t know! Let’s think about this for, like, five seconds."

"I’ve thought about it. And if my options both lead to the same result, anyways, I’d rather choose the one where I at least get somewhat of a say."

Your nails dig into your palms, a sharp, familiar pain. "So you want to, what, pick a time of day where you’re just calling it quits and you plummet to your death?"

"And why not?"

You let out a shrill sort of laugh. "What if it doesn’t work more than once?"

"And what if it does?"

Again, again, he looks at you and something in his gaze shatters. You hate this, and you hate yourself, but you’ve been here before. Hope is the thing that kills him.

"Right," he continues. "You’d rather we keep pretending that nothing’s wrong, like we don’t already know how this day is going to end."

"That’s not fair."

"Nothing about this is fair."

You notice it, then: the fury quietly burning behind his eyes; not with you, necessarily, though you wouldn’t blame him for that, either. No, this is a different kind of rage, one that simmers in the background and hides in the darkest corners, constantly rattling to be let out of its cage. His hands are balled into tight fists now, a single concession to this emotion. It doesn’t seem enough.

Now that you think about it, you wonder if you’ve ever actually seen Bucky Barnes angry.

Annoyed, yes. Frustrated. Pissed off. But those are surface feelings, bubbling up quickly, comparatively easy to live with; nothing like the raw anger that you’ve just caught a glimpse of.

That’s the kind of feeling that, when continually swallowed down, eats you up alive.

So you raise your chin, and you say, "Fight me."

He reflexively moves backwards. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me." You get up slowly, wiping some more blood from your nose. The band around your wrist is still tingling. "Or are you scared?"

In all those months you’ve known him, Bucky’s refused to spar with either of you, even though you know for a fact that Sam’s asked several times. He’s not even bothered to come up with a flimsy excuse, just stared blankly and said, "Nope."

"He knows I’d wipe the floor with him again," Sam’s told you in a whisper loud enough to be heard across the living room. If you recall correctly, that was the same night he found white cat hairs all over his bed and had to do laundry at midnight.

Now, Bucky watches you stretch, his gaze intense, calculating. "I don’t want to fight you," he says, but there’s some leftover edge to his voice; more than that, there’s curiosity.

"Bullshit," you reply lowly, tilting your head.

He unlaces his shoes and you smirk.

"Fine." He climbs into the ring, rolling his neck. "What do I get when I win?"

You circle each other on the mat, eyes never leaving each other’s faces. Bucky’s eyebrow is still raised in amusement, a silent challenge for you to make the first move.

"In your dreams, Barnes," you say, and then you do.

He sidesteps your first kicks as easily as a gust of wind, a grin twitching in the corner of his mouth when you follow them with a punch that’s aimed at his stomach but lands on his right arm without much force. The next one doesn’t even graze him, his movements too quick for you to do any damage.

Despite that, he lets you herd him to the other side of the ring, even though you feel it’s more him leading you. Like he’s waiting to see what you’re going to do and is left continually unsurprised. No matter the swirl of confused feelings in your gut, you want to wipe the increasingly smug look off his face.

"Come on, wolf boy," you huff as your foot hits empty space once more. "You’re not gonna hurt me."

His stance changes in a split second, and you barely manage to duck away from his first swing. He’s still holding himself back, you can tell, but the way he holds himself changes from casual defense to downright predatory. You swallow heavily.

"I wouldn’t be so sure about that," he says.

In one quick move he slaps your fist to the side again before his vibranium fingers curl around your neck. He doesn’t put any pressure on it, but your spine still goes rigid as he holds you there for a moment, his gaze slowly dropping down every inch of your body in a way that feels familiar. His thumb twitches with a flutter of your pulse.

He leans in until he hovers right next to your ear and your breath hitches. "And it’s White Wolf."

With a twist, you move out of his hold and aim another kick behind you. It’s not hard enough to hurt—honestly, you’re a little too distracted to put much force into it right now—but he does let go of you with a low chuckle.

Even after that, it’s useless. Every single move you try, Bucky seems to anticipate. It’s like he’s able to tell where you’re about to try to hit him before you even know it yourself.

"Your posture’s terrible," he remarks, blocking your foot again. It sends a jolt of a memory through you.

With the right training, you can use your own weight to your advantage in a fight.

You don’t think you’ve had the right training, exactly, but you’ve certainly never been in better physical shape in your life.

"Thanks," you say, and you think, what the hell.

You feign a punch down, and when he lowers his torso to follow your movement, you turn it into a wonky handstand, yelping as your momentum sends your legs flying forward quicker than anticipated. You feel one of them collide with Bucky’s back, and he huffs in surprise as he staggers, his arms wrapping around you like he’s not sure whether to stop your fall or get you off him. Either way, you both plummet over and into the mat.

There’s a groan from underneath you. "Y’alright, doll?"

"Great," you pant, untangling your legs from his neck but not moving off him quite yet. Instead, you lean forward and press his shoulders to the ground. "One—two—three, yay, I win!"

He gives a short, disbelieving snort of a laugh, and something hot rushes through you again.

The next moment, he flips you both over, catching one of your hands and pinning it to the mat while the other is pressed down by his elbow. Your head is spinning, Bucky’s grin wicked and so close to your face you can feel his breaths fan over your mouth.

"You were saying?"

Your brain short-circuits.

He seems to recognize something is off, because the naked glee in his eyes is slowly, gradually replaced with something else, something you can’t quite name because there’s not a single coherent thought left in your head. You’re acutely aware of the dried blood under your nose. Of a freckle next to his upper lip.

Inhale. Exhale.

And then—

"Am I interrupting something?"

Another rush of heat washes down your body as Bucky takes another couple of seconds to look at you, frowning, like he’s just remembering that you were fighting before all this. Then, he rolls off to the side.

"Go shower, Twelve."

And just like that, the moment has passed.

You push up to your elbows and watch as he ducks out of the ring without so much as another glance at you, an avalanche of your thoughts returning all at once. When you turn to look at Sam, his arms are crossed and his expression seems way too stern and cap-like for this time of day.

"A word?" he says when Bucky shoulders past him, and for some reason you feel like you’re in trouble.

* * *

You stay in the shower until the mirrors fog up and your fingers turn wrinkly, trying and failing to scrub away whatever just happened. It’s like you can still feel him only inches away from your face, hovering, searching. Almost as if he’s waiting for something.

I’m guessing you’ve tried the Groundhog Day option?

Fucking hell, you need to get a hold of yourself right now.

This … training session was a mistake, a miscalculation on your part. Maybe you’ve started losing your mind a little bit after the first couple dozen loops. Lesson learned: find another way to get Bucky to let out his well-earned ire.

One that doesn’t involve him on top of you.

Think you could handle my charm, Y/L/N?

You let the water hit that tense knot at the back of your neck and let out a long sigh. This iteration of today has barely even started and you’re ready to delete it from existence.

Of course, you realize, then, that won’t be quite so easy this time around.

There’s a certain numbness that, according to the heaps of time loop media you’ve consumed early on during all this, seems inevitable when you’re always, always the only person in the world to continually remember the things that happen. Maybe it’s even worse for you, since there once was a time where reversing uncomfortable situations was something you did on the regular. Looking back, those little corrections seem like a preamble for what you’re going through now. Today is a video tape that keeps skipping on the rewind, reliable only in its endless monotony.

It makes you stop considering the long-term consequences of your actions, since there never are any; everything is bound to repeat, with no regard to what you may have done or said that one time during loop number eighty-whatever. Who would remember, except you?

Or so you’ve thought.

The green band around your wrist catches the light and you stare at it for a long time. It shimmers in the steam of the shower, an almost beautiful sort of gleam to it, like it’s gleeful in reminding you of your latest disastrous mistake.

I’m getting Bucky out of this.

As usual, you didn’t do your job as well as you should’ve, and now you’re having to face the consequences of that.

Real stubborn fucking consequences with distractingly blue eyes, that are apparently intent on driving you batshit—

"What was that?"

"Nothing," you mumble, crossing your arms in front of your chest, tapping your fingers one by one. Bucky rolls his eyes for the twenty-eighth time in as many minutes.

Which you know for a fact, since you’ve not let him out of your sight once. Not as he’s rummaged through the fridge with his usual scowl, not as he’s channel-hopped through a couple of lackluster morning shows, not as he’s spent a couple of minutes playing with Alpine before she hopped off his lap to go do whatever cats do. You don’t particularly care today.

If he's so keen on dying, fine, that's his prerogative; but not yet. Not on your watch.

You just need to come up with another solution before he can do anything stupid.

"Are you gonna spend your whole day like this?" he asks, irritated. Good. He doesn’t have a monopoly on staring.

"Depends," you reply. "Got any plans this morning?"

Twenty-nine. That has to be some sort of record.

"Not if I'm gonna be trailed by an overeager barn owl."

"How dare you. And that's Miss Barn Owl to you." You're aiming for lucky number thirty, but no luck. Instead, he lets out a huff.

"I'm not gonna change my mind just because you're annoying, you know."

"When have you ever," you mumble. If only your useless mind could draw anything but a blank.

Endless loop. Saving each other. Threaten Loki. Blow yourselves up. Upon the wielder’s death, the timeline will—

"Twelve …"

You shake your head, your nails biting into your skin, and Bucky cuts himself off, a muscle in his jaw feathering.

Your gaze wanders. He's all sharp angles this morning in his gloves and the leather jacket, like he’s dressed in black armor concealing all the parts that should be gone, bruised, bloodied, broken. A mundane shield anyone else wouldn't even take conscious notice of, because this is just what he does.

Not lately, though. Not at home, not on Friday.

So how many weapons is he hiding right now?

"Okay, we are getting into Annabelle territory."

Out of the corner of your eye, it looks like Sam’s lost some of the ramrod Captain America energy he was radiating earlier. Bucky’s not told you what kind of words were exchanged, so you’re left to chalk it up to another TAG.

That doesn’t calm you even a little bit.

"How's your nose?" Sam asks, leaning against the back of Bucky’s couch.

"Mostly in shape, I think." You dab at your nostrils and it still hurts a little, but there’s no more blood. "How’s your speech?"

"Mostly in shape, I think," he echoes with a lopsided grin that unexpectedly stings.

Again, you can’t help but yearn for a timeline more permanent than this one. Every day Sam writes that speech, and every day he frets about the details for hours and you can’t tell him that he’s always going to end up smashing it. That’s not how this is supposed to go.

"Have I told you lately that I really appreciate you?" you tell him instead.

His eyebrows raise in mild amusement. "Did you take the good painkillers?"

"I’m serious," you protest, even though you may have. "You’re a good friend and a good cap, and you should be told more often."

Sam blinks, glancing at Bucky as if he’s waiting for the other shoe to drop.

"Don’t look at me, bud," he replies. "She’s right."

There’s a couple of moments before Sam shakes his head. "Y’all are Looney Tunes today and I think it’s some sorta ploy, so I’m gonna finish this speech and you’re gonna leave."

"Are you kicking us out?" you ask.

"Yup."

"It’s our apartment," Bucky says.

"I don’t care. Shoo. Come back when you’re normal."

Bucky doesn’t move an inch, even as he has to hide a grin when Sam keeps shoving his shoulder, mumbling to himself about needing room to think, and you have an idea. A bad one, perhaps, but it might just work for your purposes.

"I know what we’re gonna do," you tell Bucky and get up from your couch, grabbing your bag.

"That so?"

You hum, pressing the button for the elevator. "But first, we’ll have to steal a car."

* * *

It’s odd to be back.

Everything about it feels wrong.

You used to know this place like the back of your hand and now it’s like you’re looking at it through fun mirrors, making the image all twisted. The Compound is both bigger and smaller than you remember, and the reality of it makes your heart twinge.

Rubble lines the driveway. You’re both silent as the borrowed car shakily bumps around the curve leading up to where the main building used to be. Your fingers drum a nervous rhythm against the dashboard as you look outside. The branches that used to hang low and cast a soft shade over your head now litter the ground.

New ones are already sprouting, though.

Time hasn’t stopped, not even for this battlefield, and that fact makes you feel better and worse at the same time.

Through the open window, the air smells like hot grass and cement. No one’s working today, of course, but the repair work’s been going slow, anyway. There are no new Avengers to house, and Pepper Potts has had more pressing things to do. You wonder if Morgan’s old enough to be in kindergarten yet.

The car slows until Bucky turns the engine off, parked next to a particularly large piece of debris. You take a deep breath before you trust your legs not to buckle underneath you when you climb outside.

The one and only other time you were here after it all happened, you were still amped up on morphine and grief and you barely felt anything at all at the sight of your home of almost five years lying in ruins. Now, you have to grind your teeth, hugging your arms around yourself in a sorry attempt at comfort.

You used to spend hours reading underneath that tree that’s been cleaved in half. If you squint, you could still point your gaze to where your windows would have been.

Yours.

"This feels strange."

You turn to look at Bucky and find him staring at a spot near the tree line, looking out at the lake.

"Yeah," you say, clearing your throat. "Me too."

The look that passes his face is one you haven’t seen in a while, oddly similar to the one you recall him giving you on your bathroom floor. It’s gone within seconds, but it leaves its trace.

The big hall that had housed the time machine is still mostly rubble, and you’re glad for it. You don’t know how Bruce ever managed to get the pieces out and make them work again; you don’t like thinking about it and you would bet Bucky doesn’t either.

You inhale your grief once more and let it out in one long, shaky exhale. Then, you roll your aching shoulders. "Alright," you tell yourself, lifting your chin up to blink against the bright July sun.

It should be autumn by now.

Every step towards the Campus ruins makes something coil inside your chest, something painful and hot and angry. Good, you think. That’s why you’ve come, after all.

"Remember that game Sam used to play?" you ask and your voice comes out both sharper and softer than you expect. "If you could go any place, any time?"

Bucky doesn’t answer immediately, and for one shocking moment you wonder whether you’d jumped away all of Sam’s terrible attempts of camaraderie.

"My ma used to say that home’s not really a place."

It’s a peace offering, you think, or maybe just his way of showing that he understands what you’re trying to say. Of course he does.

You bite the inside of your cheek harder. "Smart woman."

The site in the center of the former entry hall seems as good as any. No reinstalled roof that could cave your heads in, no loose cables lying around to fry certain jinxed super-soldiers to death.

"She was." Bucky stops a couple of steps behind you as you scan your surroundings for what you’re going to need. Luckily, whoever’s responsible for this part of the site isn’t as cleanly as the ULTIMATUM lab guys; everything’s been left right where someone was using it on Thursday. "So, what are we doing here, exactly?"

You blow the cement dust off a pair of slightly singed safety glasses and hand them to him. "Fuck shit up."

He stares at you. "Sorry?"

"Nope." You continue rummaging through the work tools that are lying about. "No more apologizing. That’s the point. We’re stuck in a damn time loop and absolutely nothing we do matters, so we’re going to fuck some shit up."

"Is this you telling me you’ve finally lost your marbles?"

You pull out a crowbar. "I’m telling you I’m furious and I need to break something, and I think you do, too."

He crosses his arms in front of his chest. "Yeah, I don’t think so."

"Come on, Barnes. You must’ve had the urge to just destroy something before." You swing your lever around for emphasis. "What’s the worst that could happen?"

You wince right after you say it, recalling the last time someone’s said that to the both of you. Bucky’s face stays blank, unreadable.

"Someone gets hurt," he says quietly, making it sound like a prediction. Haunted.

"No one’s gonna get hurt," you say, putting on a second pair of glasses. "Look around! No one here except us. And you know what—helmet." You adjust your hair and plop it onto your head. "See?"

"You look ridiculous," he says dryly.

"Thank you." Perhaps your appeal would be more effective if you weren’t already struggling to close the damn latch of your helmet. Unfortunately, your safety glasses are making everything fit a little funky, and you can’t seem to find the right—

"Geez, let me—just hold still for a sec."

You swallow and tilt your head up, trying not to look at his face when Bucky takes a step closer. His fingers brush the tips of your ears as he readjusts the damn goggles, trailing down to your chin. You suppress the urge to shiver when you realize he’s finally taken his gloves off again.

His touch is rough and light and way too close to your pulse point.

The helmet clicks into place and you shake yourself out of your stupor. You hold up your crowbar like a challenge.

"How about we make a game out of it?"

He deliberates, his mouth set in a thin line, slightly blurred by the polycarbonate. "What do you have in mind?"

"Pry of truth," you say. "You name the thing that gets your hackles up, you get to smash something. And you’re not allowed to say me."

"I don’t like that rule."

"That’s a shame. I’ll go first, then."

You narrow your eyes at an old glass bottle sitting on a bench next to the site. "I’ll never be able to listen to any song by the fucking All-American Rejects ever again."

The bottle smashes beautifully and a rush of adrenaline charges through your veins.

"Your turn, Buck."

You look over your shoulder and freeze for a moment, because he’s shrugged off his jacket, putting it on a work table nearby. Smart, you belatedly think, giving himself a bigger range of movement and you the opportunity to ignore his bare arms.

Get a damn grip.

You hold out the crowbar. "Time to get angry."

"You won’t like me angry." He takes it anyway, and you huff.

"Whether I like you or not has never stopped you before."

His jaw twitches. He mutters something to himself before the pry lightly hits the bench and the whole thing flies away. A startled laugh escapes you.

"Out loud, next time."

"My bad," Bucky says, throwing you the crowbar.

"You’re a cheat," you shake your head, pulling back for another swing. "I’m fucking sick of this weather."

More glass shatters when a bunch of tools and containers go flying off the work table with a couple of strikes.

"I already knew that."

"My bad."

There’s a moment where Bucky flashes a quick grin at you, but you recognize something ignite in him. He slams his vibranium fist into some of the brick stones piled up nearby and they fly into little pieces.

He flexes his fingers slowly, a lost look on his face. "Sometimes I can almost forget that this isn’t …"

You swallow, gripping your crowbar more tightly. "I want nothing more than to stop this loop for good, but it also terrifies me."

Crash. Tools and parts and leftover items smash on the rubble ground as you strike them over and over again, splinters flying off in all directions. You ignore the pain when they hit you, and the sounds of more things breaking behind your back, focused only on the next thing in front of you. Each small destruction that’s under your control.

When you’re done, your breaths come out fast and shallow, your anger at yourself, at your situation, escaping you in desperate pants. Because this is your worst secret yet, isn’t it? More terrible than any growing feelings and long-forgotten truths, this nagging fear of what’s next.

As terrible as the loop has been, it’s at least predictable. Who’s to say that what’s after isn’t worse than this one day? What of every other way the future could break your heart, kill those you care about, burn this world to the ground? If nothing else, Friday is the devil you know.

But you can’t stay; and you wouldn’t want to, anyway. That’s the contradiction you’re stuck in.

Your fingers are wrapped around the pry so tightly it hurts, and you force yourself to take a deep, shuddering breath. Then, you turn around, and your eyes widen.

Bucky’s moved farther away from you, as if to make sure not to put you in his path of destruction. In it, no stone’s been left unturned. Work tables are flipped, machines dented and cracked; the newly put-up drywall a couple of yards ahead has several cracks and holes running through it.

He’s a swirling storm of piled up fury and anguish, and you’re the sole witness to his wreckage. It’s quiet, in a way, with a finality to the brunt of each throw, each hit. Like he’s been waiting for this implicit permission to let go a very long time.

Slowly, the dust settles, leaving him alone at the center of it all, the only thing still standing among broken pieces.

"I keep—" he starts, his head still lowered, shaking. "I keep telling myself that I’m no longer the Winter Soldier, but I don’t think it’s true."

You don’t respond immediately; you’re not sure he’d want you to. Taking off your protective gear is a lot easier than putting it on, and you blink against the sun behind him. It leaves his face in shadows.

"What do you mean?"

"Look at me," he spits, every syllable ringing with despair.

"I am," you say quietly, and you are, you are, you are.

And right then, you feel yourself slip, because the truth is that seeing him like this doesn’t make you like him any less than you do seeing him with relaxed shoulders and sun spots across his chest. It’s just a moment or two before you catch yourself, but you’re sure that if he’d looked at you right then, he’d know.

He hesitates, his jaw tight. "I still hear his voice. I keep thinking like him, wanting to act like he would. What if I do? What if one day, I can’t control it?"

You clear your throat. "Can I say something?"

He nods.

"Of course you still have parts of him in you. It’s your past. You can’t get rid of that. That’s, unfortunately, not how it works." You take a couple of steps closer, your shoes dragging on the rubble. "But it doesn’t make you a bad person, either. It wasn’t your fault."

"I’m supposed to stay in control."

"Aren’t you?" you ask. "I mean, you hear the voice, but do you ever act on it?"

He meets your eyes, then, vehemently. "I would never do that."

You nod, not surprised in the slightest. "What does your therapist think?"

He scoffs. "Not much. He called it intrusive thoughts."

"Hm. That’s really concerning," you say, tilting your head. "You’re being a normal human."

Bucky frowns when you come to a stop in front of him, his eyes swimming with confusion.

"Everyone has those thoughts sometimes," you continue, holding up the crowbar again. "Like, I could hit myself with this. Or you. That doesn’t mean I’m gonna do it. Your thoughts just happen to have a particular flavor to them."

He grinds his teeth. "What if I like being him? When I have these thoughts, my mind is clear. Quiet. Focused. That’s why—"

"What?"

He shakes his head, looking behind you at the rubble surrounding you both. His shoulders deflate at the wasteland before him, and you desperately want to reach for him.

"You’re one of the good ones, Buck," you say, not moving an inch. "Despite your past. Because of your past. It doesn’t make you any less …" Loveable. "You know that, right?"

A beat passes.

"Keep remindin’ me and I might." He clears his throat. "Your turn, Twelve."

It still stings, unexpectedly so. You half-heartedly throw the pry at a couple of bricks, missing by a mile and not caring one bit. You’re out of anger for now.

"I really hate it when you call me that," you admit.

"Why?" he asks, the surprise in his voice genuine.

"Because it makes me … you know how I feel about my powers. It’s like you’re reminding me how I’m not good enough, every time you say that."

Bucky’s gaze on you burns in your neck. "That’s what you think?"

"What else am I supposed to think?" you ask, rolling your eyes. "You said you wanted to keep an eye on me, back when—”

"I think you’re better than you’re telling yourself."

You twist your rings around your fingers, one by one. The space on your pinkie is still empty. "No, I’m not."

"Yes. You are." His boots crunch as he takes a step closer. "You told me eleven minutes on your best days? That’s bullshit."

"It’s not," you huff.

"Remember Marylebone? How much did you jump then?"

London seems like years ago, with July getting stuck. It was another extraction mission, and it went well enough—if you ignored Redwing getting shot to bits, that is. Which you usually did.

"Maybe three minutes," you mumble. Not exactly a span of time to write home about.

"But how many times did you do that?" Bucky insists. "How many times did you hold time still during that?"

Your skin prickles. "That’s different—”

"Not really. Not according to your rings, it’s not. They’re just different aspects of your powers. Also, you made a fucking time loop out of nothing."

"One that I have no control over, remember?"

"Not yet."

You shake your head, pulling your arms around yourself. "How did this turn into you giving me a pep talk?"

"You’re …" He sighs and drags a hand through his hair. Little pieces of dust get stuck in it, and you find yourself wanting to brush them out.

"Likewise." How could he be so positive about all the things you disliked about yourself most while not doing the same for himself?

Bucky picks up another brick from the pile next to you, weighing it in his hand, and something about the movement catches your eye, the sunlight just so that …

"Wait!" you say.

He freezes.

You drop to your knees and start digging through the rubble, pushing the bricks aside and ignoring the cuts you get on your hands until—

"Holy shit," you whisper.

"What’s that?"

It’s stuck underneath a pile of debris, the accumulation of nearly two years of being stuck and forgotten, but somehow, it’s still here. Covered in dirt and a little tattered at the edges when you finally manage to pull it out, but still.

"That’s my invisibility cape."

"You have an invisibility cape?"

"Had," you correct, inspecting it more closely. "I didn’t know it survived."

"For the love of—d’you think you might’ve mentioned this before?"

"I didn’t think it was important."

"Twe—" He pinches his nose with two fingers and lets out a long, slow breath. "Does it still work?"

"I don’t know."

"Well, go on then."

You flap it a few times to get the worst of the dust off, then pull it over your head and watch your body disappear. It’s as much of a journey to the past as you’ve managed throughout this loop, and an incredulous giggle escapes you.

Bucky has a peculiar look on his face as he looks just to the right of where you are.

"You trust me, right?" he says pensively.

It occurs to you that he’s never asked you that before, and so you nod even though he can’t see. "I trust you."

"I have an idea."

* * *

"For the record, I hate your ideas."

"Noted," Bucky replies out of the corner of his mouth, tucking his cap deeper into his face.

You nervously tap your foot, peering at the building on the other side of the street. Bleecker Street isn’t all that busy at this time of day, and even though you're fully hidden by your cape, you can’t help but wish for more of a crowd to hide in. You reach for the amulet around your neck.

"What if something goes wrong?" you murmur.

"It won’t," he says calmly. "You said Sam’s already tried and no one’s there today. Plus, we have more or less infinite tries for this, remember?"

You do, unfortunately. Even though you’d really prefer a better, more elaborate plan to break into the New York Sanctum in much the same way as you did the public library, you don’t think they have a Supreme burglar alarm or anything of the sort. Picking the front door lock, it is.

Annoyingly, Bucky even knows you well enough to understand you don’t want to be seen within a hundred yards of any time wizard territory; hence, the game-changing cape.

You wish you’d kept the damn thing in the dirt.

"You don’t know what they’re capable of," you say quietly.

"True, I don’t. But you do." He waits for a couple of people to pass by before risking a glance in your general direction. "Come on. I would never let anything happen to you in there."

You hate these sunglasses. They make it impossible to tell how he means that.

Before you can voice another reason why you should better head back and go get ice cream somewhere, Bucky’s already moving across the street. Cursing under your breath, you rush to follow him, bumping against his arm to make your presence known.

The tiniest grin flickers in the corner of his mouth, and for a moment you enjoy getting to stare at it without him noticing. Then, you take another step and the air around you changes.

If there was any kind of active warning system, you can pinpoint the exact moment it would have alerted. It’s like you’re entering an invisible bubble that surrounds the building, the air growing just a fraction colder. It’s not the temperature that makes you shiver, though.

Magic hums within the very walls of the house. This energy is different to what you remember, but still similar enough you have to bite your cheek hard to keep concentrating on the task at hand.

You swallow down the bile in your mouth and turn your back on the heavy oak door to make sure no one notices that Bucky isn’t, in fact, struggling with a key but instead breaking and entering in broad daylight.

I knew you’d be back, a voice just behind your shoulder seems to whisper, and you flinch. All those years, and still …

Finally, you hear a quiet click and the door creaks open.

"You with me?" Bucky mutters.

Your nails dig into the palms of your hands. "Let’s do this."

177A Bleecker Street is quite a lot bigger on the inside. In many ways, it looks just as you expected, solemn and intricate, all wooden paneling and marble floors that block the sounds from the street outside. Heavy couches sit along the far walls, framed by doorways. A gigantic staircase leads to the upper floors, spreading out into a gallery.

However, something about it feels … unexpected. The energy you’ve already noticed outside is sparkling like electricity, like a fuse ready to be lit, like fireworks waiting to explode, unprecedented and ever changing. Alive.

For some reason, it’s not all that scary.

Pure magic fills your lungs with every breath, and yet it’s just a house. Dust particles are dancing in the blurry light. Your shoes squeak a little on the stone floors.

Bucky takes off his sunglasses, blinking to readjust to the dim light in here. He takes stock of his surroundings much more quickly than you do, zeroing in on the upper levels.

You hold your hood with one hand as you crane your neck. From your position hovering just behind him in the entrance, you can make out the shapes of a few large shelves.

Bingo.

You’ve agreed that despite Strange’s flakiness, he’s already shown you the books most relevant to your situation that the Sanctum library has to offer. Therefore, if not a reading room, you’re looking for any other magical items that might give you a helping hand, maybe some sort of power boost.

To be honest, you’re hoping for a portal to simply step through and finally leave this day behind for good, but you’d settle for a clue.

Bucky’s fingers twitch ever so slightly by his side. Without thinking, you reach out and wrap your pinkie around his. He doesn’t look at you, but he gently squeezes your finger before pulling away, putting his hands back into his jacket pockets.

He left his gloves in the stolen car.

The stairs creak when you sneak up behind him, but the house remains silent. There’s only the omnipresent hum of electric magic, which gets even stronger when you get closer to the shelves you’ve spotted. It’s calling out to you, but not in the way it did outside; this is a softer whisper, more alluring, more curious. Could it be? it says. I’ve waited so long.

You find yourself trailing off, moving a few paces towards the far wall, your heart pounding a wild rhythm. The shelves are made of glass-paneled dark wood, arranged in a spiral pattern. Their contents look rather unassuming in the pale sunlight falling in from the large circular window, museum-like if not for the absence of proper labeling: a couple of old daggers and wands, dull gemstones, shards of pottery, all carefully bedded on crimson velvet and then left for dust.

None of it screams Gateway Out of Here.

Maybe, you think, you could try to hold a few of these gems in your hand and see what happens, do a couple of gestures to coax your powers back. If only there was one of those rings that—

Behind you, shots are fired, and then something heavy crashes to the floor with a resounding shatter. The thrall breaks.

Stupid, stupid, stupid, to think you’d be safe just because you couldn’t be seen. To think that Bucky would be fine waltzing into a place like this without any real protection, just because you’ve been led to assume it’d be abandoned. You’ve stepped right into the trap, and it’s snapped shut immediately.

You spin around, your hands flying up automatically as if there’s a damn thing you can do.

Time doesn’t freeze, but you wish it would.

Bucky’s tangled in a web of rust-colored twines that curl around his arms, his torso, his neck, cutting off his air flow. His gaze is wild, flitting around the room, searching for you even in your invisibility, a silent command in his eyes: Run.

His gun’s dropped to the floor at his feet, right underneath the tendrils winding their way up his struggling legs. You fall towards it, reaching out right as you’re yanked backwards and the eldritch magic catches hold of you, too. Their otherworldly glow makes shadows dance across the dark shelves, ghostly and distorted.

"I suggest you show your face now," a voice says right behind you.

You can tell the hood is ripped off your head because Bucky throws himself against his bindings again. They tighten even more around him, and he chokes, his eyes still glued to you.

He does it again.

"Please don’t," you cry, "not like this, please stop it!" You’re not even sure who you’re pleading to, your fingers twitching, but there’s nothing you can reach out to, the magic in this place forsaking you again.

"You," the voice behind you says sharply.

Any moment, you should wake up. Wake up. Wake up.

You’re slung backwards and you scream because you can’t see Bucky anymore, can’t do anything except hang there, helpless, eye to eye with the Sorcerer Supreme.

"Zealot," he says, venom in every syllable. "I thought you’d died."

"I’m not," you gasp, the very word stinging. "Please, you need to let go of him."

"I don’t think so. I ought to banish you to the Dark Dimension like the rest of you."

The magic around you starts spinning, surrounding you in a dizzying blur of orange and gold. Your blood rushes in your ears as you feel something pull at your very consciousness, harsh and terrifying, and you’re not waking up, you have to wake up, you—

"We’re facing an Incursion!" you shout, hoping anyone can hear you over the mad cacophony of energy. "Please, there’s no time, call Stephen Strange!"

And then, with a final sputter of color, everything goes black.

* * *

The last time you woke with the smell of Sanctum magic in your lungs was the day Thanos snapped.

Wait. Rewind for context.

Your mother used to call it a gift, but for most of your life, your powers had felt more like a curse.

Sure, they had their uses, sometimes, but at what cost? Most of the time, you couldn’t control them, so when you got older, you tried to hide them instead, as best as you could, to pretend they weren’t there at all. You just wanted to be normal.

But your powers didn’t like that.

Ignorance was a vicious circle: The more you tried to suppress the magic coursing through your blood, the more unpredictable it became, flinging you through the timeline without any regard to your sanity. It was a struggle to control even a fraction of what was happening to you.

You knew you needed help.

The London Sanctum was the only one you were aware of, then, the one safe haven for people who were struggling with things beyond their control. Your mother had told you about it many times.

One can never be too wary of their promises, though, honey, she’d close the story every time. They like to forget them when it’s more convenient.

You never asked how she knew so much about the Sanctum and its inhabitants. Mothers just know things when you’re a child.

Maybe you should’ve listened to her warning more closely, but you were young and overwhelmed and out of options, and so you left familiar faces behind and traded them for a silver lining. For the hope of finally controlling this power that was set on destroying your life.

Time itself.

That first day, you were sitting in the Sanctum's courtyard, looking at the other recruits with wide eyes, to the glimmering portals that, they told you, could bring you to the other side of the world in a single step. For the first time in your life, you were surrounded by magic; it wasn't just your secret burden to bear, it was all around you.

Like an offering, they brought the stone to you that day, suspicion clear in their eyes, and you trembled in your bones knowing that everything would finally be fixed, now. Surely, everything would be fixed. You could feel the energies pulsating from that unassuming little gem, mixing with your own powers, sending apprehensive shivers down your spine.

Yes, you thought, stepping closer to it with your hand outstretched. You can fix this.

It was the one and only time you could recall not remembering anything at all.

You'd lost a few seconds at most, but when you blinked back into consciousness, your head was pounding and the time stone had been snatched away from you once again, safe in its golden cage. You'd never see it again.

How peculiar, you caught a whisper, then another, like voices born out of every nightmare you'd ever had, and you tried jumping back to find out what you'd missed, but your powers didn't obey you.

You let yourself get soothed by the empty promises you'd been warned of, but magic would never seem that light or gentle to you again as it did during that first afternoon.

For a while, things got better anyway.

You studied with the Masters of the Mystic Arts while they studied you. They provided you with all sorts of amulets and cuffs that kept the random jumps under control, but they either couldn’t figure out how your powers came to possess you, of all people, or they just didn’t want to tell you.

Time is sacred, they used to teach, and your very existence went against that premise. You were unpredictable, a variable that could never fit into their precious calculations and theories of the grand, sacred timeline, no matter how hard they tried. You found yourself using your powers even less than before, just to stop them from talking over you.

Impossible girl, the Ancient One used to call you, and you hated it.

Of course, she wasn’t making a reference. She just thought you impossible, along with everyone else.

You went along with it for a couple of months or so before you got tired of trying to do something, anything, and you wanted to go home. That was when things shifted.

You’re not a prisoner, they kept telling you, and it was true, in a way. The doors were always open, and your cuffs weren’t shackles. There were just certain rules to learning, particularly in these important early stages of the process. Rules to who goes where, and what to do, and what to wear at every hour of every day, and also the food all tasted the same, like sad mash of whatever vegetables they were able to find that week, but no. You weren’t a prisoner.

That was just life, here, and everyone else seemed fine with it, so what was your problem, exactly?

You were tired and terrified, and everyone told you that there was something about you that just didn’t make sense, which you could’ve told them from the start if only someone listened to you. Everything seemed pointless.

It was no wonder, then, that when Kaecilius and his band of lunatics offered to take you under their wing, to give you a cause and a reason to use your powers, you thought your luck might finally turn.

You’re such a special girl, they’d tell you. Such a special, clever girl. This is a great thing, you know. It’s your talent to make things right, make them the way they should be. You, my dear, are invaluable.

If it sounded too good to be true, that’s because it was.

Kaecililus’ definition of help, it turned out, meant subjugation; or at least the attempt of it. Do as I tell you. For once, your strangling limits turned out to be a blessing in disguise.

What a disappointment you are.

There were no grand speeches. No fanfare, no declaring you a nuisance; you felt the sentiment, anyway. The special, clever girl was a useless waste of time, after all, and was left behind as such. Never good enough. Not deserving of everlasting life.

Not that you wanted any part of that.

You faded back into oblivion again, unable to leave and unable to stay, stuck somewhere in between in the background where you were met with endless whispers and suspicion, doing your part and eating your mush without complaint. What else were you to do? People didn’t leave this place, after all, not before they understood what they came here to find.

Unless they suddenly started applying to your situation, you were fantastically uninterested in any more lectures.

It took a very long time for you to figure out that you could limit the random time jumps by using your powers as much as you could, small skips and halts to the point of exhaustion. If there was nothing left to use, you reasoned, your body couldn’t act without permission. Slowly, you were able to return their trinkets one by one until the only piece you had left was the one you’d brought from home; silver and black tourmaline. Putting it on again was a small relief.

You were still in London when the world was decimated.

The air was heavy and burnt with dust. It was all that was left of so many. The cries of those left behind dried up quickly, leaving a deafening silence in their wake. That was the part you most remembered in years to come: the smell, and the silence.

You were ready to disappear, too, and when whatever fate there was decided to spare you, you took matters into your own hands. The confusion and panic had raised your adrenaline, and the world stopped easily at your command.

It didn’t take you long to grab the few belongings you had left, to shove them into the wooden box every room was outfitted with, and to turn your back on your prison. You found the portal that would take you closest to home, and you stepped through.

You’d never been lucky for long, though. When you arrived, the front door was locked from the inside, and the television was still running, day and night, with no one left to turn it off. You shouted and knocked and rang the doorbell anyway, until your knuckles hurt and your voice got hoarse, and then you noticed that the name above the door was wrong. Time had once again passed unexpectedly, and this place you'd once called home did not belong to you anymore.

You were a nobody now, just like you’d wanted.

Right?

Right.

…

Anyway.

The first time you met Natasha Romanoff in person, a few weeks after the Snap, she only had to look at you for a couple of seconds to be able to read you like a book.

* * *

When you’re finally done, your voice is hoarse and your palms are bloody. You can tell both Wong and Strange are staring at you, but the only person you look at is Bucky.

He’s leaning against the invisible wall of his cell in the Sanctum’s undercroft, meeting your gaze in grim, unreadable silence. He hasn’t looked away from you once during your whole monologue.

You feel drained, turned completely inside out, presenting your most vulnerable parts for everyone to see; and yet, you keep looking at the one person in this room who’s going to remember any of it, calmly and unwaveringly. It makes your head swim, but you can’t keep looking away.

That me then, you think, your hands tapping a quiet rhythm on the cool stone floor. Disappointed?

A pity, you suppose, that you never did get an answer to that particular question.

To your surprise, Strange is the first to break the silence. "Well, then. You think that’s enough to let them out of there?"

Wong mutters a response you don’t understand, but something flickers in front of you for just a moment, and one blink later, Bucky’s in front of you. He wordlessly holds out his hand.

You don’t hesitate before you take it.

Time slows in a way that’s entirely imaginary as he pulls you back to your feet. Every inch of your skin that’s touching him turns hot and cold at the same time.

If it had been his right hand, you wouldn’t have dared to gently squeeze it before finally letting go.

Bucky looks like he wants to say something, but before he gets a chance to even open his mouth, Strange clears his throat. Not for the first time, you want to set his cloak on fire.

"It’s a good thing you came here."

"Oh, yes," you say. "Thanks again for the warm welcome. What fun we’ve had."

"You did break in," Wong says. "Over the past couple of months, we’ve had to be particularly careful when it comes to unexpected visitors. For what it’s worth, though," he adds, "I am sorry."

There’s an honesty to his voice that you appreciate, though not as much as Bucky staying a half-step in front of you during this whole conversation.

Strange claps his hands. Out of the corner of your eye, you see a tea set appear on the sad old desk that’s been pushed against one of the dungeon walls. "Best not to dwell on it," he says, his cloak gently flapping at you. "May we take a look at your necklace?"

You hesitate. You’ve not taken it off in years, not even to sleep or train. It’s been what’s successfully hidden you away from anyone trying to find you or your powers.

Now that you’ve revealed all of yourself, though, you suppose there’s no point in denying him.

You place the necklace in his palm and he murmurs something. It starts glowing in gentle amber colors.

"It should do," he says to Wong. "Do you want the honors?"

"Here’s what I don’t understand," Wong says, ignoring him. "All of this could’ve been avoided with a few controlled time slips."

"A few what now?" you say.

"It’s the act of reversing time not for the whole universe, but for one small part of it. Even he could do it after just a few months," he says, nodding his head at Strange, who lifts an eyebrow.

"Look at you condoning going against the laws of nature."

"Shut up and do your job. Away from my carpets, this time."

"Your carpets, is it?" Strange says, his cloak flapping impatiently. His gray eyes bore into you one final time, assessing you, you think, or maybe silently telling you something you don’t understand. Then he turns and starts ascending the stairs again.

You wrap your arms around yourself. "I’ve not had months of training," you remind Wong.

"Not that first time," he replies. "From what you’ve told us, though, your training in the astral plane has progressed immensely. You should have much more control over your powers than you ever have before."

"So you’re saying I could do it now?"

"I’m saying there’s at least a chance. May I?"

You fiercely ignore Bucky glancing at you, holding out your arm. The symbols around your wrist buzz and glimmer when Wong murmurs something, his hands hovering over your skin. The smell of magic grows more potent as gentle wisps of light travel along your arm, poking at the loop.

Warm fingers wrap around your other hand this time, and you realize you’ve been shaking.

"With the time anomaly persisting, it will continue getting stronger with every repeat of this day," Wong continues out loud as he’s working. "It will eat away at the fabric between realities until things start to slip through, and then it’s only a matter of time until this one collapses entirely."

You swallow. "What things?"

"People. Places. Memories meant for other timelines. Playing with the fabric of everything is a dangerous pastime."

"It’s not like we’re doing it on purpose," Bucky speaks up for the first time. Your hold on his hand tightens.

Wong glances up at him. "Unfortunately, Sergeant Barnes, there are some rules that don’t care about intent."

"So what if it does?" you say. "Collapse, I mean. You know about me now, can you not portal or time slip us to another reality, let this one disintegrate? It’s cursed, anyway."

"Apart from the fact that that’s not how portals work," Wong says dryly, "that’s a reckless idea. All realities are connected in one way or another. One imploding like this might have disastrous consequences on the entire multiverse."

"This is about the whole sacred timeline thing again, isn’t it?" You roll your eyes. "Who came up with that, anyway? What makes our existence so damn special? I mean, there are endless possibilities out there, aren’t there? An infinite number of realities. Who’s to say we’re more real than the rest of them?"

"Magic, as a whole, is always a balancing act." The symbols return to their place just above your skin, tingling. Wong rubs his hands, looking at you. "Ask your actual question."

"I’m not supposed to exist here, am I?" You’re grateful for the fact that Bucky is still holding your hand, even though you don’t know why he would. It anchors you. "I switch between realities every time I jump back in time, right? So this one isn’t actually mine at all."

"Has anyone ever taught you about the Infinity Stones?"

Had they? You’d learned more about the stones at Campus than you ever had during your time at the Sanctum, but even then—knowing how to find a thing and understanding it aren’t the same thing.

You shake your head.

"The powers held by the stones are interconnected. You don’t just control time, your powers have an influence on space and reality by their very nature as well. You can’t just separate one from the other. Tea?"

You stay silent as he pours it into several mugs and offers you one. It’s steaming hot, and it smells almost exactly like the one you were offered in the astral plane; only with a dash of cinnamon.

"The thing is," Wong continues, blowing on his tea, "in a way, we all hold the same kind of power. These other worlds, they exist alongside this one, all the time, and each time we make a decision, our consciousness merely slips between them. That doesn’t make the ones we left behind more or less ours."

"But the stones got destroyed in our reality," Bucky says.

"There’s that thing called the first law of thermodynamics."

Bucky’s thumb traces an absentminded line along the back of your hand, and you have to hide a shiver. "Energy can’t be created or destroyed, it can only change its form."

"That’s exactly right. So you see, even though the stones may be turned to dust, they’re not gone. Otherwise, our reality—or any like it, in fact—wouldn’t continue to exist."

"That wasn’t my question, though," you argue. "The power of the stones still exists, whatever that means. That’s great. What does that have to do with me? Or with this loop, for that matter."

"You draw from the time stone’s energy more than the other’s," Wong replies. "Since the stones don’t exist in their physical form anymore in our reality, you are pulling the necessary energy from others in which they are still intact, at the moment of using your powers. You’ve been able to jump greater temporal distances more easily before, am I right? Before the stone was crushed into pieces?"

You’re about to deny it, but then he adds, gently, "When you were a child, maybe?"

Memories of repeated accidental time jumps rush through your mind. Memories of getting stuck in the same couple of minutes for hours on end, finally getting out of it after what had felt like years and yet not feeling any different at all.

It’d never made you feel so exhausted, then.

You’d never put it together consciously because the first time you tried using your powers after the Snap, you you’d already been exhausted for so long. You’d blame a lack of practice, of proper technique or attention or adequateness; a lack of freedom to use them however you wanted without feeling prying eyes watch your every move.

Later, you’d mostly blame yourself.

Bucky’s hand slips out of yours and you are brought back to the present again. The tea has gone tepid in your cup when you take a sip; it makes your eyes water with its bitter sting.

"What I’m trying to say is this," Wong continues. "There’s no right or wrong answer to whether you actually belong in this reality, because we all shift between related realities constantly. What you’re doing is unusual, yes, but not unheard of. And it certainly doesn’t mean you shouldn’t exist. Quite the contrary. I’ve found that everything and everyone of us has a purpose here."

You nod, your throat still clogged up.

"The loop," Bucky says. "How do we go about undoing it?"

We.

"It comes back to how it was created in the first place. With internalized magic like yours, the kind used on yourself instead of externally, it comes back to the emotions we feel when we reach out to the stones. They’re essential in what they help create."

Your mind replays the first time you’ve watched Bucky die in front of you. To that desperation, the guilt, the shame. And hidden underneath, still unnoticed, still pushed down, perhaps …

"Here you go," Strange says, returning your necklace. The tourmaline is warm to the touch, humming with newly imbued magic. "Whenever you’re ready, this should do the trick. You might get a bit light-headed."

You both stare at him. "This gets us out?" you ask, your voice cracking.

Strange frowns. "What? No."

"I told you," Wong says with an edge of impatience, "that’s not how portals work."

"Technically not a portal," you mumble, putting the pendant on again, feeling it pulsate warmly against your chest.

True to Strange’s words, you immediately feel a little dizzy with a rush of concentrated magic that has nowhere to go. Even though you’re seated, you have to grasp for Bucky’s arm to keep your balance.

"I’ve imbued the necklace with some of my own powers and linked it more closely to your person," Strange continues, and you dig the nails of your unoccupied hand into your palm to pay attention. "It should help you focus your powers more directly once you’re back in the astral plane and allow you to break the loop in time. Mind you, it’s merely an amplifier, not a quick fix. It might still take a while."

"How much time do we still have before the loop starts to disintegrate?" Bucky asks. Smart question. He’s so smart.

"You’re already past that point, Sergeant Barnes," Wong says, and it sends a chill through you. "But we’ll do our best to help as much as we can. I will set up some wards that should bypass my own consciousness and buy you some more time."

"Thank you," you say quietly, blinking quite a lot. "For all of this."

He nods, slowly, measuring you up, but not in the way you’re used to; for once, you appear to meet expectations. "Good luck, Miss Y/L/N. Let us know how these matters resolve."

"You doing okay, doll?" Bucky chuckles on your way up the stairs. It’s the first time he’s smiled even a little bit all afternoon. He should do it more. Why doesn’t he do it more?

It takes you a bit to notice you’re still holding onto his sleeve. "I’m great," you say. "Superb, really. Did the floor sway like that earlier? Seems like a safety issue. What time is it? I hope Sam’s alright."

"Maybe you should take that thing off again, hm?"

"No no no," you say quickly, immediately tripping over your own feet. Before you plant on your face in the middle of the entrance hall, Bucky manages to hold out his other arm to catch you. "Whoops."

"Very convincing," he says dryly, but there’s something akin to fondness in his eyes when he looks at you.

"You have the prettiest eyes," you tell him with a sigh, "did you know?"

"And you are quite literally drunk on power." A fascinating shadow falls over his face as he steadies you; it mostly reaches his cheeks. "Let’s hope that’ll fade once you get back to the astral plane or else you might just as well kill me yourself."

"I never want to do that. I don’t want that. Do you think I want to kill you?"

"If you did, now’s your chance." He huffs. "Wouldn’t blame ya."

You stare at him, at his oddly bright blue eyes and his self-deprecating scowl and at the way he’s still holding you upright, and then your lightheadedness makes you do something very, incredibly, outrageously stupid.

You kiss him.

It barely takes a moment to make you realize, like a shock of cold water, what it is you’re doing. Bucky freezes when your lips brush against his. They’re so soft.

You immediately jolt your head back, your heartbeat loud enough to reverberate in your ears, "Fuck!"

His eyes are so wide and so blue and he’s still holding your elbow, and so you yank your arms away and tumble backwards just as he says, "You’re not—"

But you’re still falling.

And then, with a start, you wake up.

* * * * *

"You have a lot of empty rooms," Sam said when he found you on one of the couches in the living room area, curled up to watch some Netflix.

You shrugged. "Guess Stark anticipated more people’d be left to use them after … everything."

"And it’s just you?"

You let the question sit for a moment, for some reason looking at your dish towel. "Yup," you replied finally. "Just me."

Sam nodded, apparently lost in thought.

"So yeah," you continued for some reason, "if you’re in the city and need a place, feel free, I guess."

You didn’t expect much to come of it. After all, Sam had his own apartment all the way over in D.C., and you honestly didn’t expect to see him much once this mission was over.

You told yourself that for the first five missions before you accepted that maybe he’d continue asking you to tag along.

In the end, it hadn’t been him who needed a place, anyway. It was Bucky.

He didn’t tell you the particulars about why he had to leave his Brooklyn apartment; you assumed he’d had to leave, because there was truly no other explanation why he’d choose to move in with you, of all people.

Then again, you hardly ever saw him, and if you hadn’t seen him bring an overnight bag and a withering houseplant on the weekend he’d settled in one of the upstairs bedrooms, you wouldn’t have known another person was living in the Tower at all.

Well, that and the food mysteriously disappearing from your fridge now.

Sam was the one most weirded out by your living situation, even though you were absolutely positive it’d been his idea in the first place.

"What did you expect?" you asked, handing him his usual coffee cup. "That we’d immediately become besties just because we share a kitchen?"

"It’s unnatural," he shook his head. "Do you communicate with each other at all?"

"Sure. Sometimes I leave post-its on the fridge and when I come back, they’re in the trash."

"One day, one of you is gonna outweird the other. I just hope I’m out of town." He bit into a rugelach and started coughing. "Jesus, what did you put in these?"

"Ask Bucky. He’s doing a whole midnight baking thing at the moment. I think he’s trying to take the Tower for himself by smoking me out."

Sam decidedly pushes the cookie tin farther away from him. "You’ve not asked him, then?"

"Again, he doesn’t respond to my post-its."

Truthfully, you were still mad at him. How were you supposed to wallow in peace if someone was constantly ignoring your personal space? There were only so many times you could flee into the blissful loneliness of the void.

In other words, you didn’t notice for a very long time that you didn’t seek out the quiet nearly as much anymore these days.

"Hey, Ratatouille," Sam said. "I was gonna tell you both, actually."

It was good progress that made you not flinch quite as much anymore when a cupboard opened just behind you. In fact, you didn’t even move a muscle.

On your second try.

"I was gonna tell you both, actually," Sam said again, taking a sip of coffee. "CIA wants us to quit the ULTIMATUM case."

"What?" you both said at the same time.

"Why?" Bucky asked irritably. "Sharon already sick of your face again?"

Sam threw a piece of rugelach at him. "I don’t think it was her call. But it means I gotta head to Virginia for a while and give them a full debrief so they can do their own 'internal investigation', whatever that’s supposed to mean. After that, we’re on our own."

"I don’t like this," Bucky said.

"Neither do I," Sam replied. "But I’m hoping to get some information out of them while I’m down there."

"So that’s just it?" you said. "They tell us to stop and we just have to drop everything?"

"Officially, yes."

Bucky crossed his arms. "When you say 'we’re on our own' …"

"I don’t trust these people," Sam said. "I want to know what they’re trying to keep hush. But you," he nods at Bucky, "have been pardoned for less than a year, and you," he nods at you, "don’t officially exist. I can’t guarantee either of these things will stay that way if we go against official government orders. So if you want an out, this is it."

You looked at Bucky, and for the first time, you didn’t find any challenge in his eyes. He simply looked at you, letting you make the call first.

Maybe it was a dare in and of itself, but you couldn’t help yourself. Your curiosity had been sparked.

"If you’re waiting for me to chicken out …"

For a fraction of a second, something like a smile made his mouth twitch. "Wouldn’t dream of it."

chapter ten

thank you for reading!! you can follow my library blog @intrepidacious-fics for update notifications 💚 also please consider leaving a comment, it literally helps my motivation so much to hear from you!!

[nogoodmox]

i still have lots of catching up to do re: mox’s current characterization so i might be way off base, but ever since swerve called mox out for carrying his title around in a briefcase last week i haven’t been able to stop thinking abt it

it reminded me of an old mox promo, the one he cut after winning the ipw championship in 2009. in it, he says that this belt he just fought like hell for on the most important night of his career actually doesn’t mean shit to him, because ultimately, it’s just a possession, and “possessions make you a target"

his past self tossed the ipw belt aside like it was worthless, claiming that he himself, jon moxley’s very essence, would become the iwp championship. that way, it wouldn't be a mere possession that could be stolen from him anymore, but a part of him. to me, mox’s character has always been heavily centered around not just being a wrestler, but a fighter. a survivor who pushes through no matter what hardships or impossible odds he’s faced with. nothing in life was ever handed to him, he had to struggle for it & challenge authoritative figures that did everything in their power to keep him from succeeding bc he didn’t fit their idea of what a champion should be. now over a decade later in aew, with mox having been champion 4 times, one of the biggest stars on the roster, and even a corrupt authority figure in his own right with the death riders, it’s like he’s become a warped version of his old self. all the same attitude without the same struggle

he still retains the mindset that was beaten into him all his life; that the odds are stacked against him by a world that sees him as unworthy, that he’s a wrench in a corporate machine that tries to crush authenticity like his. but he’s not the underdog he once was and, in some ways, he’s become similar to the kind of people he used to rebel against. he’s no longer a hunter fighting for scraps to stay alive, but a king who's grown complacent in his position of power

yet the belief from all those years ago that possessions make him a target still weighs on his mind, so he hides the belt from sight. and just like how he vowed to embody the championship with or without the physical belt back in 2009, mox claims that no one needs to see the aew world championship because he is it. no one else deserves to see it unless they struggle for it like he did. but this feels less like the earnest promise to embody a champion that it once was and more like a cowardly excuse, now. he clings to the title, locking it in a briefcase where no one can steal it from him, and he has the death riders to ensure that no one can pose a real threat to his power. it’s his own messed up way of protecting his reign & his status, all the while deluding himself into thinking he’s still the same mox as before

besides it being a callback to what dean said to cena in 2016, i think this may be what swerve meant last week when he said mox was “playing jon moxley on tv.” without the raw authenticity mox harbored before, it’s all become nothing more than a television act

[thenightling]

Dead boy Detectives review

I've watched all eight episodes of Dead Boy Detectives and it was a decent show. It's not something I may obsess over like The Sandman, or The Witcher, but it was decent.

Dead Boy Detectives is the story of Edwin Payne and Charles Rowland. Edwin was killed during a Satanic ritual in 1916. Charles died from hypothermia and internal bleeding after some bullies drove him into an ice-cold lake while throwing rocks at him.

(Note: That was not how Charles actually died in the source material. In the comics, Lucifer had quit and shut down Hell (the basis for the TV show Lucifer) so many evil souls returned to Earth, including the boys that sacrificed poor Edwin. They badly burnt Charles' back on a hot stove and Charles died from his injuries.)

The two ghosts decided to dedicate their afterlife solving mysteries to help other ghosts find peace. They are aided by psychic, Crystal Palace, who is haunted by her abusive ex-boyfriend who happens to be a demon.

Both Edwin Payne and Charles Rowland originated in Neil Gaiman's The Sandman: Season of Mists, The Sandman: Volume 4. Issue 25 of The Sandman comics, and within Act 2 of The Sandman audio drama.

The Dead Boy Detectives made their TV first appearance in Doom Patrol for HBO Max (now Max). During a shakeup at Max the show was moved over to Netflix as to better connect it with The Sandman since that is where they originated.

The show features different actors from the ones that played Charles and Edwin on Doom Patrol.

The Dead Boy Detectives is a decent show but ...it feels a bit like a CW teen drama. I had been told that some of the show's writers were originally writers for the CW... and it shows.

There are some deliberately surreal elements of the show that I think are a callback to their appearance in Doom Patrol.

I love the variety of supernatural entities in the show, including the appearance of two of Morpheus's siblings. Death and Despair. The things I don't like about the show can be considered CW tropes or cliches. The angsty romances and unrequited love. The ham-fisted abusive ex metaphor between Crystal and David The Demon.

And of course the most tedious of CW tropes, the end of the episode pining and angst while a sad pop song plays in the background.

If you look past the CW-ness of it, the show is enjoyable.

The only other things I can complain about is the "connecting thread" subplot of The Afterlife: Lost and Found feels like unnecessary filler. And I wish they would openly establish that Edwin, being an innocent, would NOT return to Hell if collected by Death now. I don't think that should be left hanging over his head. Especially since we're supposed to see Death as a kind entity. Also I think Charles says "Aces" a little too much. It's very distracting and makes me feel like the writers didn't know much late 80s English slang. It would be like if he was an American and they had him say "Radical" all the time. I get that it's kind of his catchphrase but it also got a bit annoying.

The parts I don't like are CW tropes and what I'd consider to be late 90s Vertigo edginess.

The thing I liked were plentiful though. The protagonists were and are likable. The ending is satisfying enough so that if there is only one season this was still good. I liked that it appears that one can ascend out of Hell after some self-reflection as is indicated by the boy Edwin confronted in Hell. The blue light was established to mean ascension, a good afterlife.

I also LOVE the opening credits theme music and animated sequence. It reminds me of the intro to Showtime's Creature Feature movies. (See the trailer for 2001's She Creature, not the 50s version. Watch the trailer at thirteen seconds in, on Youtube, and you'll see what I mean).

That's two Gothic themed shows from Netflix in the last two years with great opening credits sequences. The first being Wednesday. That one won Danny Elfman an Emmy.

It's funny, Wednesday and Dead Boy Detectives (which is a spin-off of The Sandman) have great opening credit intro sequences but The Sandman does not. Apparently Neil Gaiman was told people don't watch the opening credits anymore so The Sandman doesn't have them.

I feel we were cheated out of what could have been a great opening sequence for The Sandman.

Episodes 7 and 8 of Dead Boy Detectives were probably the best of the series. I liked it well enough that if Dead Boy Detectives gets renewed I'll happily watch season 2.

[piratefern]

Okay I know this ask was completely satire and im cackling at whatever the hell this is LMAO

But it also actually inspired me to finish my genderswap au concepts of my plaguemask au TADA!!!!

I thought if they were sapphics in a genderswap au then some things would change about their designs and perhaps aspects of the story :3 Also ignore the picnic basket, they aren’t canibals I realised it looked that way too late 😭

With Dyo, I looked into what his original name meant and I found stuff like “two sides” I think, but since I didn’t make that a core part of his character im giving the genderswap au a slight name change LMAO so I called her Dya, (pronounced Dia perchance)

I also shortened her hair as opposed to just making it longer, because that just felt a bit lazy and inaccurate, plus the short hair is silly >:3 Since they met at the theatre, I wanted to give Dya shorter hair so she could fit in to the male cast, and she likely would have hid her chest with something like bandages (obviously dont do that, its like 1601 this is happening) since back then women weren’t allowed to perform, so it speaks to her more rebellious nature :3

I based Hasel’s swap off of a plague nurse as opposed to a plague doctor and changed her name to Hazel (original is said Hassle in my head) and I know this takes place before the existence of plague nurses and plague doctors however I like the theory that plague doctors were based off of 049 rather than the other way around so ill be having that methinks

so in this sense her outfit radiates purity due to the colour and the more coveted clothing sense, however the dark aspects of her character that aren’t her clothes, such as her hair, indicate a hidden side beneath her politeness and court attitude, alluding to her monster form and dark past :3

Her form in general is pretty much the same as the original, the only difference really is her face shape being pointy as opposed to curved, and her little hair tuft I added at the top of her head

When she leave’s Dya at WW1, Dya’s hair starts to look similar to hers just like the original au and vice versa, Dya also would have started wearing a cloak similar to hers and a turtleneck sweater reflecting the undergarments she used to wear :3

After a while Hazel would have started to lose the garments but im not sure to what extent, a similar cloak level to original au Hasel probably with just a cloak with the hood down, or perhaps she rolls up her sleeves and sews the dress into pants? She might look like a principal though, so maybe she loses everything but the veil and sews it into a poncho yeah HELLS YEAH I like that one better, original au callback to Dyo’s ponch too, silly

Another thing to note is that if Hasel and Dyo are the only characters gender swapped in the gender swap au, then Hazel would have been in a sapphic relationship with her wife and would have adopted their daughter (however she would likely just call her her “partner” until she finds out Dya is queer too due to social constraints at the time as it would have been illegal for them to legally marry but I like to think they ignored that hehe)

So having said that it would eliminate a part from the original au where Hasel realises he’s queer, since in the genderswap au Hazel would have known all along given she already had a wife in the past, it would change some things about how the characters act, mainly Dya, I feel she would be more open to attempt to court Hazel given that she knows she’s queer which would speed up the slow burn of my original au LMAO

[midnight1nk]

So, this week's episode...

[spoilers below cut]

Well, it looks like I got it right. It was a silly episode, though nothing related to the teaser we got. That's a shame. I suppose it's just to hype us up for the future. Either way, let's see what this is about!

(the following is my live reaction:)

shoes, huh? ......spaghetwhat now?

oof, yeah man you're gonna need a new pair

ooh damn. well, it is Bob after all. ofc he would say that 😌↕️

nah it's still bullshit, idc what anyone says

why, this doesn't look suspicious at all. a mirror shop conviently placed here on an alleyway

"🤨?" what? I gotta be on high alert every episode! Last time, the Team dropped a callback to IGBP out of nowhere, who knows what they drop on us next

uh, wha? how did.....? I shouldn't be questioning the logic of the SMG4 universe, this isn't what's surprising. It's a fact that mirrors were also used in WOTFI 2025 hmmmm

(you guys are gonna have to drag me away from this scene or I'll start thinking too hard on this)

c'mon dude, there's no need to prove yourself of anything

oh hey Swag! how's Chris— *record scratch* ......i'm sorry wha?

😦

RADIATION?

oh i did not like the realistic mouth ADKL;JK

wait hold up! enhance... ENHANCE....

....is that who I think it is? there's no way, right?

IS THAT STEVE? omg HI it's been so long

FM?! it's really you? omg ^^ it's been.... oh wow, it has been years, hasn't it? anyway damn, it's been SO long

like I know FM and X aren't gonna come back but it is heartwarming to see them again after a few years. We mostly seen Cube walking around

she was a fairy 🧚✨

see? I told yall Mario would totally be a disney princess (that crowd's just being a much of haters)

I ain't trusting that, hell no

AY back to the clubhouse!

Oh, Depresso, I didn't expect you to come back from Karen's arc

....😶 "what?" well, I was gonna say that I hated that heavy breathing like. Mario, what the hell did you do? But for some reason, this starting to remind me of something. I'll talk about it later if this is going where I think is going

ofc the meme guardians would be the ones who enjoy this lol

well, 4 would be the one doing the redesigns. this tho.....

and now Swag's glowing green smh, told yall I don't trust it

Well, it was mostly 3 that made fun of you, Mario, but that's bc it's 3 we're talking about. I suppose from how you feel, you might remember it things differently

MORE?!

Mario, telling you rn, it ain't worth it

yeah, I knew Swag was gonna say "CHUG"

😨 oh i don't like that..... I think my hunch may be correct

(also don't

what is up with his hand? he destroyed a nokia, and yall know those are practically indestructible

guys, i don't like this

😨😨😨

MIYAMOTO NOOO

the cutaway from that fight scene tho LMAO

JAMES?!

why did I have a feeling 3 would like this new look? lol (it actually makes me think)

killer fish from san diego.... (FISH MENTION?!)

well, 4, what else did you expect? This seems like a normal SMG4 plot honesty, it just feels.... a bit strange if that's how I would describe it

*points at 3* Can we talk about the fit tho? the puzzles hoodie and the silly pants..... that's a Fit (with a capital F) if I ever seen one 😎

perhaps one day we get James to do a 3 cosplay like Luke did? maybe???

and that's a fire bound to happen

....omg, Bob? Was this from the explosion?

it'll never be enough, right? but also this is Bob, he's got a whole set of standards

oh yea, this is VERY similar to the thing I'm going to talk about

Mario: "I WILL be pretty" :( aw but you were

EXACTLY, you really did have a point from the start

TIME TO SHUT THIS DOWN

Do the thing, Mario! YEAH

It's bad enough as it is that people were already mad about the switch 2 (and by extension the new mario kart) would be expensive

Well, at least Miyamoto listened

Wow, 3 was really happy with this new form until he was changed back. huh.

Look, I know it's supposed to be funny and all, but something's telling me it goes deeper than that. And I'm gonna talk about it OBVIOUSLY. You are talking to a theorist here, ofc I would overanalyze stuff

At least, things are back to normal

and THERE! Right there is all I need, thanks Team!

Such a tease to have the cafe right there and Swag coming out of it, but we don't get to be in it (*head in hands* /lh) one day tho....

*explodes* <- that is probably the second episode in a row that ended with an explosion

Congrats to Michelle940607 for your art being featured in the end credits! 🎉 seriously some of the art I've seen from you guy look like they belong in a museum omg

.・-: ✧ :--: ✧ :-・.

This certainly was an episode and I'm not quite sure what to think of it /gen. It did start off and very similar to a classic SMG4 plot, I noticed we got a lot more of Mario's 64 version in this one. But for some reason I can't point my finger on it, hmm.

I'll be real, it did feel a bit uncomfortable of the whole "true beauty" thing and all that jazz, but it was a nice message at the end with Mario accepting himself. As someone who has dealt with self-image issues before, it hits closer to home more than anything. The good thing is that we got our silly goofball back.

"So, what's the big deal about your hunch?" Well, I'm glad you asked, chat. For most of the episode, I couldn't shake this feeling of familiarity until I remembered what it was when Mario transformed the second time.

You see, there is a body-horror film called "The Substance". I do wanna warn that there is a bunch of gore and things that make want to look away, I know not all of you have the stomach to look it up so I might as well warn you now. It's also the whole point of the film to make you feel uncomfortable and unsettled, perhaps even grossed out. Basically, the film brings up the topic of perfection and societal beauty standards, more specifically in Hollywood. Truly, the victim of the film is an older actress desperately wanting to bring her perfect self while at the same time hating herself for how she looks now, despite being beautiful anyway. She took a serum (that was a radioactive-green color) and it worked, only later to abuse it bc of the perfection mindset Hollywood put on her.

Perfectionism, it really leads someone to their downfall....

There's a reason I brought this film up. Throughout the whole episode, it felt off. Sure, I was uncomfortable about "fixing" one's self image, but there was another thing. The close-up to Swag's realistic mouth, the mirror. The radiation given to Mario, the heavy breathing and distortion of his body. Hell, even the way Mario feel against the table and knocked the book off from it. This is practically a PG-13 version of the film, except y'know with Mario and in the SMG4 universe. Heh, and wouldn't you know it, pink being used in the two medias to represent perfection. (you're gonna have to trust me on this for those who don't know)

Now, can we talk about 3? We GOTTA talk about 3.

On hindsight, it's part of the joke that someone would like their new look and get sad when everything turns back to normal, which in this case was 3. And it indeed caught me so off-guard to see James just there, it did get a laugh out of me. BUT if you put this context of the film in mind, this bit adds on to the topic of 3's insecurities. He already feels like the "worst version of 4" and still getting used to having friends. Then, to have this radioactive solution that supposedly makes you look perfect and become "true beauty" on him, 3 looks really happy about it. Sure, he goes on to say how he's handsome and is "The Rizzler", but that might be him trying to put up a front of his own self-image to others. And maybe to himself. Ofc everything reverts back to the way it was and 3 is upset about it. Back to being the "worst version of 4". Not to mention 3 wearing a Puzzles hoodie, y'know the one always in pursuit for perfection.

The more you think about, it really is sad.

Speaking of 4, he was the completely opposite. 4 was the first one to ask Mario what the hell did he do to them and was dumbfounded to know the reason why, for shoes. Until the very end, you can see 4 being unhappy until he's back to his old silly self. He didn't want this "perfection". Now, this is not me trying to connect it to goop!4, really I'm not. But it is just interesting that 4 didn't accept the unexpected "perfection" and rejected it.

Maybe I'm looking too much into thing and likely that the Team didn't plan all this, but these are my thoughts. Personally, it was an ok episode, all things considered, but I know some people aren't happy about it which that's fair. I just hope some people *cough cough* reddit *cough* don't take things too far and start blaming our new writer. We're just getting started and I did get a catch on some of their work, so I can put in a good word. Please do give them a chance, looking at you reddit. Not all episodes are going to be heavy-hitters and that's okay. There's always another week.

It's valid if you don't like the episode or you're unsure what to feel, just don't go looking for someone/something to blame on. Perhaps it's me being too optimistic, who can say? Besides, I know the Team's cooking, I got a hunch

I still can't believe Evan from the Team actually followed me omg

Anyway, it is an interesting direction the Team went with this episode and I do hope we get more of 3's inner turmoil of being "4's worst copy" like the "Trash Friends" episode. Oh, and they follow-up on the Puzzles and WPNZ teaser somehow, a prison escape perhaps?? Who knows!

As for all of you, if you are dealing with self-image/body issues, just know that you're a wonderful person inside and out. It might not feel like it bc we're talking behind a screen, but seriously you don't have to change to be loved. You already are, and very much friend-shaped to give you a virtual hug 🫂💙 If you want, talk to somebody about it and try to handle it in a healthy and respectful way to yourself. For example, instead of the usual black hoodies I wore in high school, I dress and doll myself up with some nice and comfy clothes. Even if I'm not going out, I still do it and that helped me rebuild some confidence in myself. You can always do what you can for yourself, however you can :)

Well, that's all from me folks! I do apologize taking a while to post this out there. Just putting out fires in my production job, y'know the usual. I'll see yall in the next one, and remember: numbers always go first!

...wow, I can't believe we got to see FM after so long. That's wild. I do wonder how Chris is doing tho

[wafflesandd1ck]

GO3 better have crippling longing.

I mean, I wanna see Crowley and Azeraphile both crack under their respective weight of Azeraphiles' choice to go to heaven.

I wanna see almost touches, almost hugs, I wanna see Azeraphiles face drop every time Crowley moves out of his reach.

I wanna see Crowley make ENDLESS petty jabs about how Azeraphile abandoned him and doesn't care about him for who he truly is. (IE: not an angel/not perfect) we all know how he talks to his plants is the internal dialog he talks to himself in, every waking minute of every day.

Give me that PROJECTION!!

Give me Crowley being disgustingly formal with Azeraphile. Always calling him "your Grace," "Supreme Arch angel," with a little smart-ass bow.

I want Azeraphile to be getting more and more cunty and bitchy in his..well everything. Basically, make him hold THIS energy for the entire first half of the film.

Make our favorite marshmallow man, match that goth boy energy to a 'T'!!

I picture the gang in the bookshop with Muriel, Maggy, and Nina. They are trying to work out a plan. Crowley hunched over Azeraphiles desk, and as they talked, the double meanings were so sharp that it's making the room tense AF. (Think kids watching their parents fight.)

Nina gets uncomfortable and is like, "I'm gonna make coco. Muriel and maggy! Come help me!"

I want a slow, tense moment of Crowley just

And then BOOM!

"Why didn't you go with me to heaven!?"

"Why didn't didn't you go with me to Alpha centauri!?"

"Why didn't you tell me when you hired the witch hunters to find the anti christ!?"

"Why didn't you tell me you already knew where the anti christ was!?"

They're breathing hard and circling each other. Getting it all out in the open: why? Why? Why!? Every miscommunication. Every missed signal. Voices rising louder and louder

Until FINALLY

"..Why did you kiss me!?"

Silence.

Crowley is visibly uncomfortable. Azeraphile has him cornered, physically and emotionally.

Crowley huffs a hard, angry breath and goes to put his sunglasses on. Azeraphile, in a moment of pure upset, rips them out of his hands and breaks them. I picture him just snapping them in half and grabbing Crowley by the lapels and slamming him into the nearest bookshelf. A callback to this moment.

"You will answer me this one question." Azeraphile huffs through his teeth. "If it is the last thing you ever say to me, then so be it."

Pause again on Crowleys face. Pained, angry as hell (ha ha pun) flustered, and definitely wanting to lean in, eyes flickering to Azeraphiles lips.

they just hold there in that pause.

Azeraphiles fingers find their way up slowly. Finger tips oh so gently dancing on Crowleys jawline. Eyes scanning one another.

They've been apart for so long. Just one little touch. That's enough. It's enough. Please, someone, let it be enough.

"I think you know exactly why, Angel."

I would also love it if this was the first "angel" drop since they were reunited.

If they don't make Azeraphile absolutely ravenous and completely starved for Crowley and Crowley knows it but keeps riding that line between "admit you love me" and "fuck you I'm so angry at you".

[redsugarx]

青白之魅 6: Conclusion

1 Introduction & Presentation // 2 Background & Influences // 3 Hair & Makeup // 4 Set Design // 5 Clothes & Accessories // 6 Conclusion

If you’ve followed this series all the way to the end, thank you for your support! A lot more people saw it than I thought would, and I’m really happy that I got to share my process and thoughts with you :) I read all your replies/tags and they make me super happy! There are just a few more things I want to address to wrap things up now.

behind the scenes vid of me with Dragun that Bloomin Studio recorded for us :)

Things That Went Wrong

I am a strong believer in the scientific method and the scientific method involves error analysis!!!!! Also I don’t want it to look like all of this went off without a hitch. That wouldn’t be fair to the complexity of this project and all the people who helped me work through and solve the problems. So here are some of the ways in which We Fucked Up.

Embroidery positioning: The bottoms of the sleeves were accidentally sewn together before the pieces were sent to the embroidery workshop. If you put the whole sleeve into the machine the embroidery would go through both the front and back of the sleeve, making it unwearable. To solve this, we had to pull the stitches out from the bottom of the sleeve, have it embroidered, and then have it sent back to a tailor's shop to repair the seam. 

Tear in fabric: Lily organza/crystal organza admittedly is a very fragile fabric, especially for machine embroidering. It’s extremely thin, and the surface is very smooth and slippery, which looks phenomenal but makes embroidering it really hard. I covered this in the last post, but long story short, in the process of embroidering one sleeve on the green set, the fabric got snagged in the machinery and tore a hole in the bottom of the sleeve.

At first the plan was to remake the entire sleeve piece, but because the color of the fabric was custom-printed, when I had a new piece of fabric printed for the new sleeve, the color didn’t match exactly, so we had to make do with the existing fabric. In the end we shortened the width of the sleeve so that it cut off above the hole, moving the seam up. Thankfully it didn’t really show up in the pictures, but you can see when it’d laid flat how the ‘margin’ under the snake embroidery for this garment is unusually small, because it got cut off.

Lateness: We ran like a full hour or two overtime with our hair & makeup. This is unfortunately not at all unusual for fashion projects like this, but as a result we lost like a third of our photography time, so there were some shots that I would’ve loved to get that we didn’t have time for. 

Forgotten items: There were a number of things we forgot to bring down to SoCal with us. The biggest thing was probably our steamer. Fortunately, because this set is mostly polyester, it didn’t get too too wrinkled, but there are still some creases and folds that we would’ve steamed out had we gotten the chance.

Fav Shots

Shh not all of these are published anywhere else.

Things I Would've Done (if I had infinite time and money)

Lingzhi - I don't have any photos of it but I bought a replica lingzhi herb (the magic fungus that Bai Suzhen steals to revive Xu Xian after her dies of shock from seeing her snake form) prop. We didn't get around to using it but it would've been a really nice major callback to the story. Also I would've gotten to talk about how I think it's highly possible people thought the lingzhi was magic because they ate it and started tripping balls

Willow branches - Willow branches by the West Lake feature heavily in the opera. I wanted to get willow branches to hang from the backdrop but unfortunately wasn't able to find ones that were realistic enough. They were replaced with dried water reeds, but most of the pictures weren't shot high enough to get them in frame.

Swords - In the opera, Bai Suzhen and Xiaoqing both carry swords. Also, swords are also just cool as hell. I do own one prop sword, but it was too big to fit in my suitcase even diagonally, and also I really didn't want to deal with TSA side-eyeing me about it (even though it technically counts as a prop or sports equipment), so we did not get any swords in the photoshoot.

Extremely specific shot with snakes on the floor - I have this concept of a shot: the empty set, without me or my sister in it, with both Dragun and Spirit on the floor. It would be so cool to do like a snake form -> human form diptych concept! We didn't have time to get both the snakes out at the same time unfortunately. Artistic rendition below LOL

artist's rendition

Credits & Thanks

Credit should be served where credit is due!!! I probably mentioned most of them somewhere but I want to reiterate that a whole lot of people helped make this happen and I appreciate them a lot.

Day Of:

Yulan, as the White Snake (ig @/chlobaltblue), especially for all the Talking To People Thing parts (that I hate doing)

Bloomin Studio (ig @/bloominstudioofficial), photographer

Cujo from Art of Scales (ig @/art_of_scales), for providing us with Spirit & Dragun as well as the space

Kevin (ig/@k.evinzhao), for driving and getting us stuff

Cloud9 Hanfu (ig @/cloud9hanfu), which is me and Yulan but it feels weird not to link the brand somewhere

Preparation:

Jinerjia（cutting & sewing）

Xishi Pavilion (cutting & sewing）

Chenxi Workshop (cutting & sewing + alteration)

Hantangfengshang（cutting & sewing）

Changxin Embroidery (digitizing & machine embroidering + alteration)

Hanyiren (patternmaking + CAD)

Xingluzhe (fabric printing + laser cutting)

Final Thoughts

In the introduction I talked a little bit about our intentions with this project and the cultural elements that I attempted to adapt and interact with. The Legend of the White Snake is one of the most well-known Chinese folktales out there, and yet there are so many wonderfully intricate details within it that people don't know about.

Snakes have a bad reputation in a lot of cultures. Evil, dangerous, and malicious, they're often cast as the scheming villains of the story, sly and sneaky characters whose goal is to do you harm. They are not the only victims of a bad reputation—every great dynasty always has some beautiful woman to blame for its eventual downfall. People have been arguing over the game of fault and intention for centuries. Even in the hanfu community, there is an unprecedented amount of infighting over what should or should not count as hanfu, who is 'allowed' to appreciate it, or who can take 'ownership' of it.

I think that's the last thing we need in this day and age. I'm reflecting on this project at a time that is uniquely terrifying for many minorities, especially in the US, who seem to be being persecuted for the crime of simply existing. I don't claim to be fighting for justice, I'm just a student in a world that is far too large for anyone to comprehend. But I hope that I helped make something beautiful happen, and I hope that we shared that with someone else, even if it's just a few people, who are reminded that it's not all for nothing :)

-

Okay, we're pretty much done here. I really enjoyed this process and documenting the whole thing, and I definitely want to do something like this again someday, but I definitely don't have the energy to do this kind of thing very often! If a big project does come up again I'll probably document it in a similar way, but it probably won't be for several months/even years. I'll keep posting hanfu articles and maybe document some smaller single-post projects on here at some point :)

Thank you for letting me share this process with you, and feel free to reply/reblog/send asks/whatever with thoughts, questions or concerns! Please interact with me it brings me joy.

1 Introduction & Presentation // 2 Background & Influences // 3 Hair & Makeup // 4 Set Design // 5 Clothes & Accessories // 6 Conclusion

Here's a picture of my snake to close out (his name is Porcupine/Porky for short/滷肉飯 and he's the dumbest animal I've ever met)

[blunt-force-karma]

I think we, the people, should talk about Barry the Butcher more. For real, I think we should, both in the grand scheme of things of the narrative of Disco Elysium and just cus it'd be a bit funny to. Think about it, how many people even really KNOW who Barry the Butcher is, or who remember Barry the Butcher? Do you, human reading this possible unhinged post remember Barry the Butcher? Do you recognize this man? Hell, do you think he could even be real? Well, those are all valid questions, dear reader! For one, he's named, yes, but all we really know about him is that he's friends with the man on the water lock (said by the Man on the Water Lock so who knows if they really ARE friends from what we see but let's just assume they are), he's stuck on the other side of the water lock, wears overalls, and looks disappointed that the water lock is broken and about about his salami being eaten by his friend. We can also assume that yes, he is a butcher. His name is Barry. He can make salami. Very astute observations.

This is the only bit we got of him too. Again, no portrait, no looking into the window of his soul. No can-opening. Nope. Nothing. Nada. All this man does is wave and look sad. You know this guy's irrelevant to the plot when we get more information from corpses. And sure, maybe that's not fair to Barry. The main corpse is related to the case and the other is related to a side case you can chose to do that has it's own emotional core to it. Only in Disco Elysium.

You never see the Man on the Water Lock or Barry the Butcher ever again by the way. After you interact with the Man on the Water Lock and MAYBE go back to talk with him again, once you enter a building and come back, he's gone, alongside Barry the Butcher. Day 1 exclusive guy's too. I am pretty sure if you never interact with the Man on the Water Lock, you can just never see him in the game after Day 1. Hell, I would not be surprised if you were to go into the game and the minute you're done talking to the Man on the Water Lock, Barry just despawns. Barry the Butcher doesn't get mentioned ever again to my knowledge, neither his salami eating friend though that makes sense. We never get to learn more about Barry the Butcher or get a callback about him. Nothing! And that's just so fucking FUNNY to me. On a game level, Barry the Butcher is probably one of the rare characters we meet that has a name, has his name in the dialogue box AND never gets a portrait while also never having any speaking lines either or just more than one paragraph of text related to him. He is probably actively one of the most irrelevant characters in this game which is definitely an interesting achievement to have as a character specifically in Disco Elysium of all games. On a meta level too, it's just funny. Like, Barry the Butcher was made and he was put in the game and he was given a MODEL! He has a MODEL! Like, some characters WITH portraits have no models. Barry the Butcher is so fucking SPECIAL in his mediocrity and that needs to be acknowledged. He doesn't matter at all but is so fascinating in how little he matters and the unique circumstances of his existence. Then, on a story level, it's fascinating to me. In the grand scheme of it all, Barry the Butcher is just a guy. He really is. He's not relevant to the story cus he's not relevant to the case. So, we simply never hear from him again. He's not even relevant in terms of thoughts cus he's just not that impactful to either the player OR Harry. None of Harry's skills can even chime in and give commentary on what they see about this man either. Barry the Butcher isn't even like those few people you can interact with who have stuff to say but you can never TALK to them cus they're just talking to themselves. Plus, they never get named cus Harry just never thinks about them ever again. They don't impact him. Barry the Butcher to me is fascinating on the fact that he IS named though. That he's given a model and not a portrait and never speaks and who knows. Maybe he just doesn't speak. We don't know that as the player or as Harry. And we'll NEVER know simply cus we're not meant to. Our story does not collide with Barry the Butchers. It barely even grazes whatever life Barry has going on. And, I think that's just beautiful. It's beautiful that a game like Disco Elysium can fascinate me on the fact that a character like Barry the Butcher exists. This game is in a world where people can just have different lives going on and not everyone in the plot "matters" plot wise. Yet, the fact that they're here and exist makes the world feel more alive. And not even in that way of filling the area with character models which I mean, not that there isn't characters like that in DE. There are. There's a good chunk of people you just can't talk to in the Whirling-In-Rags. Barry the Butcher is just like, so crazy to me though. He's so close to just being like one of those characters who just exist to fill space but it doesn't feel that way cus we're in DE and cus he at least gets the opportunity to be named and shown on screen to any extent. So, what I'm saying here is that we, the people, should come together on this. We should come together and unite for Barry the Butcher. I dunno how and I have no clue if this dumbass post will have any impact. I just needed to let this all out. Do it for Barry the Butcher. DO IT FOR BARRY!

[galadrieljones]

Tav/Astarion "emotional hurt/comfort" trope.

Because Astarion is majorly freaked out by the circus in Rivington. To be fair, Astarion would be freaked out by the cringe, uncanny valley "fun" of the circus, because to him it calls to mind the bovine nature of human boredom, and its pantomime equivalent to "real life," which horrifies him. It's essentially a cage full of masks, too many people who can't leave, walls on all sides as they all clap and nod in eerie unison. This reminds him of his own mask, his own cage, his own compulsions for performance, and it makes him feel unhinged. He is on the razor's edge. He would like to fight or flight immediately.

So his girlfriend Sansara the Rose, the elusive bard from Baldur's Gate, another high elf who loves him unconditionally, holds his hand and takes him behind the stage to show him the face paint. He is unnerved by the face paint. He tells her it reminds him of home in terrible ways. Part of what he always liked about her is that she doesn't "put on her face" in the morning. She just gets up and goes. She is like a sticky bun. She is a sun-kissed squeeze of citrus. She kisses his chainmailed shoulder, because it's all going to be okay, but she doesn't tell him that, not today, because he is occasionally stressed by her positive nature, which he can't help but view as naive. It's just fine, she thinks. He's doing just fine. He still wants to kill the clown.

On their way back to the crowd, San plays a little song on her lyre, just for fun, usurping the audience of another bard nearby. The bard starts an argument with her, insulting her needlessly and accusing her of trying to "steal his thunder." San outwits him, of course. The crowd claps. Her sharp tongue always amuses Astarion who is grateful for her patience with him at this haunted circus.

When they walk away, San tells him that she is glad he likes music, even if he doesn't like clowns.

"Music is not pantomime," he says to her. "Music comes from the heart. It cannot wear a mask." It's one of his rare earnest moments, out in the open, where others can see. They kiss next to the little guy who loves his wife and sells huge sculptures. The little guy says, "I like it!"

Back with Wyll and Karlach, San gets called up to the stage by Dribbles, who likes her singsong charm. Wyll is jealous because he LOVES Dribbles, a callback to his more innocent childhood. But then it turns out: that's not Dribbles at all! That's a fake. There's a fight. The impersonator bonks Sansara with a comically large hammer. She takes a stumble on the stage, and that really pisses Astarion off.

Finally! He gets to kill the clown. Which he does. With his sword. When it's over, Astarion feels a little better about the circus as he cleans the clown blood off his sword with a crisp linen handkerchief. It turns out they can just steal and stab their way through this place. It's no different from anywhere else they've almost died!

"Darling, let's go to the cemetery," he says. "There's a nice view of the canyon."

"That sounds pretty fucking good to me," says Karlach.

"I think I'd also prefer the company of the dead about now," says Wyll, picking the Displacer Beast out of Karlach's hair. "Can't say I like clowns anymore after all that."

So they go to the cemetery. Astarion picks the lock on the gate. As they stand near the fence and admire the canyon in the gentle light of the overcast afternoon, San says, "I didn't know you'd spent any time in Rivington. It's such a cow town."

"I've been everywhere in this hells forsaken place, love," he says. "It's like an anthill. I can't escape. I keep marching back. Like some fucking idiot."

"At least you're not alone this time," she says.

She's right, of course.

Karlach and Wyll, meanwhile, pretend not to watch them from under a nearby apple tree. Karlach eats her apple out of hand while Wyll cuts his into pieces with a knife. "You know I didn't like them together at first," says Wyll. "Thought he would break her heart. But now I see, his was already the broken one. She's like the sutures that hold the pieces together."

"That's a nice metaphor, Ravengard."

"Thanks, Karlach."

In a little while, it starts to rain. They decide to head back to camp. A priest is dead, they've learned, but they're all pretty much dead already. In their way. It can wait one night.