MXTX Side Characters Tournament

yeah sure Across the Spiderverse is about being doomed by the narrative and knowing you’re doomed by the narrative, but also it’s about how different people react to that, and how no one reaction is the right one, like Peter B. has lived as Spider-man long enough that’s gone through most of the “canon events” and he’s in a place where he’s like “yeah, alright, I can work with this” and is afraid of doing anything drastic because after being a screw-up for so long and finally, finally getting it right wouldn’t you be afraid making a mistake again?

And Miguel is angry but resigned because the one time he tried to defy the narrative it spat in his face and beat him to the ground. So now he’s doing what he genuinely belives is to everyone’s benefit. Without a hint of flexibility. He’s even angrier when Miles suggests that fate can be defied both because he’s convinced Miles is wrong and is going to get people killed and also if Miles is right than Miguel has to reckon with the fact that he’s convinced so many Spider-people to just “follow the script” and let their loved ones died because he was convinced there was no fighting the narrative. That not everyone is as doomed as he is.

And Hobie, who knows he might be doomed but is dead-set on spitting in the narrative’s face for as long as he can regardless. A different kind of acceptance. A kind of acceptance that’s covered in spikes and has teeth. If the narrative is gonna take him down he’s taking as much bad guys as he can before he bites it. And he’s isn’t going to be nice or polite about it, and he sure as shit ain’t gonna be quiet. Proper fucking punk, right there.

And Gwen, who is on the fence, but is sad and tired and just doesn’t have the strength to try anymore. She doesn’t have a home to come back to, or at least doesn’t think so, she’s stressed out and angry and she found out that as Spider-Woman that was always going to happen to her. She’s ready to give up, because being doomed is kinda freeing, if she was always doomed to fail, lose her friend, lose her dad, than it takes the pressure off. Sad as it was she could live with that. Until she sees Miles bite and fight and scream when he finds out he’s doomed, and that one little push gives her the courage to try and find out just how doomed she really is.

And Miles!! Free spirit, radical free thinker, “just let him spread his wings, man” Miles Morales. Who is trying so, so hard to figure out what his narrative even is, but is determined that he can figure it out, that he can spread his wings and manage on his own and find his place and be himself. Miles finding out he might be doomed is a slap in the face that he’s completely unprepared for. And he denies it completely. He refuses to lay down and just take it, he’s going to punch and kick and save everyone, no matter that every other Spider-person, Ham and Miguel and Gwen and every one, who’ve been doing this spider thing for much long tell him he can’t. And this radical rejection earns him pity, and earns him enemies, but he’s not backing down. He can’t back down. Because even if he is doomed he’ll never be able to forgive himself if he doesn’t even make an attempt.

 Across the spider-verse is so fucking good you guuuuuysss

“What do you mean he’s faking it? Geralt gets headaches, you should know! Lambert, he’s your brother!”

“Oh, believe me, I know my brother, Buttercup. Pretty boy has you wrapped around his finger. He’s just pretending so you’d be like…this. All touchy-feely and cuddly.”

The air shifts when Lambert must be gesturing wildly at Jaskier and Geralt’s general direction, where the witcher is resting his head on the bard’s thigh. The argument is muffled by the hand Jaskier presses on Geralt’s ear protectively.

It’s too comfortable to move, with Jaskier’s lap as the pillow and his doublet draped over Geralt’s shoulder. The fainting couch he’s lying on practically becomes a cocoon—one that is warm and nice and made from a bard’s love, but Geralt can only get it if he has a headache. Which he conveniently does, recently.

So Geralt duly keeps his eyes closed. He’s supposed to be resting for the pain, after all.

“His senses are heightened,” Jaskier protects, his voice low and careful. “You’ve seen him get overwhelmed by all the smells and noises. Don’t you at least have sympathy for a fellow witcher?”

“My senses are heightened too, and I can tell he’s a shit actor. He’s not even asleep!”

“Shh!” The hand that covers Geralt’s ear tightens. “You’re going to wake him!”

“Ugh, how do I tell you this, you can’t wake someone pretending!”

“Get out.”

Jaskier’s whisper remains low, but the determination seeps into those two words. Even without looking, Geralt can imagine the frown on the bard’s face easily. Oh, Jaskier is getting angry.

“You are not listening, he’s—"

“Out, Lambert.”

Properly angry. Even the younger wolf does not have a retort for the finality in Jaskier’s order. With a few muttered curses about gullible bards, Lambert’s footsteps retreat into the hallway. A door slams shut behind him, and Jaskier flinches even though it’s far away.

Geralt hums unhappily at how much Jaskier has tensed, so he hugs the thighs under his head closer. Gentle hands fuss all over him, tucking in the corners of the doublet and stroking his arm, shoulder, hair. He’s so toasty he could melt right here.

A good person would never take advantage of Jaskier’s affections like this, Geralt knows. Shame he’s not a good person.

Now he can bask in the presence of his bard without interruption. Geralt keeps his face neutral and relaxed, but the triumph makes him almost giddy at the knowledge that Jaskier will take his side every time—

“You know I know, right?”

Jaskier’s whisper comes from above, still soft and gentle and full of love. And perhaps, a hint of amusement.

Geralt freezes like a statue. His breathing stops for a long, long time. It’s a good thing witchers don’t need to breathe that much; it’s bad that his face is also heating up rather quickly in the process.

“Alright, then,” Jaskier says after a moment. His deft fingers trace Geralt’s jawline and give it a little pat. “Sleep tight, witcher mine.”

There is the sound of fabric rustling when Jaskier tries to find a good place to rest his head on the fainting couch. His snores come soon after.

Geralt blinks open his eyes after a while, not daring to move a muscle with Jaskier under him, still a vital part of the nice cocoon. Gradually, the toastiness is bordering on being too hot. He wonders if he’s able to panic while staying completely still, because it certainly fucking feels like it. There’s even sweat on his forehead now.

He does end up developing a headache, and it’s probably well-deserved.

Lambert must never find out.

Hua Cheng layouts! <3

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I think part of the reason I’m so obsessed with MXTX’s works is the way that each story seems to hold you gently as say “Your kindness mattered. It didn’t alleviate the suffering, it did not undo the pain. But your kindness mattered.”

Kindness could not erase Luo Binghe’s abuse, but it changed the story into a kinder one.

Kindness did not stop Wei Wuxian’s death, but it did save a-Yuan.

Kindness did not undo Xie Lian’s suffering, but it renewed his sincerity to help others.

Kindness did not change the entire world, but it helped create a softer future.

Its such a nice message, that maybe kindness will not protect you, maybe you don’t see the outcome of it, but you should still try to be kind, and I love that honestly.

hualian matching packs (tgcf donghua ep 6)

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unhinged binggehua posting because I can’t be stopped

CW for kidnapping and general bingge behavior 

Bingge, who has wrenched gods from the heavens and made use of countless divine treasures, ripping through the folds of time-space with xin mo to find and crush the orchestrator of his misery. He does not think it will be hard. He expects his creator to be an old creature, immortal and mighty as time itself; perhaps they will be calm and speak of fate, as though bingge’s suffering was naught but an ant struggling in the dirt to them; perhaps they will be cruel, having taken true delight in making his life agonizing.

But in a dingy apartment, small and cramped and stained with water leaks, he finds sqh working. The night is late and the only thing that lights up sqh’s face is the glow of his laptop. It’s almost divine. But bingge catches a glimpse of sqh’s face, and see’s him - so young, and yet impossibly weary and aged by the dark circles under his eyes and the weary blankness of his expression. This is no lofty god, conducting fates from upon a cloud. This is a creature who needs to eat and sleep as bingge once did.

Sqh turns when bingge steps on a crooked floorboard wrong, making it squeak. There is a bare fraction of a second where sqh looks upon bingge, and his eyes widen with emotion- recognition, panic, awe, fear. In that moment, bingge leaps forward, and knocks sqh clean out before a scream can even begin to form in his throat.

For a moment, bingge holds sqh. His creator, his god. Sqh is a faint weight in his arms, made haggard and pale by years of being shut away. But his face is softer in sleep, younger. Bingge enters his mind through his dreams.

He learns all there is to know of ‘Shang Qinghua’. There is no great tragedy to his life; he is no wayward orphan, or abused stepchild, or prince fallen from grace, or any other physically beaten and bereaved creature. But abandonment still lingers around him, the hurt of rejection buried deep. He is as resigned to his life of unpleasant work for survival as bingge is to his shallow existence and hollowed heart. Where bingge clings ever tighter to any love he can unearth, sqh shies from it, afraid to gain something for fear of the slight chance of losing it again. Here, in sqh, bingge finds the root of himself. He finds that which birthed him - that which held him close and nursed him, and released him onto the world as both a survival tactic and a buried cry for help.

Here is his creator, his god. His.

Perhaps it is not love bingge feels, not in the way he sees married couples love one another (not like his own marriages, no - he has long since learned that his marriages, even to the women he genuinely cares for, are not born of a true love). But it is a bone-deep feeling of belonging, the sense that a mechanism has clicked into place and is running properly for the first time. Here is the connection he has so craved; an utterly undeniable binding of red thread, a bond that cannot be broken by things like distance or emotion. Sqh is his, inasmuch as he is sqh’s. Creator and creation, god and vessel, mother and child.

Bingge’s suffering was molded by sqh’s hand, yes. But it was not without purpose, no - it is bingge’s suffering that has been given the dual purpose of keeping food in sqh’s mouth and kept him from going mad with lack of catharsis. Bingge has always, always been able to suffer any hurt if it would aid someone, and so he cannot help the thrill that he feels to know that his agony had meaning. It is a flaw he shares with his creator; for why else would sqh change the story of his heart to suit the whims of faceless people, to cater to their desires? Bingge feels every ounce of resentment flood away.

Bingge cradles sqh’s body on the apartment floor. The light of the laptop continues to pool over them, washing out the color in sqh’s skin, making him look as delicate as porcelain. Bingge wonders what color he is under the light of the warm sun. He gently tugs sqh’s hair free of it’s tangled hair tie, loosening the unwashed strands. The room smells of sweat, and salty noodles. Sqh’s strange clothes fit him ill, bulky and oversized, as though he was trying to trick himself into believing there was someone nearby.

He is small and dirty and weak, but bingge finds this irrelevant, if not comforting. Here is one who would not scorn his child self, grubby-handed and shoeless and starving. What is a physical state, in the end, when it can be changed so easily? Bingge will wash him and drape him in fine clothes, and feed him by hand until he is radiant, and then people will look upon sqh and see what he is - bingge’s.

(He knows, from looking, that mbj is sqh’s most beloved creation. His favorite. A toy made just for himself, carefully hidden from the greedy gazes of his readers. Bingge does not mind - for he is the first, and he will not be jealous of the little pet sqh made for himself. Perhaps mbj would be better suited to a bed than the battlefield anyway, he muses.)

Without another look or another thought, bingge rends the world with his sword again and steps through the hole, god cradled in his arms

binghe fights sqh and he gives no indication at being powerful or with martial ability. he realises his mistake in approach. sqh makes himself small, pathetic, and easy to bully so that he is underestimated and ignored. fighting a PERSON will only increase that. well thats fine. mobei he's gonna toss ur human into a deathmatch against beasts rq ok? u wanna watch? if he gets too out of his depth you can step in he wont stop you but he knows you ALSO want to know what that little THANG is capeable of. nature doc mobei and binghe watching sqh in some demon forest. the wild qinghua, pressured out of its natural habitat. without greater predators to form symbiotic relationships with he must fend for himself. there comes the sunburst scorpion tailed bear goat- we shall soon see how the qinghua- OH HOLY SHIT HE RIPPED ITS HEAD OFF MOBEI YOUR SCRUNKLY RIPPED ITS GODDAMN HEAD OFF

THEYRE TAKING HIM OUT OF HIS NATURAL HABITAT AND SPYING ON HIM OH this is good

He didn't know he was capable of it either

strong urge to continue this post

Free to use bnha icons! Credit would be very appreciated but not needed. Sorry I couldn’t do the whole class I only had enough energy for 6 (+ an extra kiri because… that mask…smh) so I chose my faves.

edit: removed the white border sorry!