#⁺✧⠀⠀`⠀portrayal notes⠀﹕⠀❪ the blade becomes you. ❫

[ragesin]

If the Sins weren’t framed and Meliodas was by Elizabeth Liones’ side as a consistent presence in her life ( throughout childhood / teens / adulthood ), he would not have been in love with her and they’d never have gotten married like they did in canon. He’d be a faithful knight, a close trusted companion, and still love her, but it wouldn’t cross into romantic territory. He’d watch over her while working on breaking the curse until she grew old and died. It’s happened before.

Should go without saying but he has zero romantic interest in those he perceives as children. He’s not a fucking creep and he’s clearly not in love with her when she’s a baby / child. Elizabeth is always important to Meliodas. A precious existence who means everything to him. He’s loved every incarnation BUT not always in a romantic sense.

Each Elizabeth is essentially a blank slate. If Meliodas meets them when they’re young, he’s more than content with just being a part of her life. He “adapts” her lifestyle and adjusts himself to what she needs depending on the situation. Barbarian Elizabeth lived in a tribe ?  You see this man integrating himself, eating around campfires and sharpening spears. High class noble Elizabeth ?  This man plays his role, chauffeuring her around and pulling off elegant outfits. Raised as a princess ?  He inserts himself as her guardian knight, a caring protector who’s close to an extent but maintains a certain level of distance.

He’s already insecure about the curse, about whether any of the love previous Elizabeths felt for him is nothing but a byproduct of it. The idea of getting with an Elizabeth he basically helped raise is horrific. He’d never deliberately try to get with her as soon as she turned into a legal adult after looking after her for all her formative years as a protector.

[mononijikayu]

akuma no ko—ryomen sukuna.

Sukuna's gaze, once softened by shared memories and tender affection, now hardened into a steely resolve, the pain etched into the lines of his face transforming into something colder, more distant. His response, delivered with a quiet finality, cut through the air like a blade, severing the fragile threads that bound you together.

GENRE: Heian Era to Shibuya Arc, 2018;

WARNING/s: Alternate Universe ─ Canon Divergence, Romance, Emotional Hurt, Found Family, Hurt/Comfort, Heavy Angst, Heavy Pining, Domesticity, Friends to Lovers, Character Death, Grief, Miscarriage, Mention of Depression, Mention of Mourning, Depiction of Physical Touch, Depiction of Mental Anguish, Depiction of Violence, Depiction of Harm, Depiction of Blood and Wounds, Depiction of Miscarriage, Depiction of Death, Depiction of Harm, Pseudo-Incest, Adoptive Cousins, Portrayal of Misogynist And Degrading Acts and Language, Smut, Detailed Depiction of Sex, Depiction of Sexual Foreplay, Sexual Penetration, Consensual Sex;

masterlist

ashes of love

song: akuma no ko by ai higuchi

note: there is four chapters left to write for this. this is just??? i cant believe ive written it this long. but i already planned the ending. im very excited for you all to see the end of this story with me. thank you for all your love!!! gojo also making parts here and there with this story, but he has a lot of things to say about his ancestor~ anyway i'll see you in the next chapter~ i love you!!!

LIFE WAS FULL OF SURPRISES. Seven years had passed since the destruction of the Ryomen clan. The warm summer days passed wondrously, a stark contrast to the turbulent years of rebuilding and war. You sat in the middle of the gardens, watching children play, their laughter a soothing balm to your weary soul. You had not expected your life to take this turn, but you supposed you could claim to be satisfied.

The war had grown ever larger, engulfing most of the clans in a web of alliances and enmities. The Zenin and the Kamo sided with the Fujiwara, while the Inumaki, the Ryomen, and the Gojo aligned against them. The Ryomen were still in the process of rebuilding, gathering old followers and new. The Mikoto were now upheld as the most trusted vassals of the Ryomen, with Masaomi always shadowing you, more so now that you were participating in the conflicts personally, leading your sorcerers against the Fujiwara.

As you watched the children, a sense of bittersweet nostalgia washed over you. The gardens, once a place of tranquility and beauty, had become a rare sanctuary amidst the chaos of war. The sight of the children, carefree and oblivious to the burdens you carried, brought a fleeting smile to your lips. They represented the hope for a future you were fighting so hard to secure.

Masaomi approached silently, his presence a constant and reassuring one. He bowed slightly before speaking, his voice respectful and steady. "The preparations for the next mission are complete, Ryomen-sama. Your sorcerers are ready and awaiting your command."

You nodded, standing up and brushing the grass from your clothes. "Thank you, Masaomi. Let's not keep them waiting." As you walked towards the assembled sorcerers, your mind shifted from the peaceful garden to the battle ahead. Each step you took was a reminder of the responsibility you bore, not just for your clan, but for the future these children represented.

The sorcerers gathered, their faces a mix of determination and reverence. They looked to you for guidance, their leader in this relentless struggle. You addressed them with a calm authority, the weight of your words underscored by the years of hardship you had all endured together.

"Today, we fight not just for our clan, but for the future we wish to build. Our enemies may be strong, but our resolve is stronger. We will reclaim what was taken from us and ensure that our legacy endures."

As you led your sorcerers into battle, the memory of the gardens and the children remained a beacon of hope. The war might rage on, but you were determined to see it through to the end. For the Ryomen, for the future, and for the promise of peace that seemed just within reach.

It was Masaomi who had orchestrated the daring escape, leading you and his own clan to safety across the borders. There, the Gojo clan awaited, their formidable presence a beacon of hope in the turmoil. The Gojo had welcomed you and your followers with open arms, providing sanctuary and respite. Suzaku Gojo, the head of the clan, was particularly glad to keep you as his guest for as long as possible.

However, amidst the warmth and hospitality, there were growing concerns. You have become more valuable than ever before. As the clan leader of the Ryomen and, more critically, as a woman in a position of power, you were a target. Men from rival clans and ambitious factions would undoubtedly seek to use you, aiming to impregnate you to seize the power of the Ryomen through blood and prestige.

Suzaku was acutely aware of these dangers. In a private conversation, he expressed his concerns, his demeanor serious and protective. "You are a beacon of strength for your people. Your brother saw that too. But that also makes you a target. There will be those who seek to take advantage of your position and lineage."

You met his gaze, appreciating his candor. "I am aware of the risks, Suzaku. But I won't let fear dictate my actions."

He nodded, his expression softening slightly. "And you shouldn't have to. I promise you, nothing will happen to you here. The Gojo clan will protect you and your people. You have my word."

His assurance was comforting, but the reality of your situation remained ever-present in your mind. As you navigated the treacherous waters of clan politics and warfare, Suzaku's promise was a beacon of hope. The Gojo clan's support bolstered your resolve, and with Masaomi by your side, you felt prepared to face whatever challenges lay ahead.

In the days that followed, you found a semblance of peace within the Gojo estate. Suzaku's presence was a constant reassurance, his protective nature evident in the measures he took to ensure your safety. Yet, the specter of war loomed large, and you knew that the respite was only temporary.

The gardens of the Gojo estate became your sanctuary, a place where you could find solace and clarity. It was here, among the blooming flowers and serene pathways, that you gathered your thoughts and prepared for the battles ahead. The child's laughter, the warmth of the sun, and the unwavering support of your allies gave you the strength to continue.

The war was far from over, but with each passing day, you grew more determined. You would reclaim what was rightfully yours and build a future where the Ryomen clan could flourish. And in this journey, you knew you could count on Suzaku's promise and Masaomi's loyalty, guiding you through the darkness towards a brighter dawn.

A child runs towards you, snapping you out of your thoughts. The child's laughter fills the air, a sweet melody that brings a smile to your face. You run your hands through the child's hair, gazing down at him with your striking purple eyes. When he looks up at you, his eyes are revealed to be as blue as the sky.

"Mother," the child asks, his voice full of innocent curiosity, "when can I meet Father?"

You smile softly, a hint of sadness in your eyes. "I do not know, my love. Your father is still busy with his duties."

The child pouts, his tiny brows furrowing. "Do you not like your mother, little one?" you tease gently.

"I love you equally, Mother!" the child exclaims, his pout quickly turning into a bright smile.

You laugh, the sound light and full of affection. Just as you are about to reply, a servant approaches and bows respectfully. 

"What is it?" you ask, your tone courteous yet curious.

"Lady Gojo, Lord Suzaku has arrived," the servant announces.

The child's face lights up with joy, and he jumps excitedly. "Father is home!"

You stand from your position, feeling a mix of relief and anticipation. "Thank you." you say to the servant, who nods and steps back.

Hand in hand with your son, you make your way towards the entrance of the estate. The warm summer breeze carries the scent of blooming flowers, and the sound of the child's laughter echoes through the gardens. Despite the turmoil and uncertainty of the world outside, this moment, with your son by your side and the promise of reunion with Suzaku, brings a sense of peace and hope.

Gojo Suzaku entered the room quietly, his presence as gentle as ever. His eyes softened as they met yours, a small smile playing on his lips. He approached you, his steps light and measured, and you could feel the warmth and care emanating from him. Ever since your marriage, Suzaku had always been kind, but there was a newfound gentleness in his demeanor, a tenderness that had grown even more profound after the birth of your children. 

The soft glow of the lanterns bathed the room in a warm, golden hue as you sat by the window, gazing out at the serene garden. The blue hour was calm, and the air was filled with the subtle scent of blooming jasmine. The tranquil scene outside was a stark contrast to the turmoil you had recently faced in childbirth.

He approached you, his steps light and measured, and you could feel the warmth and care emanating from him. Ever since your marriage, Gojo Suzaku had always been kind, but there was a newfound gentleness in his demeanor, a tenderness that had grown even more profound after the birth of your children.

As Suzaku stepped further into the room, the door burst open, and a small whirlwind of energy bounded towards him. Seiryuu, your son, with his bright eyes and infectious laughter, leaped into Suzaku's arms with an exuberant shout.

"Father!" Seiryuu cried, wrapping his arms around Suzaku's neck.

Suzaku laughed, a deep, warm sound that filled the room. He lifted Seiryuu easily, holding him close. "Seiryuu, my boy! I've missed you."

Seiryuu's face was radiant with joy. "Did you bring me anything from your trip?"

Suzaku nodded, his smile widening. "Of course. But first, tell me, have you been helping your mother?"

Seiryuu nodded vigorously. "Yes, Father. I've been very good and training hard. I even practiced the new techniques you showed me!"

“And towards your sister?”

“I made sure to sing for her, father! Ma-chan adored my songs!” The boy beamed proudly.

Pride swelled in Suzaku's eyes as he glanced over at you. "That's my boy. I'm proud of you, Seiryuu."

Seiryuu beamed, his excitement barely contained. He wriggled in Suzaku's arms until he was set down, then rushed over to you, grabbing your hand. "Mother, come see what Father brought!"

Suzaku extended a hand to help you stand, his touch tender and supportive. Together, the three of you made your way to the lord's chambers. As you entered, everyone bowed lowly, reverence and respect evident in their gestures. You felt a mix of humility and pride wash over you. This was the acknowledgment that came with bringing the six-eyes into the world after a hundred years.

Suzaku led you to a comfortable seat, where you settled with Seiryuu by your side, his excitement palpable. Suzaku retrieved a beautifully wrapped package and handed it to Seiryuu.

"Go on, open it," Suzaku encouraged, his eyes sparkling.

Seiryuu tore into the wrapping with the eagerness of a child, revealing a finely crafted wooden sword and a small, intricate figurine of a dragon, its eyes resembling Seiryuu's own unique gaze.

"Wow!" Seiryuu exclaimed, holding up the gifts for you to see. "Look, Mother! It's amazing!"

You smiled, touched by Suzaku's thoughtfulness. "They are wonderful, Seiryuu. Your father always knows just what to bring."

Suzaku sat beside you, his arm around your shoulders. "I'm glad you like them, Seiryuu. They are to remind you of your heritage and your strength."

Seiryuu nodded solemnly, his young face filled with determination. "I'll make you both proud, I promise."

You placed a gentle kiss on Seiryuu's forehead, feeling a deep sense of contentment. "You already do, my love. Every day."

You smiled at Seiryuu, your heart swelling with pride at his enthusiasm and determination. For a moment, you savored the warmth of his presence, the bond between mother and son palpable in the air. Then, with a gentle pat on his shoulder, you parted from him and moved to position yourself comfortably, preparing to greet Suzaku as he entered the room.

As Suzaku stepped closer, you lowered yourself into a respectful bow, a gesture ingrained in the customs of your household. It was a sign of deference and respect, a recognition of Suzaku's position as both your husband and the lord of the land. But before you could complete the motion, Suzaku's hand was there, reaching out to help you up immediately.

You looked up, surprised by the sudden interruption, but the warmth in Suzaku's eyes melted away any hint of confusion. His touch was gentle yet firm as he lifted you upright, his expression filled with tenderness and care.

"None of that, my love," Suzaku said softly, his voice a soothing murmur. "You needn't bow to me. Not now, not ever."

His words were like a balm to your soul, easing any lingering tension and replacing it with a sense of profound gratitude. Suzaku had always treated you with kindness and respect, but in moments like these, his gestures spoke volumes of his love and admiration for you.

You smiled up at him, a softness in your gaze as you met his crimson eyes. "Thank you, Suzaku," you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper but filled with genuine appreciation.

Suzaku's smile widened, his hand still resting gently on yours as he leaned in to press a tender kiss to your forehead. "Always, my dear. Always."

You allowed Suzaku's hand to assist you, feeling the comforting warmth of his touch as he guided you towards the sitting mats. Seiryuu sat nearby, his vibrant blue eyes alive with curiosity, a nursemaid attending to him attentively. The sight of your son brought a tender smile to your lips, his innocence and joy a welcome respite from the weight of your responsibilities.

As you settled onto the mats, the soft cushions providing a sense of comfort beneath you, you couldn't help but feel the gravity of your position. The role of wife to the lord of the land came with its own set of expectations and duties, and in moments like these, it was impossible to ignore the weight of those responsibilities. But Suzaku's gentle touch on your arm served as a reminder of the unwavering support you had in him, a pillar of strength upon which you could always rely.

Seiryuu, now nestled securely in his father's arms, giggled and played, oblivious to the solemnity of the moment. His laughter filled the room, a joyful melody that lifted your spirits and brought a sense of lightness to the air. It was a reminder of the simple joys in life, the moments of happiness that made the burdens of leadership bearable.

As you watched Suzaku and Seiryuu interact, a sense of gratitude washed over you. Despite the challenges you faced, you were surrounded by love and support, both from your husband and your son. In their presence, you found strength and courage, knowing that together, you could weather any storm that came your way.

With a contented sigh, you leaned back against the cushions, allowing yourself to fully immerse in the moment of peace and tranquility. The weight of your position may have been heavy, but in this brief respite, surrounded by the ones you loved most, it felt as though the burden had been lifted, if only for a fleeting moment. And as you closed your eyes, basking in the warmth of your family's embrace, you couldn't help but feel grateful for the love that filled your life, making even the most daunting of challenges seem surmountable.

Suzaku smiles at you, his expression filled with pride and affection. "How have you been?" he asks, his concern genuine.

"I’ve been resting," you reply, a small smile playing on your lips. "Masako has been keeping me awake. I've been a bit sore since birth, but I have been well.”

Suzaku nods, his expression serious yet understanding. Your pregnancies have never been easy on you. "And how has your rest been? Are you feeling better?"

You nod. "Yes, much better. The gardens are peaceful, and Seiryuu keeps me company."

Suzaku glances at your son, his eyes softening. "He is a remarkable child. Tengen-sama was most amicable during my trip, happy to know that everyone was well."

"Tengen-sama is most interested in Seiryuu," you say, acknowledging the connection between your son's six-eyes and Tengen-sama's interest. "Seeing his progress, Tengen-sama wants to see more of Seiryuu's success."

Suzaku's expression is one of pride. "Seiryuu is extraordinary, just like his mother. Tengen-sama's interest is a testament to that, you know.”

You smile, feeling a sense of pride and warmth. "He is, indeed. And with your guidance, he will continue to thrive. He will be most worthy as your heir.”

Suzaku reaches out, taking your hand in his. "We will guide him together, as we always have. You are not alone in this."

As the laughter of Seiryuu filled the room, escaping the hands of his nurse-maid. Your husband’s expression sombered. Suzaku was good at keeping a poker face more often than you could say. Much more when you played a game with him. But his own eyes clouded with concern, with worry. Seiryuu rushed to his father’s arms, giggling as he laid there. Your husband smiled at his son, though his eyes remained firm in its worry. He gently shifted Seiryuu in his arms, his attention turning towards you as he prepared to share the weighty news. He turned to Seiryuu’s nurse and nodded at her. 

Suzaku knelt down to his son's level, his voice gentle as he whispered, "You must go and wash up, little one." He leaned in to plant a soft kiss on the boy's snowy white hair, a tender smile curving his lips. "I'll come and read you a story after, hm?"

Seiryuu's face scrunched up in a pout, his blue eyes wide and pleading. "But I would like to have more time with you, father."

Suzaku's smile deepened, a hint of sadness in his eyes. "And you will," he promised, his fingers tenderly tracing through the boy's hair. "I just have some matters to finish first, hm? Now, kiss your mother goodbye."

The little boy hesitated, his gaze flickering between his parents. Finally, with a reluctant nod, he turned to you. "Goodbye, mother," he said, his voice small and earnest. He leaned in to give you a quick, affectionate kiss on the cheek, his warmth lingering.

You smiled, your heart swelling with love. "Goodbye, my little Seiryuu. Be good for your father, alright?"

Seiryuu nodded solemnly, his eyes glistening with the innocence and trust only a child could possess. He turned back to his father, who gave him a gentle nudge towards the door. As Seiryuu left the room, a soft murmur of footsteps echoed in the corridor, growing fainter with each step.

Suzaku straightened up, his expression shifting to one of seriousness. The tender moment with his son had been a brief respite from the weighty responsibilities that awaited him. He turned to you, his eyes searching yours for a moment of understanding.

"Actually, that's not why I was called to meet Tengen-sama," Suzaku began, his voice grave. "There has been a matter of great concern that Tengen–sama wished to discuss with me, one that concerns you."

You felt a chill run down your spine at the shift in Suzaku's tone. Something serious must have transpired for Tengen-sama to summon Suzaku in such urgency. Tengen–sama was kind, always making sure to treat you and your family well. But it was rare that Tengen–sama would say outright that they have a concern with you. 

Suzaku continued, his words measured and deliberate. "Tengen-sama informed me of a series of disturbing events—a massive murder of the Kamo clan's subsequent minor blood relatives, followed by similar atrocities within the Zenin clan. These incidents bear a striking resemblance to the slayings found in prior raids, where the victims were already deceased.”

“How bad were these incidents?”

His silence was more than enough for you.

But you wanted him to say something to you.

To confirm the truth, with his own words to you.

“Beyond humane.” Suzaku says, his eyes lowering. You think he has seen things. Too many things. “They should not be for anyone’s eyes, wife.”

Silence fell over the room as Suzaku's words sank in. The implications were grave, and the weight of the revelation hung heavy in the air. And these killings were not just of regular human people. They were sorcerers. To the jujutsu world, the lives of sorcerers were more valuable than anything else. You remained silent for a moment, processing the information. He does not speak either. As though letting you comprehend this moment. You settle your shaking hand away into your sleeves  before finally speaking up, your voice barely above a whisper.

"Is it him?" you asked, the words heavy with dread.

Suzaku met your gaze, his expression grim. He nodded solemnly. "It's him."

The realization sent a shiver down your spine. The perpetrator behind these brutal acts was no ordinary threat; it was someone with a deep-seated vendetta, someone capable of unspeakable atrocities. The safety and stability of your clan were now at stake, and the responsibility to protect your family weighed heavily on your shoulders.

Ryomen Sukuna has returned to the world.

But in what form, in what truth — you wondered.

What could have changed in these seven years?

YOU NEVER THOUGHT THIS COULD HAPPEN. The battle for Hida unfolded like a dark symphony, its crescendo building with each clash of swords and burst of magic. From the moment the first echo of cursed energy was thrown, it truly set loose to the final breaths of combatants in thunderous echoes, crescendo of souls burning through the worst of humanity. It was too much for you. You could feel the air crackled with tension, thick with the scent of sweat, blood, and burning earth.

As the chaos of battle raged around you, you stood firm, your resolve unyielding despite the recent trials of childbirth. With the flames of determination burning fiercely in your eyes, you fought alongside Suzaku, each movement fueled by an inner strength that refused to be extinguished. 

Your blood mingled with the elemental forces at your command, conjuring white flames that danced and swirled around you, consuming your enemies with righteous fury. The air was thick with the sounds of war, the agonized cries of the wounded mingling with the clash of cursed energy, steel and the roar of flames. 

The torrent of flames upon the land, the inferno roaring with an intensity that seemed to mirror the ferocity of your convictions. The gods were happy to see it, you think. Your sacrifice in blood, burnt underneath it all, white echo of cursed energy blended into bleeding hell fire. The gods find more souls in the hell that you created. The heat licked at your skin, searing the very air around you, as the sorcerers who dared to stand against you found themselves consumed by the flames they had invoked.

Amidst the tumultuous chaos of battle, the air was thick with the acrid scent of burning flesh. It lingered like a haunting specter, a grim reminder of the brutality and devastation wrought by the clash of opposing forces. Each gust of wind carried with it the stench of charred skin and singed hair, assaulting the senses and leaving an indelible mark on the memory of those who dared to tread the battlefield. Despite the horrors that surrounded them, sorcerers and warriors pressed on, driven by their unwavering resolve and the desperate hope of victory amidst the carnage. 

Yet, you paid it no mind, your focus unwavering. This conflict had raged for far too long, and you were determined to see it through to its end. With gritted teeth and a steadfast gaze, you pressed forward, your determination unwavering. Though Suzaku had initially protested, he soon relented, acknowledging the indomitable fire burning within you that refused to be extinguished.

Beside you, Gojo Suzaku wielded his cursed whip with deadly precision, its dark tendrils lashing out like serpents, striking down any who dared to approach. Each crack of the whip echoed like thunder, a harbinger of doom for those foolish enough to stand in his path. His strong cursed energy pierces through over and over. 

Mikoto Masaomi, a stalwart sentinel at your side, moved with the grace and precision of a seasoned warrior. His blade danced with deadly elegance, cutting through the enemy ranks with a fluidity that belied the chaos of battle. He yells, pushing the resistance forces forward. There would be no more surrender. Not anymore.

The forces of darkness threw everything they had into the fray, their desperation palpable in every incantation and strike. You hissed, kicking a sorcerer hard as you tried hard to maintain the flames of inferno. Masaomi screams, killing the sorcerer for you. Blood stains his face tenderly. You nodded at him as you still your breathing. You and your allies must come and stand firm. unyielding bastion against the tide of tyranny that sought to engulf Hida in shadow. 

As the relentless battle unfolded, the ground beneath your feet transformed into a quagmire of blood and mud, each step fraught with the slippery remnants of fallen comrades and foes alike. Above, the once serene sky was now a tapestry of crimson hues, illuminated by the fiery infernos that ravaged the battlefield. Time seemed to stretch endlessly, each passing moment marked by the cacophony of clashing steel, the thunderous roars of magic, and the anguished cries of combatants locked in a struggle for survival. With every swing of your weapon and surge of power, you propelled yourself further into the heart of the fray, inching ever closer to the inevitable climax of the conflict.

But through it all, you fought on, drawing strength from the courage and camaraderie of those who stood beside you. For in this moment, amidst the chaos and carnage of battle, you knew that victory was not merely a possibility—it was a certainty. And with every fiber of your being, you pressed forward, until at last, the forces of darkness were vanquished, and Hida stood free once more, bathed in the light of a new dawn. You waited seven years.

Amidst the chaos of battle, a figure emerged from the swirling maelstrom of combat, a harbinger of death and destruction. It was your grandfather, Fijiwara Ankoku, a formidable warrior whose mere presence sent tremors of fear through the ranks of the Gojo forces. With a single-minded determination, he cut through all who dared to stand in his path, his eyes fixed unwaveringly on you, his target. As the clash of swords reverberated around you, Ankoku's voice cut through the din, dripping with malice and contempt.

"Pathetic. You think you can stand against me, little child? You're nothing but a weakling clinging to false hope." Ankoku laughed maniacally.

You gritted your teeth, your determination fueling your resolve to prove him wrong. "I may not have your strength, grandfather, but I fight for something greater than myself. I fight for the future of the Ryomen, and I won't let you destroy it."

Ankoku's laughter echoed across the battlefield, a sound as cold and heartless as the blade he wielded. "The future? Ha! You're delusional, child. The only future you have is one of suffering and despair."

You blocked his vicious strike with all your might, the clash of steel ringing in your ears. "You're wrong, grandfather. We will never surrender to tyranny. And neither will I."

Ankoku's eyes gleamed with cruel amusement as he pressed the attack, his movements swift and deadly. "Brave words, child. But words will not save you from the fate that awaits you at my hands."

As you fought tooth and nail against your grandfather, each strike and parry a testament to your unwavering determination, you knew that the battle was far from over. But with every fiber of your being, you refused to back down, for you knew that the fate of the future depended on your strength and resilience in the face of darkness.

Before he could reach you once more, however, a sudden and cataclysmic force swept through the battlefield, tearing through the ranks of the Fujiwara forces like a scythe through wheat. A shockwave rippled outward, engulfing Ankoku and almost all of the Fujiwara forces in its fiery embrace. The air crackled with searing heat, as though everything around you was being consumed by flames.

Screams echoed through the chaos, a chorus of agony that pierced the very soul. Masaomi, ever the steadfast protector, stood before you, his blade drawn and ready to defend. Suzaku, your husband, held you close, his arms a shield against the storm of violence that raged around you.

As the dust settled and the acrid scent of burning flesh hung heavy in the air, you dared to peek through the haze, your heart pounding in your chest. And there, amidst the devastation, stood a lone figure, bathed in the eerie glow of the battlefield. It was someone you knew all too well, someone whose very presence sent chills down your spine.

You hitched your breath, your eyes widening in recognition as you realized who had unleashed such devastation upon the battlefield. It was him—the one who wielded the power to rend reality itself, whose very existence threatened to tear apart the fabric of the world. And as you stood there, frozen in fear and awe, you knew that the true battle had only just begun. For now, faced with the wrath of a god, you could only hope to survive the coming storm.

Ryomen Sukuna had changed. His once familiar form now towered over you, his frame elongated and imposing. Two sets of red eyes gleamed beneath his own, casting an eerie glow in the darkness. And as if to accentuate his newfound power, two additional arms sprouted from his sides, a testament to the monstrous strength that now coursed through him.

You watched in horror as Sukuna strode forward, his footsteps leaving crimson ripples in the river of blood that flowed from his very being. The air crackled with an oppressive aura, heavy with the weight of his malevolence.

In a desperate bid to shield yourself from his gaze, you moved to stand in front of Suzaku, seeking refuge in his comforting presence. Tears streamed down your face, a silent testament to the fear and anguish that consumed you.

Suzaku met your gaze with a mixture of concern and determination, his crimson eyes blazing with a fierce resolve. Despite the danger that loomed before you, he remained steadfast at your side, a beacon of strength in the face of overwhelming darkness.

The two of you stood together, united in your defiance against the encroaching evil. And as Ryomen Sukuna drew nearer, his monstrous form casting a shadow over you both, you couldn't help but feel a sense of déjà vu—an eerie echo of the past, where fate had once torn you apart.

The demon bowed to his master.

Tears flowed from your eyes.

“I have returned to you, as promised.”

IT WAS QUITE SURPRISE. As Ryomen Sukuna reentered your life, a palpable tension hung heavy in the air, casting a shadow over the once serene halls of your ancestral home. Despite the dissolution of your marriage, the ties of blood and kinship still bound you to him, making him an inseparable part of the Ryomen clan's legacy. His presence stirred a mix of emotions among the clan members, ranging from curiosity to apprehension. 

The grandeur of the clan, once illustrious and revered, now lay in ruins, its glory faded and its power diminished. Those who served the clan, once proud and loyal, now regarded Sukuna with wary eyes, their apprehension evident in their hesitant movements and whispered conversations. The air crackled with anticipation as the prodigal son returned, his every step echoing through the corridors like a harbinger of uncertainty.

Sitting across from each other in a modest chamber that had once been the heart of a thriving household, you and Sukuna attempted to catch up. The conversation was stilted, each word carefully chosen, the air thick with unspoken words and unresolved tension. The weight of your shared history hung heavily between you, a barrier neither of you seemed willing to breach just yet.

"You look well," Sukuna remarked, breaking the uneasy silence that had settled between you.

"Thank you," you replied, offering a polite nod. "And you, Sukuna? How have you been?"

Sukuna hesitated for a moment, his gaze flickering away before returning to meet yours. "Surviving." he answered cryptically. "Things have been... complicated."

"I understand, do not worry." you said softly, the understatement hanging in the air like a heavy fog. "It hasn't been easy for any of us."

A tense silence fell between you once more, punctuated only by the distant sounds of the household bustling outside. Each of you grappling with the weight of unspoken words and unresolved emotions, unsure of how to bridge the chasm that had grown between you over the years.

Sukuna's eyes, once filled with a ferocious intensity, now held a glimmer of something softer, almost vulnerable. He looked around the room, taking in the familiar yet changed surroundings, before his gaze settled on you. You, too, found it difficult to find the right words, memories of past conflicts and shared dreams flickering like shadows in the back of your mind.

For a moment, there was silence. You looked at Sukuna, your expression softening. "Thank you for returning, for coming back to me." you said, your voice sincere and filled with gratitude.

Sukuna met your gaze, his own expression serious. The usual bravado and arrogance were absent, replaced by a rare honesty. "I will always come back to you, you know that." he replied, his tone firm and resolute. "No matter what."

The declaration hung in the air, a promise that transcended the broken bonds of marriage, reaffirming the deeper connection that bound you both. Despite the awkwardness and the unspoken pain, there was a sense of comfort in knowing that, regardless of the circumstances, you would always be family. You will always know he was someone you loved.

You took a deep breath and led Sukuna into the main hall, where your children were waiting. Seiryuu, your eldest, stood with a confident stance, his eyes—a rare and powerful six-eyes—glinting with curiosity. You had told him stories about his lineage, but meeting Sukuna in person was a different experience altogether.

Sukuna’s gaze lingered on Seiryuu, a flicker of recognition passing over his features. “I can tell the boy already has power in him.” he remarked, his voice carrying a note of approval.

You nodded in agreement. “Yes, he does. He is quite an intelligent boy.”

Seiryuu looked up at Sukuna with wide blue eyes, filled with a mixture of curiosity and awe. “Who are you?” he asked, his tone innocent yet direct. Those eyes made Sukuna uncomfortable. “You’re tall. And your arms, and your eyes! You have four!”

You purse your lips. “Seiryuu.”

“It’s alright.” Sukuna tells you softly as he turns to the boy. “You’re quite curious aren’t you?”

Seiryuu grins at him. “I do! Father thinks so too.”

For a moment, Sukuna hesitated at the mention of Suzaku. He could feel his usual confidence giving way to an uncharacteristic uncertainty. Then he spoke, his voice gentle. “I am your uncle.”

Seiryuu’s face lit up with a bright smile. “I’ve never had an uncle before! Father never had other siblings! Are you my mother’s brother?”

“No, I am her cousin.” He responds.

“So you were great uncle Hisamu’s son?”

“Yes I was, boy.” A hint of sadness pierces at his reply.

Seiryuu's curiosity seemed to know no bounds as he bombarded Sukuna with questions about their family history, drawing out tales of their ancestors and the legacy they carried. Sukuna, despite his initial hesitation, found himself opening up, sharing stories of their lineage that had long been buried beneath layers of time and secrecy.

As the conversation flowed, Sukuna couldn't help but feel a sense of nostalgia creeping in. It had been so long since he had connected with someone from his past, someone who understood the weight of their shared heritage. Seiryuu's youthful enthusiasm was infectious, breathing life into memories Sukuna had long believed to be forgotten.

You smiled at their interaction, feeling a sense of warmth and hope. Turning to the lady servant who held your baby daughter, you gently took the child into your arms. As you cradled your daughter in your arms, a rush of tenderness enveloped you. Her tiny fingers grasped at the fabric of your dress, her innocent gaze fixed upon your face with unwavering trust. In her presence, the weight of the world seemed to lift, replaced by a profound sense of peace and joy.

“Is there another one to meet?” Sukuna turns as Seiryuu plays with one of his arms. You smiled at him as you nodded.

 "She would like her uncle.” you said, walking closer to Sukuna with babe in hand. “This is my little one. Gojo Masako.”

Sukuna's gaze lingered on Masako, a tenderness softening his usually sharp features. "She takes after you, night flower." he murmured, his voice carrying a hint of wistful nostalgia. The endearment, once a whispered promise of affection, now echoed through the chamber, stirring memories long buried beneath the weight of time. “She’s truly beautiful.”

A pang of longing pierced your heart at his words, a bittersweet reminder of a love that had once blossomed between you. In that fleeting moment, the shadows of the past danced with the light of the present, weaving a tapestry of emotions that bound you and Sukuna together, forever intertwined in the threads of destiny.

"I know." you replied softly, your smile tinged with sadness as you cradled Masako against your chest. You look at her tenderly. “My adorable little one.”

“But mother, I am your adorable little one!” Seiryuu pouted in Sukuna’s arms. “Aren’t I?”

“Hm, you always will be.” You smiled at him. “But your sister is still a baby, hm? Give her a chance. A good adorable elder brother should love his adorable little sister.”

He pouts, nodding at you slowly. “Alright.”

The moment was poignant, a rare glimpse of peace amidst the turmoil that had defined your lives. Despite the complicated history and the lingering tension, this simple family introduction felt like a small step toward healing. Sukuna’s presence, while still tinged with the shadows of the past, also brought a sense of solidarity and a reminder of the bonds that could never truly be broken.

Sukuna's eyes softened as he looked at your children, a rare vulnerability crossing his usually stoic features. "They could have been ours, wouldn’t they?” he lamented, his voice tinged with a sadness that mirrored the longing in his eyes.

You smiled at him sadly, a melancholic understanding passing between you. "They would have had the happiest life together," you replied, your voice barely above a whisper.

For a moment, the two of you sat in silence, the weight of unspoken emotions hanging heavy in the air. Sukuna broke the silence first, his tone measured. "I'm happy you've found a life," he said, though his words lacked conviction.

You gave him a knowing look. "Be better at lying," you said softly.

He didn’t respond, the silence stretching between you once more, heavy and unresolved. After a moment, you decided to break it. "Where have you been all this time, Sukuna?" you asked, your voice filled with a mixture of curiosity and concern. "Does it involve massacre?"

Sukuna's lips curved into a familiar, unsettling smile. "I regret nothing." he said, his voice carrying a dark, unapologetic undertone.

You sighed, a mixture of resignation and sadness filling your heart. Despite the distance and the divergent paths your lives had taken, Sukuna was still a part of your world, a ghost from your past who refused to fade away.

The complexity of your relationship, filled with both love and regret, was a testament to the depth of the bond you once shared. In that moment, surrounded by the reminders of what could have been and the reality of what was, you found a fragile, tenuous connection that, while fraught with pain, was still unbreakable.

In the quiet aftermath of Seiryuu's departure, a palpable tension lingered between you and Sukuna, a silent acknowledgment of the complexities that defined your shared history. As Seiryuu reluctantly departed for his lessons, his parting tantrum echoing faintly in the air, Sukuna's gentle assurance carried a weight of its own—a promise of presence amidst the lingering uncertainty that surrounded your family.

"I'll be here and play with you when you finish, boy." Sukuna's words were imbued with sincerity, a genuine pledge to honor Seiryuu's desire for companionship despite the constraints of their circumstances.

Seiryuu's pout softened, replaced by a hesitant smile as he sought reassurance from his uncle. "Do you promise, uncle?"

Sukuna's smile widened, his eyes softening with affection as he met Seiryuu's gaze. "I do." he affirmed, his voice carrying the weight of a solemn vow.

Silence echoes through your chambers.

You looked at Sukuna, he looked back at you.

He smiles towards you, like he did years ago.

With a gentle nod, Sukuna rose from his seat, a sense of resolve in his demeanor. "I should take my leave." he said, his voice tinged with a mixture of regret and acceptance. One of his palms rests on your face. You lean against his palm, taking a deep breath. "But know that I am always here, should you ever need me. Just call on me.”

You met his gaze, a flicker of gratitude shining in your eyes. "Thank you, my love." you whispered, your voice carrying the weight of unspoken emotions. "For returning to me.”

With a final glance at Masako cradled in your arms, Ryomen Sukuna turned to leave, his steps echoing softly against the chamber floor. As the door closed behind him, you were left with a sense of closure, a faint glimmer of hope stirring within your heart.

Within the walls of the manor, an uneasy atmosphere lingered, thick with tension and veiled hostility. Sukuna, an outsider in this realm of familial politics, bore the burden of suspicion with an air of stoic acceptance. Despite the sidelong glances and murmured asides that shadowed his presence, he maintained an outward facade of calm resolve.

To Sukuna, the Gojo clan held little significance compared to the ancient lineage of the Ryomen. In his eyes, they were newcomers, lacking the weight of history and tradition that defined his own heritage. He refused to yield to those he deemed beneath him, his pride and arrogance serving as an impenetrable shield against the subtle machinations of those who sought to undermine him.

As the insolent behavior of one of the Gojo servants grated against the already strained atmosphere, Sukuna felt the urge to unleash his wrath upon her. The impulse to tear her limb from limb coursed through his veins like a torrential storm, fueled by her audacious disrespect. In his mind, she was nothing more than an insignificant nuisance, unworthy of even a moment's consideration. Surely, no one would mourn her absence if she were to disappear.

However, Sukuna's gaze lingered upon her with a magnetic intensity, drawing Suzaku's attention like a moth to a flame. With a voice as sharp as a whip crack, he addressed the servant's misconduct with unwavering severity, his words laced with authority and reproach, cutting through the air like a blade.

In his reprimand, Suzaku's tone held an unwavering firmness, cutting through the tense atmosphere like a blade. "Sukuna-dono is still a relative of my lady wife," he stated sternly, his words carrying the weight of authority. "I expect you to treat him with the respect he deserves. Or else, I will not be lenient." 

There was no room for negotiation in his command, the seriousness of his tone leaving no doubt as to the consequences of disobedience. The servant’s eyes were wide, terrified as she bowed deeply, murmuring apologies before scurrying away. Once alone, Suzaku and Sukuna found themselves discussing the ongoing war and, inevitably, the topic turned to you.

The servant, visibly cowed by Suzaku's admonition, offered a hasty apology before retreating, leaving behind a palpable sense of discomfort in their wake. Sukuna's reaction, though subdued, betrayed a flicker of irritation in his steely gaze, a silent acknowledgment of the constant scrutiny and hostility he endured within the confines of the manor walls.

"It seems our time here has become increasingly difficult," Suzaku remarked, his voice tinged with regret. "But rest assured, Sukuna-dono, that you have my support. I will not allow any disrespect towards you, regardless of the circumstances."

He snickered. “Your servants are disobedient. If they were Ryomen servants, they would have been punished severely.”

“Too bad they are Gojo servants, Sukuna–dono.” Suzaku's lips twitch into a small wry smile.

Sukuna's lips curled into a smirk at Suzaku's response, a glint of amusement dancing in his eyes. "Indeed." he replied, his tone tinged with sardonic humor. "But even Gojo servants must learn to respect their superiors. I will ensure they understand that."

Suzaku inclined his head in agreement, his expression reflecting a mixture of approval and anticipation. "Your authority is unquestionable, Sukuna-dono, of course." he acknowledged, a subtle nod of respect accompanying his words. "But I have doubts they will heed your words. You are not a Gojo." 

“I do not want to be a Gojo.”

“That is quite clear to see, yes.”

Silence engulfs the two men.

Sukuna shifts his haori to the side.

Suzaku shrugged as he looked away.

"When did you two wed?" Sukuna asked, his tone casual but his red eyes sharp.

"Shortly after you left," Suzaku replied evenly as Sukuna watched him. "To protect her from being taken by the other clans. They would have sought to use her for their own gain. It was the only way.”

Sukuna's lips curled into a mocking smile. "And do you care for her, Suzaku? Or is it just the six-eyes that bind you to her? I’d like to have a good response.”

Suzaku's expression remained calm, but there was a steel in his eyes. "I have great fondness for her, as I always have. I may even love her."

"May even love her?" Sukuna scoffed, his voice dripping with derision."You should have a more definite answer to me, the man who loves your wife the most. Speaking about love with such uncertainty makes me think you only care that she gave you a six-eyes boy.”

Suzaku met Sukuna’s gaze steadily. "You may think what you want, but I will not debate my love for her. It is what it is, and nothing you say will change that."

The tension in the room seemed to thicken as Sukuna's eyes narrowed, a glint of something unreadable passing through them like a fleeting shadow. The air crackled with unspoken words, each man standing firm in the silent confrontation. Time seemed to slow as they locked gazes, a silent battle of wills unfolding in the space between them. Then, just as abruptly as it began, Sukuna broke the gaze, his expression shifting into a bitter smile tinged with resignation. The weight of their shared history hung heavy in the air, a silent reminder of the complexities that bound them together despite their differences.

"Well," he said, his voice softer but still edged with sarcasm, "let's hope your love is enough to protect her from what's to come."

Suzaku nodded, his resolve unshaken. "I will protect her with everything I have. That is my vow." 

Sukuna remained silent, his thoughts veiled behind a mask of indifference, but beneath the surface, a begrudging admiration stirred within him. Despite the tension between them, he couldn't help but acknowledge Suzaku's unwavering determination and strength of character. It was a quality Sukuna had always respected, even amidst their differences and conflicts. Though he may never admit it aloud, a part of him grudgingly admired the steadfastness with which Suzaku stood by his convictions.

Ryomen Sukuna had made up his mind.

You would always be in good hands, he thinks.

You could live life without him now, he knew.

But he thinks he needs time, he needs a moment.

He needs to accept that he has lost you forever.

IT WASN’T AN EASY DECISION. Sukuna grappled with a profound sense of displacement, feeling like a relic of a bygone era in a world that had moved on without him. Despite his enduring love for you, it was tainted by the melancholy realization that he no longer belonged in the life you had forged. Part of him yearned to whisk you away, to selfishly claim you as his own and shield you from the complexities of the world. 

Yet, he harbored an innate understanding that such a course of action was untenable. Deep down, Sukuna recognized the inherent impossibility of uprooting you from the existence you had painstakingly crafted, even if it meant sacrificing his own desires for the sake of your happiness.

In the quiet embrace of the night, you and Sukuna clandestinely convened in the secluded sanctuary of the Gojo manor gardens, cloaked in the silvery luminescence of the moon. Its soft beams illuminated the delicate petals of blooming flowers, lending an otherworldly quality to the serene ambiance. The fragrance of blossoms perfumed the air, intermingling with the faint rustle of leaves stirred by the gentle breeze. Each element conspired to create a tranquil tableau, a poetic setting befitting the gravity of the emotions that hung palpably between you and Sukuna.

In the solemn intimacy of the moonlit garden, Sukuna's declaration hung heavily in the air, his words carrying the weight of both resignation and resolve. His voice, a subdued murmur amidst the tranquil night, echoed with the ache of longing and the burden of acceptance.

Your gaze, brimming with a tumult of emotions, sought solace in the contours of his face, a canvas etched with the scars of time and distance. Hurt and determination intermingled in the depths of your eyes, reflecting the depths of your heart's turmoil.

"Sukuna, you can't leave me again," you implored, your words a fervent plea that resonated with the echoes of past separation. "Not after we've endured the agony of being apart for so long."

His sigh, a weary exhale that seemed to carry the weight of the world, was accompanied by a downward cast of his eyes, a gesture of resignation that mirrored the heaviness in his soul. "You have a life here, a family," he murmured, his voice tinged with a melancholic realization. "I don't belong in this world anymore."

"You are my family," you countered, your voice a steadfast declaration that cut through the night's stillness. "We may no longer be lovers, but we could still be a family again. Together, we can navigate this world, find our place amidst the chaos and uncertainty."

Sukuna's expression hardened, a flicker of pain crossing his eyes. "I can't consider Gojo my family. Not in my entire life. You are my only family. And I can't have you as such. I can't be with you. Not anymore.”

You stepped closer, desperation in your voice. You knew he was right. But you didn’t want him to be right. You didn’t want him to leave you. Not again. "We don't have to be lovers, Sukuna. Just stay. We can find a way to make this work. You are my only family left, we are the last of the Ryomen. Herons….”

“Herons cannot exist without the other.” He completes for you, your eyes widened. “But you cannot be a heron with a monstrosity. Not ever.”

“You are not a monster to me.” You insisted on him, your hand taking his massive palm. You pursed his lips. “You are Sukuna. My Sukuna.”

He shook his head, a bitter smile playing on his lips. "I want to take you away, to be selfish and keep you all to myself. But you have responsibilities, people who depend on you."

"And you think I don't need you?" you asked, your voice trembling with emotion. "I have always needed you, Sukuna. Your presence in my life matters more than you know."

Sukuna looked away, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. "I love you," he whispered, the words heavy with regret. "But I don't belong here. Not in this world, not in this life you've built."

Tears welled up in your eyes as you reached out, taking his hand in yours. "Please, don't go. We can figure this out together."

For a moment, Sukuna allowed himself to feel the warmth of your touch, the connection that had always been there between you. But he knew he couldn't stay. Not without causing more pain.

"I will always come back to you," he said softly, his voice breaking. "But for now, I have to leave."

“You do not have to leave—”

Sukuna's piercing red eyes burned with intensity as he spoke, revealing the depth of his distrust. "I know the Gojo elders are displeased with how much of their resources are being spent trying to retake Ryomen land. They see no benefit in it. I fear there will be a betrayal."

You listened, your heart heavy with the weight of his words. "What are you saying, Sukuna? You think that our most trusted friends—”

He stops her with a glare. “They are not friends.”

“They have helped us, Sukuna. In our hour of need!”

“I cannot trust them. Not now. Not ever.”

You felt your throat dry as you stared at him, as though frightened of him. “What do you want me to do?”

"I'm saying you need to come with me," he insisted, his voice urgent. "Leave this place before it's too late."

You shook your head, tears already welling in your eyes. "Sukuna….you knew this was….I can't leave, not without my children. And my children will not leave without their father."

Sukuna's expression softened for a moment, a flicker of pain crossing his eyes. "Was there ever a chance? When I came back, did you ever consider choosing me?"

You looked at him, your voice trembling. "I chose you, Sukuna. I always chose you."

"But never when it comes to your children, or this life you've built," he countered, his voice growing harsher. "You never chose me over them."

"Don't make me choose," you pleaded, tears streaming down your face. "Please, Sukuna, don't make me choose."

He looked at you, the pain in his eyes mirrored your own. "It's me or this life," he said, his voice breaking. "Choose. You must.”

You burst into tears, your heart shattering as you realized the impossible decision you were being forced to make. Sukuna watched, his face a mask of sorrow and resignation. He knew your choice before you even spoke it. You cannot expect to leave with a monster, and not expect to be one too. But you won’t be herons. Not anymore. Never again. You swallowed the bile down your throat.

As the weight of your sorrow enveloped you, your words emerged in hushed whispers, each syllable laden with the heavy burden of remorse. Tears welled in your eyes, tracing silent paths down your cheeks, as you struggled to articulate the depths of your regret.

Sukuna's gaze, once softened by shared memories and tender affection, now hardened into a steely resolve, the pain etched into the lines of his face transforming into something colder, more distant. His response, delivered with a quiet finality, cut through the air like a blade, severing the fragile threads that bound you together.

"Goodbye, night flower," he uttered softly, his voice a poignant echo of the intimacy you once shared. With those words, he turned away from you, each movement a silent proclamation of the irrevocable distance that now lay between you. "From now on, we are strangers."

In that fleeting moment, amidst the whispered apologies and the weight of unspoken regrets, the ties that had once bound your souls together unraveled, leaving behind only the echoes of what once was, and the poignant ache of what could have been.

You watched him leave, your heart breaking with every step he took. The night seemed to close in around you, the silence deafening in its finality. As you stood there, feeling the weight of your choice, you knew that a part of you had left with him.

The news of the main branch of the Fujiwara being eradicated struck the Gojo manor like a thunderclap, reverberating through the halls with an ominous intensity. Whispers of disbelief and fear echoed off the walls, mingling with the palpable tension that hung heavy in the air like a suffocating fog. 

In the wake of the sudden and brutal attack, the once bustling manor now stood cloaked in a veil of uncertainty and dread. Servants moved about with hurried steps, their expressions etched with worry as they exchanged anxious glances, grappling to comprehend the magnitude of the devastation that had befallen their esteemed counterparts.

Within the confines of the manor's walls, the atmosphere crackled with unease, each passing moment fraught with a sense of impending doom. As the hours stretched on, the collective sense of foreboding cast a shadow over the once tranquil abode, leaving its inhabitants on edge and trembling in the wake of an uncertain future.

You knew, deep down, that this was Sukuna's doing. A final act of defiance, a way to strike back at the world that had taken so much from him. As you held your children close, the weight of your choice pressed down on you, a constant reminder of the love and sacrifice that had defined your life.

Even with tears in your eyes, you still were still spring. Yet he would never be able to put it into words. Even if these words could be translated to life, they would never capture the true meaning and wouldn't be conveyed: I'll still love you in every cruel world. you sobbed. and he walked away, a child of evil, tearing you apart whole.

You sobbed for days alone in your chambers.

In the next years of your life, you were miserable.

The return of the Ryomen was a truly lonely life.

Herons would never end up lasting together forever.

You stand alone, yearning for the life that could never be.

facts about the chapter

writing this chapter, i looked at the family tree that i made and thought it was okay to reveal now but i realized that there's still some spoilers about it.

seiryuu's name is spelled as 聖琉 - 聖 means holy or sacred. 琉 means gemstone or precious stone. hiromi chose the name, the characters were chosen by suzaku. his name is sacred gemstone.

masako's name is spelled as 万咲子 - 万 means ten thousand. 咲 means blossom or flourish and 子 means child or small thing. hiromi chose the name and spelling. her name means a child of ten thousand blossoms.

hiromi at this point would be 30 or 31. sukuna is 27 or 28. seiryuu was born 2 years after the war (5 years old), masako was born a few months into year 7 of time skip (3 months old).

hiromi and suzaku are very amicable. but hiromi does not love suzaku in the way she loves sukuna. suzaku however is different.

sukuna occupies some part of hida and builds his own shrine. sukuna was very popular in hida according to some legends and ended up being some sort of protector.

hiromi stays in hida as well, but in ryomen manor - which is a bit further than where sukuna is at. wives often stayed in their own home rather than stay with their husbands. but hiromi often returns to the gojo manor.

as mentioned in the manga, tengen is very connected to the six-eyes. so it was fair to mention how interested tengen is with the six-eyes holder of the heian, seiryuu.

sukuna has fully developed malevolent shrine by this point. but he really had no reason to use it that much, as its rare to have someone as good as him in using jujutsu.

sukuna wiped out multiple bloodlines of the fujiwara, including koku's own bloodline but he hasn't really completely done so as they had managed to escape and mingle with their allies.

seiryuu starts to get headaches for his jujutsu a year after this, because his powers manifested fully. he also has the limitless, which made it worse. he starts having to cover his eyes with special bandages his mother blessed for him.

gojo satoru likes seiryuu as an ancestor a lot, because he wrote a lot of his experiences with limitless and six-eyes - most which satoru understood. a lot of the materials satoru used in his childhood was seiryuu's diaries.

the next chapter is set at least ten or fifteen years in the future.

[hatredmadeofgold]

Revenge with a vengeance — The tragedy of Sam and Raiden’s canon relationship dynamic

Alternate title: SamuRaiden is THAT deep, actually.

Side note by author: This essay will get an update eventually since I wrote it before playing the Japanese version of the game.

Although MGR does not have as complex or well researched character lore as the main series, Samuraiden as a relationship is a lot more complex than common fandom tropes and interpretations of their relationship suggest. I don’t mind it when people make funny/meme content about these two, since MGS/R does come with its own flair of humour, it’s very exhausting for me as well as a few others I know who enjoy this ship for it to be reduced to just that — a joke. MGR being perceived as ‘goofy’ is mainly due to how poorly some of the character lines translate from Japanese to English, as well as it being more or less evident that either budget, time or both ran out over the course of development, hence the second half of the game feels rushed and underdeveloped. In fact, the great majority of MGR fans do not understand how serious, dark, hopeless and dystopian its message really is and that is saddening.

The world isn’t black and white, neither is it in MGS/R. Sam isn’t the just the villain (never has been, by the way), Raiden isn’t the just the hero (never has been either, by the way), I’d say it’s rather “depends on who you ask”. They are on opposite sides due to the circumstances of how they meet and not because they wouldn’t get along. Quite the opposite is true, in fact, if they would have met before 2016, they might have become friends based on the fact of how much they can actually relate to each other in many different aspects of their personalities, interests and experiences.

Before we get to fight Armstrong as well as during the Sam DLC (also through very subtle hints during their first fight on the train) we learn that Sam is just like Raiden and that Desperado forced him to become a shadow of who he once was, going against his own morals and values and only Raiden reminding him of who he truly was before Armstrong defeated him 2 years prior, ultimately crushing his spirit — he had no other choice, either die there as a failure or continue to live and become Desperado’s/Armstrong’s puppet [until someone would eventually defeat Armstrong and free Sam from his never ending nightmare — Did I already mention that Sam is a really fucking tragic character?]. Sam joining Armstrong’s laughter at the end of DLC is a reaction of fear, not agreement with him or enjoyment. And if there’s one thing that both MGS and MGR are really good at, it’s the accurate and very realistic portrayal of the human psyche under stressful and traumatic situations.

On the other side we can tell from Raiden’s reaction when holding Murasama after killing Sam that he, for once in the entire damn series, questions if that was the right choice he made. We know that Raiden enjoys inflicting pain and suffering onto others, he enjoys murder — but he did not feel that way when he killed Sam. It’s quite the opposite. It’s very subtle and if you’re not very observant like me, easy to miss. But the way his voice turns a bit softer, how his eyes look listless, almost sad; he regrets it. When Blade Wolf asks Raiden if that outcome was really necessary, he does not answer him, because he knows that Wolf is right, it wasn’t. And Raiden pretty much hates himself for it. To his team he confidently says that Sam isn’t a problem anymore since he killed him, but that’s not the same Raiden that he’s that moment in the badlands (which is another implication to me that Raiden doesn’t fully trust his teammates, although they are friends; he has major trust issues and the only emotions he shares with them is either anger or amusement but nothing outside of that). The way he sheathes Murasama is a way to honour him, and as far as I remember this is a ritual to honour a samurai’s defeat or death.

I believe that there has been a silent understanding between the two swordsmen that they respect each other from the very beginning, but they do not say it out loud. This is a case of “show, don’t tell” but also something I suspect has something to do with the game being written by Japanese authors, and Japanese is a high context language, meaning, very little words are needed to get the meaning across, and I think this may also translate into the words these two exchange with each other compared to how they truly feel about the other. Besides, they probably couldn’t truly speak honestly with each other in the first place because of the unfortunate conditions of how they met and were (more or less) forced to fight each other until one of them would eventually succumb to the other’s blade. Codecs and conversations were most likely recorded by their respective employers, and I highly suspect that in Sam’s case, he was even monitored 24/7 by Desperado since he never was an official member of the Winds of Destruction in the first place, and they didn’t fully trust him either.

At the very end of the game during the fight with Armstrong, Sam’s message plays, and we can hear how Sam also speaks with a different voice to Blade Wolf compared to everyone else (and technically, indirectly to Raiden but I cannot confirm or deny that Sam was aware that Raiden would ever hear this playback), it’s a note softer; Raiden learns the truth, which confirms to him that he was right about Sam after all, that they are alike, that they respect each other, and that there was more to Sam’s story than him being a part of Desperado, he doesn’t know what exactly, but he knows now for sure that Sam was not the person he originally believed he was (and lets his team still believe he thinks that way).

Would Raiden truly say Sam’s catchphrase “Let’s dance” before fighting and ultimately killing Armstrong, if he wouldn’t have been going through a gradual process between originally hating Sam to respecting and liking him but unable to ever express that to him or anyone else?

Would he ever admit to anyone what kind of emotional impact Sam had on him, besides the anger and hatred he openly expressed towards him?

Doubt so. Highly fucking doubt so.

Because sharing his true feelings is a liability to him, and Raiden learnt as a very young child that vulnerable feelings such as sadness or guilt would be used against him, so his psyche is conditioned to discard them immediately. But Sam made him feel those things in their full extent and Raiden is fully aware of that, but he would never share with anybody that he ever felt that way about Sam.

He may or may not take those feelings to his grave.

From Sam’s side, we can only guess how he truly felt about Raiden, but we can only guess by the way he hesitated to finish him off on the train during the prologue, the way he smiled at Blade Wolf before his death (which might be likely another case of a silent understanding between Sam and Wolf that the latter would share with Raiden what he knows about Sam or the playback of their conversation itself, if not both) as well as everything he says with giving Murasama to Raiden. Of course, Sam couldn’t even say out loud to Blade Wolf or Raiden that he planned to give Raiden his sword to take down Armstrong, and he had to be as vague as possible with the information that he shared with the robot dog. Not by choice, no. Most likely because he was being watched 24/7, he knew that Desperado nor Armstrong didn’t fully trust him and if they knew about his plans, they’d make sure to finish him off before Raiden had the chance to do so. Sam knew he would die, and that it would be the only way he would ever be free from Armstrong’s grasp. So he chose suicide through Raiden’s blade, and gave him his sword to finish what he could not back then.

The game’s title is REVENGEANCE — Revenge with a vengeance.

They both translate to the same thing in my native language German, but there’s a subtle yet important difference between these two nouns.

“Revenge means when you get back at your enemy who is responsible for hurting you and vengeance is the punishment inflicted or retribution exacted for an injury or wrong.”

But it was never Armstrong who hurt or wronged Raiden in the first place, and we know he’s an essentially selfish person who does not really care all that much about politics, religion or anything like that and he only fights for himself (I wrote in my essay about Raiden’s ASPD that his motivation to save these children from becoming cyborg child soldiers is a trauma response first and his rather lose and grey morality second) and the few people he cares about, so Armstrong being the one one who ordered to get N’mani killed is not the reason Raiden went after him or was that passionate about getting revenge or retribution on him either.

It was Sam who hurt him — wounded both his body and soul during the prologue — but when Raiden got his revenge, he realised that revenge is empty, that he didn’t feel better, and that he regrets killing him, then we get to the vengeance part. From the moment Raiden held Sam’s Murasama in the badlands, he felt no more hatred towards him and the emotional impact his death had on him made Sam transition from a person he hated to one of the few people Raiden truly cares about.

Armstrong may be the villain of the story, but the person who wanted revenge on him never had been Raiden. It was Sam. Always had been Sam, because it was Sam who got hurt by Armstrong, it was Sam who wanted to get revenge on Armstrong for defeating him and crushing his spirit, it was Sam who wanted to punish Armstrong for making him into a shadow of who he once was, making Sam speak about ideals he didn’t truly believe in (like, who the FUCK even thinks that Sam truly believed a single fucking word of that, because I for sure as hell can tell he never did, he either gaslit himself into believing that for 2 years until he met Raiden or only parroted whatever the fuck Armstrong wanted him to say so he would not get killed on the spot).

Revenge and vengeance are very deep feelings and actions of hatred, feelings that are too deep and complex to be associated with morality, hence why I highly doubt that the title of the game is directed at Armstrong from Raiden’s side at all. That between Raiden and Armstrong is not nearly as personal as it has been between Sam and Armstrong. Raiden eradicating Desperado and Armstrong had been about justice [for the kids being killed and their organs sold], not revenge.

"I said my sword was a tool of justice. Not used in anger. Not used for vengeance. But now… Now I'm not so sure. And besides, this isn't my sword."

But when he says this, followed by “Let’s dance”, it became deeply personal for Raiden as well. Because he could confirm that his feelings about Sam had been right, and that Sam wanted to get revenge on Armstrong.

Raiden decides to avenge him, because Sam couldn’t get revenge himself.

Although Sam never told him directly, Raiden understood him from his actions alone, those subtle hints, reading between the lines what the other truly felt and wanted the whole time, eventually passing the “torch” — his sword — to Raiden, to finish what he could not. So while Raiden’s own reasons to finish off Armstrong were (mostly) justice for the innocent lives he destroyed and planned to continue to destroy, they also became feelings of hatred and anger — Sam’s feelings towards Armstrong.

In the end — revenge with a vengeance — is what Sam could get on Armstrong only through Raiden, after Raiden enacted his onto Sam.

Now the question is — if Raiden would’ve never killed Sam, by the chance of him recognising earlier than in canon that revenge is empty and that he won’t feel better after killing him, would Sam go by his example and abandon his revenge plans on Armstrong as well? Or would they fight Armstrong together and get justice?

We unfortunately can only speculate (or write stories about it).

What we can tell from canon though, is that Raiden’s (= Sam’s) passionate feelings of hatred towards Armstrong quickly vanish the moment he finished him off, and he looks into the camera with an empty expression, covered in blood and a crushed cybernetic heart in his hand.

And I think that is exactly what he feels — empty.

Because again, he got revenge and avenged Sam, led by what Sam felt, Sam’s feelings became Raiden’s feelings during that fight with Armstrong. But once that was gone, there’s nothing left. In the case of killing Armstrong, he doesn’t feel remorse or guilt. There’s nothing. Absolutely nothing.

Because revenge is empty.

Raiden defeated his enemies — but at what cost?

By killing Sam, he realised what he had actually lost — a potential friend (or more), someone who understood him in a way that no one else did. Perhaps he thought or felt that, if he avenges Sam, making Sam’s feelings towards Armstrong into his own, he might be able to deal with that loss better, but to no avail.

Because, and I can speak from experience as a person with the same mental health issues as Raiden, that emptiness is worse than regret.

MGR’s ending also implies that Raiden abandons his family and friends to fight his own war; essentially taking the same path that Sam once took in his past, ending up in a personal war and revenge act that knows no end, making one bad choice after the next. If Raiden hasn’t already become the villain of his own story by the end of MGR, then it’s just a matter of time until he becomes that.

And the cycle of violence continues, until the story repeats itself, over and over and over and over and over.

Did I mention already that there is a myth around Murasama being a cursed sword, that will drive its user either slowly insane or make them commit suicide if it doesn’t get a regular ‘blood sacrifice’?

—

“I really enjoy murder, but that one, that I will regret for the rest of my life.”

[blurredcolour]

You Arms Pull Me In Like The Tide Pulls Me Under | Part Three

Your Arms Pull Me In Like The Tide Pulls Me Under Masterlist

Dick Winters x Female SOE Agent!Reader

For the first time since you met, fate seems to be conspiring to keep you and Dick apart, forcing you to find new ways to remain connected to one another.

Warnings: Military Violence, Discussion of Injuries and Death, Separation, Fear, Discussion of Nazi Atrocities, PTSD, Inevitable Historical and Military Inaccuracies, Language, Mature/Explicit Themes - 18+ ONLY.

Note: This is a work of fiction based off the portrayal of Dick Winters by Damian Lewis. I hold nothing but respect for the real life individuals referenced within. Non-English is denoted in italics.

Word Count: 4568

--------------------------

Bastogne – December 21, 1944

Grasping the handle of your F-S knife, Dick chopped at the thick layer of ice in the ammunition box braced between his knees, revealing the frigid water beneath. He planted the blade into the dirt at the edge of his foxhole, starting to spread shaving cream onto his cheeks as his friend Nixon threw back the tarp covering the next hole over.

He emerged into the milky light, the fog still thickly besetting the Bois Jacques, as he stumbled over holding out your scarf. Dick motioned with his head for him to set it on the ground beside him and Nixon simply sat down there himself. “Thanks for lending it to me.”

“You were shivering so much after your recon I could hear your bones rattling.” He muttered as he dragged his razor over his stubble, flinching at the chill of the blade each time it met his skin.

Nixon gave him a lopsided smirk. “Sure your girl won’t mind me borrowing it? It still smells real nice.”

Dick glared at him out of the corner of his eye. “I have half a mind to stab you with her knife.”

Nixon’s grin only widened. “The poetry of it would not be lost on me, I assure you.”

With an affectionate roll of his eyes, Dick quickly finished shaving before retrieving the scarf from his friend’s hand and wrapping it tightly around his neck, tucking it beneath the collar of his ODs. Nixon was right, there was still a hint of your scent woven into the fibres and he could only hope to hold onto it. Merely nine days ago he had left you on the platform in Paris, and not three days ago he had stood at the crossroads outside Bastogne, staring back to where he knew you slept safely in your bed, making a vow to keep it that way. Your body bore enough scars from this war, he would not permit the accumulation of any more.

His hands found their way into his pockets, lips twitching as his fingers brushed against the edge of your cap badge stowed inside the right one. Pressing it between his thumb and forefinger, his heart warmed somewhat against the chill of the morning. The eerie silence was broken by Lipton’s shouted warning of ‘incoming!’ and he and Nixon quickly threw themselves into the bottom of the foxhole to take cover as yet another barrage of artillery rained down on their position. Working the pad of his thumb along the grooves of the maple leaves, he took slow, steady breaths, focusing on each ridge, on the raised lettering, using it as a tool to ground him amidst the maelstrom that filled the woods.

As the chaos eased off, the men slowly began to emerge from their cover, and Dick took stock of the dead and wounded. It was a tedious and heart-rending routine they had fallen into since taking up this position. Reports given and calm restored for the time-being, Dick took advantage of the rare moment with no demands on him to delve his hand into the breast pocket of his jacket and retrieve your letter. The creases were becoming well worn, the words nearly memorized, but the solace it brought him was no less profound.

When, at last, supplies reached them after Patton broke through the German lines, Dick was both taken aback and yet somehow unsurprised when his correspondence from regiment included a bound packet of letters bearing your handwriting. You were a determined woman, and true to your word it seemed you had been writing almost daily. With your posting in Paris, and connections at Allied HQ, your letters had been delivered through military channels rather than civilian ones.

Ordering the runner to wait, he quickly dashed off a reply to you. He kept the message free of sentiment, knowing that it would be read by numerous people along the way, but was desperate to send something to you all the same. Folding it carefully, he addressed it to you care of Major Wilkes at Allied HQ, aware that he might receive a reprimand, but after everything he’d just endured the idea of that really held no fear for him.

------------

Paris – January 7, 1945

It had been an agonizing three-and-a-half weeks. More accurately, the last two-and-a-half had been pure torture while the first had simply been filled with longing. As promised, you had written letters almost every day and sent them through the Allied post office. Letters about the weather, the book you were reading, the cat that lived in the courtyard of your building. Mundane topics that would pass by the censors and were in no way what you had actually wished to talk about, but you had done your best to keep the contents light as all the magazine articles recommended a lady ought to do.

And sometimes it felt like you needed advice on the subject. On how to field strip a Sten gun? Absolutely not – you could and had done that in the dark with your eyes closed. But supporting a man in the fight while you remained in the relative comfort and safety of Paris had been an entirely new experience for you.

The news of the German assault through the Ardennes, however, had put an abrupt halt on the festive feeling that had been unfurling across a city ready to celebrate its first liberated Christmas. It had not been necessary for Major Wilkes to ask you to stay late that first night, rifling through any and all decoded intelligence awaiting your translation from German into English, desperate to find out just how they had blindsided everyone. Late nights had run into early mornings, with copious amounts of artificially sweetened coffee consumed to keep you alert, thinking back wistfully to the Benzedrine tablets you would have carried if you were still a fully functional SOE operative.

The news had been dire – 2nd Battalion of the 101st surrounded in the Bois Jacques above Foy in the brutal cold, woefully undersupplied, under near-constant artillery fire. It had been all you could do to keep Dick’s face out of your mind as your eyes had raked over page after page of German, writing your preliminary translations in pencil before sending them to be typed up in order of importance. There had not been enough of importance in front of you to make a difference, it seemed.

A knock on the door to your small, windowless office had sent you scrambling to cover up the avalanche of paper covering your desk, but Major Wilkes had stepped into the room with a reassuring smile.

“At ease, Sergeant, it’s only me.” He had set a new cup of coffee on your desk, making you blink up at him owlishly before you had murmured your thanks. “I wanted to bring you word that the 101st continues to hold the line. Your Captain and his men are doing an excellent job.”

You had pressed your lips together shyly to hear the Major refer to Dick as ‘your Captain’ but had managed a nod of thanks. Your commanding officer had been slipping you bits and pieces of information as they came in, continuing to impress you with the fact that he never seemed to miss a thing. He had barely run into you and Dick at that restaurant over a week ago and yet he had retained that information and since taken the time to keep you updated on Dick’s situation.

“I understand you visit the post office almost daily on your lunch?” He asked.

Looking to him sharply, it had become even clearer to you just how astute Major Wilkes truly was. You had known him to be an acquaintance of Colonel Buckmaster, head of SOE’s F Section, for that was the reason why you had been placed under his command when you insisted on continuing to make yourself useful following the explosives incident in Normandy. But it had become increasingly apparent that Buckmaster and Wilkes may have spent a great deal of time together in similar fields to your own.

“I do sir, yes.” You had replied, taking a sip of the fresh coffee he had delivered even though your stomach had rolled in protest; you had needed the caffeine to keep working.

“Might I suggest you bring the letters to me, and I will send them internally. God knows when the actual post will reach them.”

“Sir I…” You had stuttered, taken aback by the generosity of his offer.

“I see you in here sixteen hours a day, Sergeant. Don’t you think your letters will help him just as much?” He had raised an eyebrow and you had nodded slowly.

“Good, I expect to see the first one on my desk tomorrow at 0900 for mail call. And don’t stay past midnight tonight, you’ve done that for the last three days.” He had looked to you firmly and you had nodded rapidly.

“Yes, sir.”

The news of Patton’s break through had brought with it some sense of relief but it paled in comparison to that brought by the tattered scrap of paper which found its way onto your desk that day in early January.

Two sentences scrawled in pencil upon paper bearing all manner of stains and splotches that reduced you to tears of the sweetest relief. Dick was alive. Yes, the reports all said so but to see something addressed to you in his handwriting made it real.

The pace of the war seemed to change after that – time and troop movements speeding up immeasurably. The promised arrival of six fresh-faced CWACs taking up residence in your apartment, needing constant supervision on the worldly Parisian streets only served to blur your perception of time even further. Certainly, they had arrived with a captain and sergeant of their own, but not one of them had set foot outside Canada before, save a brief stint in England, and relied heavily on you to ensure they were able to make their way to and from their posting – mercifully in the same building as yours.

Feeling not unlike a mother goose with a trail of goslings behind her, you did your best to keep them out of trouble with locals, and soldiers alike, leaving you little time to enjoy your now regular correspondence with Dick. Nor the privacy, for their Sergeant shared your bed with another girl on a single cot crammed in the corner of the room, the other four girls sharing the second bedroom. Their feminine influence did prove useful in finally eradicating your habit of cursing, however, which you had been trying to accomplish for Dick’s sake anyway.

One evening in late February, the sound of Glenn Miller and his orchestra echoed from the kitchen, accompanied by their bright laughter as they cleaned up from dinner. The girls were more than a little distracted by practicing their dance steps with each other to prepare for a dance hall outing the following night. Shaking your head fondly you signed off on your latest letter to Dick, sealing the envelope with a few dabs of glue before walking to the front hall to slip it into your shoulder bag to post tomorrow. The sound of heavy boots on the stairs set the hairs on the back of your neck on end, even in liberated Paris, while the subsequent knock on the apartment door had your heart skittering against your ribs.

Several of the girls appeared in the doorway to the kitchen but you stopped them with the firm gesture of your palm, raising up on your toes to take near-silent steps before glancing through the peep hole of the door. The sight of the Officer’s Airborne patch on the garrison cap of the man outside had you clutching at the letter still in your hand tightly, but as he swivelled his head you were startled to see dark brown hair rather than the ruddy red you had been hoping for.

Pulling at the chain before unlocking the deadbolt, you tried to deny the feeling of your heart sinking through the floor. If something had happened, the reports would have told you. Major Wilkes would have told you. You exhaled shakily as you opened the door to see Lieutenant – No, Captain Nixon – standing on your doorstep with the distinct shape of a paper wrapped bouquet tucked into the crook of his arm and an envelope pinched between his fingers.

“Good evening, Captain Nixon.” You assembled what you hoped was a calm smile on your face.

“Ma’am.” He smiled in return, and you couldn’t help but note that the youthful softness he’d had about him in Normandy seemed to have been etched from his features. “With Major Richard Davis Winter’s compliments and regrets.”

At the sound of his voice, the girls flooded into the foyer behind you with all the subtlety of a herd of cattle, making you bite the inside of your cheek as you accepted the offered flowers and envelope.

“Thank you very much, Captain. Please convey my gratitude and understanding.” You swallowed, realizing now that though his battalion had been pulled back to Mourmelon-le-Grand for well-earned rest, it seemed you were not going to have the chance to lay eyes on Dick for quite some time.

“Of course.” He grinned, eyes dropping to the letter still clutched in your other hand. “Is there anything I might deliver to him in return?” He prompted with a raised eyebrow.

“Oh…oh!” You swallowed and quickly held it out to him. “If you wouldn’t mind.”

“My pleasure.” He nodded. “Have a good night. Ladies.” He nodded to the cluster of women behind you, earning a chorus of giggles and farewells before disappearing down the stairs.

Tucking the letter into the pocket of your skirt, away from prying eyes, you lay the bouquet on the dining table to gingerly unwrap the paper, revealing a dozen red roses. A collective gasp sounded from all seven of your mouths at the surely astronomical cost. The amount of personal funds that Captain Nixon added to the sum Dick had sent with him on his leave to Paris would be a secret he kept well beyond the end of war. The worn enamel pitcher from the kitchen suddenly appeared on the table in front of you along with a paring knife, the girls settling into the chairs and begging for you to tell them all about your Major and the handsome Captain he had sent with flowers in his stead.

Carefully trimming the end of each rose stem before placing it into the makeshift vase, you spun a tale of an accidental collision with then-Captain Winters at the train station. His friend Captain Nixon had been there too, and you had shown them around Paris to make up for causing such a ruckus on their arrival. Partially based in truth, by the time you got to the dinner and dancing, dreamy sighs reached your ears. Nestling the last rose in amongst the rest of the bouquet you smiled softly at how lovely the dining room suddenly looked, but the letter was fairly burning a hole in your pocket.

You were unspeakably grateful when their sergeant interrupted their barrage of questions with a firm reminder that the kitchen was still in a state of disarray, and though they let out a collective moan, they trudged back in to finish cleaning up. Mouthing a silent ‘thank you’ in her direction, you quickly slipped off to your room, shutting the door and tearing into the envelope somewhat savagely.

The personal tone of his letter, a clear indication of the level of trust he held in Captain Nixon to carry around such honest words, made your heart ache fondly. You wished that the letter you had placed in his friend’s hand was comparatively tender, but you had written it, as always, with the expectation that several others would be privy to its contents before it reached him. Re-reading it several times before tucking it away safely in the false bottom of your suitcase, you knew it was a piece of him you would hold onto for the rest of your life.

More surprises lay in store for you that month when the girls took it upon themselves to write to their superiors in London, recommending you for a promotion. A King’s crown was soon in place of your sergeant’s stripes to denote your position of Company 47’s Sergeant Major. It was a promotion which amused Major Wilkes greatly, seeing as you’d gained it through honest means, while your place as a CWAC most certainly was not.

As the Allies advanced into Germany in the early spring, however, it proved to be one of the few sources of amusement in your office. Certainly, the promise of an ever-closer victory in Europe was a spot of radiance on the horizon, but the flood of paper being returned for translation was unveiling a darker and darker truth of just what had happened under Nazi rule. You had heard the rumors, and seen their violence firsthand, but the liberations of the camps, the cold and calculated way in which these things were discussed in the documents before you – it was taking a toll.

The news of the German surrender had brought with it riotous celebration throughout the streets of Paris, but you had only felt a moment a quiet relief that Dick would no longer be subjected to enemy fire – for now. The battle of the Pacific still raged for the American army, and you could not help but dread the possibility of his redeployment there. Major Wilkes startled you on your way back into the office with just two days later with some news.

“I’m sorry to say, Sergeant Major, you won’t be remaining with your company much longer.” His eyes held their usual spark of mischief as they did whenever he spoke of your ‘company’ but you tilted your head curiously at his words.

“Sir?”

“Plans have been in place for the eventuality to see justice done in the face of the heinous acts I know you have been busy translating.”

You swallowed dryly and nodded in reply.

“We are to move into Germany as soon as possible, please return to your lodgings and pack your things and report back to me immediately.”

“Yes sir.”

It was easier said than done, navigating the streets still in the throes of celebration, but you managed nonetheless to gather your belongings and leave a note of farewell to the girls. By the time you returned to the office with your suitcase, the clerks had nearly finished packing everything into boxes and the twenty of you working directly under Major Wilkes made your way down to a transport truck to begin the long drive. Settling in for an uncomfortable ride, you did not concern yourself with the precise destination like many of the other staff who were whispering amongst themselves. ‘Germany’ would suffice for now.

It wasn’t until mid afternoon the next day when you arrived in Nuremberg, with pockets of the city relatively untouched by the air raids and invasion, that your curiosity was piqued.

“Nuremberg, sir?” You asked him as you worked together to unpack into a new set of offices.

“A hunch.” He said with a knowing grin, and you had a feeling there was an awful lot more to it than that.

Spring wore on into summer, the documents you worked on grew more disturbing, and the London Conference convened proposing an International Military Tribunal to take place in Nuremberg, confirming your suspicions about Major Wilke’s ‘hunch.’ Dick, it seemed, was enjoying his time as an occupation commander in the Alps – not four hours away and yet duty still managed to keep you apart. The office was growing busier, more cramped as men no longer required for the fight were able to return behind desks and take up the work of translation alongside you and your colleagues.

Despite the increasing volume of personnel under his command, Major Wilkes still managed to keep an eye on you, not missing the way you had developed a tendency to stare vacantly off into the corner of the room from time to time. Physically present yet taken back to some moment in time you’d been forced to bury for the sake of carrying on with the tasks before you – the face of the German soldier as he drove his bayonet into your side, the ten second plunge into the inky blackness from the belly of a silent plane, the wailing of that boy’s mother when you’d returned with her dead son draped across your shoulders.

“Sergeant Major?” He interrupted one such moment in mid-July, making you sit up straighter as you were caught red-handed.

“Yes sir?”

“My office.”

You stood quickly, feet briefly snagging on the legs of your chair making you struggle awkwardly before you were able to follow him into his office.

“Close the door.” He said firmly and you were quick to do so. “This is long overdue.” He muttered and held out a piece of a paper. “Seventy-two-hour pass to Austria. My apologies for the length of time it took to arrange it, as well as the short notice.”

You stared at it openly before he thrust it a little closer in your direction and you stepped forward to take it from him. “Th…thank you very much Major Wilkes.” You gulped roughly, holding it between both hands as though to protect it.

“Now I have it on good authority there is a supply truck departing for Zell Am See at 1030 whose driver would not be opposed to a passenger. You’ll find the address tucked inside of your pass. It will most likely not be so easy to make your way back, which is why you have seventy-two hours. You’d best be on your way, Sergeant Major.” He smirked, leaning back against the edge of his desk.

You could not help the smile that stretched from ear to ear, nodding rapidly. “Sir, yes sir, absolutely I will be back on time I swear it. Thank you very much, sir.” Turning quickly, you nearly raced out of the door before reminding yourself to walk at a calm pace in front of your colleagues. You grabbed your shoulder bag from the bottom drawer of your desk, locking up the documents you had been working on, and snagged your uniform jacket from the back of your chair before making out way out through the main door of the office.

It was only once you were out in the hall that you began a mad dash for the entrance, not even having the time to return to your billet for a bag. You checked the address on the slip of paper inside your pass before running almost all the way there, drawing far too much attention to yourself – and not caring in the least. You arrived with ten minutes to spare, a sticky mess beneath your woollen uniform, finding the driver who helped you into the cab of the supply truck. He was a gruff, middle-aged man, but after you caught your breath, a few well placed questions easily drew him into telling his life story, filling the time as you wound your way higher into the mountains that Dick had described in his letters.

It was mid-afternoon by the time you arrived at the supply depot in Zell Am See, but you still had yet to reach Dick’s lodgings. Truth be told, you hadn’t even told him you were coming; there was a chance he might not even be there. Walking down the side of the road toward the hotel you knew they had requisitioned, you swallowed as you heard a jeep pull up beside you, rather missing the reassuring weight of your knife at your hip.

“If that man doesn’t sing you ‘Kiss Me Goodnight, Sergeant Major’, he’s just not living his life to the fullest.” Your eyes widened as Captain Nixon grinned up at you from the driver’s seat.

You let out a bark of laughter, though the accompanying smile didn’t quite reach your eyes. “I’m impressed you recognize my rank badge…” You couldn’t help but admit.

“Used to be my job to know things.” He muttered, a touch of sadness in his voice.

“Not all it’s cracked up to be, knowing things.” You trailed off in a similar tone.

“I apologize I don’t have any flowers on me this time.” He tilted his head with a smirk, breaking through your melancholy silence. “But climb in, I’ll drive you the rest of the way.”

You quickly slid into the front seat beside him, thanking him profusely as he took you up the winding road to the hotel and through the checkpoint with ease. You followed him inside the building, removing your cap with its replacement badge, and up the stairs before he gestured at the door to room 308. Feeling suddenly nervous, you glanced over to Captain Nixon only to see him walking away down the hall.

“Captain Nixon where are you going?” You whispered after him anxiously.

“Trust me, he’s seen enough of my face.” He winked and disappeared into another room a few doors down.

Taking a fortifying breath, you raised your hand to knock.

-------------------------

Read Part Four

Your Arms Pull Me In Like The Tide Pulls Me Under Masterlist

Tag list: @allthingsimagines, @bcon24

[kennysmoviepage]

Here is a list of all time favorite marvel and dc sagas among the biggest crossover list to see who is the baddest of them all or is it too close to say whom is the heavy weight champ of super hero lore?

Which would you vote for as the best

A) Deadpool

B) X-men Including X-men Days of Future Past and all the trilogies which X-men was the fav as we saw the rise of Professor X and Magnetto whom were a pretty damn good duo. They never got Gambit right until thank god for Deadpool once again saving the day.

However the clash of Deadpool origins as one describes his creation from a lab project gone wrong hence the first fight of Wolverine Origin and Deadpool in X-men Origina and the more current version of his timeline in which actually FRANCIS would not of been the object of hate much like wolverines hate for the Trucker in his original Wolverine Origins. Deadpool would have then been even more a foe of Wolverine but Wolverine maid it difficult for that Deadpool to even be a side note

Logan was maybe one of my stand alone Wolverine movie best thou and they were good to use that in the current Deadpool saga.

We all know what new Deadpool did with that montrasty of the old Deadpool in Deadpool 2

C) Iron Man was my favorite over the Cap America’s and really Cap got shorted a movie to make a saga as after Winter Soldier we were already in the Civil War and Avengers rise of Ultran

We had to get Buck’s story first then the Falcon was launched with the more recent 2025 Cap America.

D) The Avengers and nothing is as good a build up to End Game and the most iconic foe titan Thanos.

E) I ll take the Dark Knight my fist DC saga and yeah I am biased that went against my youth as I was a kid during my the Michael Keaton saga of Batman as well as Val Kilmer was my era of becoming a super hero movie fan along with original Superman movies with Christopher Reeves

F) I must not forget Blade

G) Guardians of the Galaxy

H) Spider-Man all of them Toby Andrew and Tom all rocked the shit out of that Spidey role I think they all great.

I) and they should have their own category Into the Spiderverse Across the Spiderverse and we know the end of this Saga is upon us in the near future

J) Thor as we do not have Loki either if we don’t have Thor

K) As well as Wakanda forever and the Black Panther saga

L) Man of Steel Batman vs Superman and Justice League I thought Man of Steel was the best but the other two didn’t make my cut for all time in my mind.

M) Dr Strange and all of his Multiverses of Madness

N) Venom one was awesome 2 I didn’t see yet but the upcoming Venom movie in the fall looks pretty good.

O) Antman was extremely great and

P) Hulk and only the Incredible Hulk not Eric Bana and Ed Norton was my preferred hulk but Ruffalo was a nice addition but he sort of was a stretch for me to be as good as Norton’s portrayal I was upset with the Hulk John Woo version and if you were around the hype was as bad as when we saw Godzilla in 1999 well actually a re vised Godzilla that was a far looking different Godzilla than the Godzilla we always saw growing up.

Q) Aquaman never really interested me but I guess we must include

R) Wonder Woman and 84 and we know she appears in Justice League as well as Batman vs Superman

S) Shazam not a big fan here but I got give respect that his series is better than anything in this next choice

T) Fantastic Four it’s a shame and hopefully they get it right with the next adaptation of Dr Doom who besides Thanos was really a bad dude in which took all Four and. Silver Surfer to take down.

U) Harley Queen as well as the Bird-of Prey and Suicide Squad

V) Spawn this needs a revision but I didn’t mind the OG.

W) Blue Beatle just saw it and it was a good start

X) Daredevil sorry Ben and double sorry as casted as Batman and that too was two strikes for Mr Afleck

Y) The Punisher

Z) Ghost Rider

Now the last few here technically didn’t make the Saga criteria but along with Logan even though it was an end but not for ever end .were decent hopefully to something that could have been even better if they did the adaptation better down the road. The Punisher series is a series I will have to revisit as well as the Flash but the Flash just could never get that mass fan fare as much as any other DC character I still think Superman or Batman is an always better draw for audiences which is a shame but it is the reality. And maybe it could have caught up to Spider-Man success but it really never launched as much as the future for DC moving forward.

If you want to vote leave your top two or three in the comments or reshare with the gif or charachter of choice if you choose to do so and thank you for voting and might of even forgot someone on this list but I think besides Flash Gordon fans people should be satisfied with the choices.

[daybreakrising]

We've only become mutuals semi-recently (a full on crime, by the way! What took us so long? I've been spying your blog since forever through Charlie), but you're already leaving a massive impression. While numerous muses have caught my eye, I'm absolutely dying at the prospect of bothering your Menogias, Lauri, DYING. Dying (how do you feel about some more Guili Assembly?) I'm bursting at the seams (I hope Charlie sees this, laughs and can vouch for this), and I'm coming to wrecking ball my way to you soon enough. Okay, but on a serious note, your blog has become one of those that I open up every time when I sit down to eat, or have a moment of repose— because I want to see what I've missed. I think your Menogias (if you hadn't... you know, gathered yet) is exquisite, I think your Wriothesley is rather impressive, YOUR BLADE?!? (Listen, I write Kafka, or did and will go back eventually) /chef's kiss, I'm also quite fond of your Beidou from what I've read so far— in essence, like I said, you've left an impression already, in very little time. I hope you're sticking around always, because you're quickly becoming a staple on my dash(es). 🩶

tell me your honest opinion of my portrayal | @yuelun

okay but this ???? was actually so surprising (in a good way!) & uplifting to read. thank you so much for such kind words ;__; i don't know how to cope with this SLKBGLDFH-

listen. listen. if you want my geo boy, you can absolutely have him. please, i beg you, bother him as much as you like. i am offering him out to you on a plate. i am loading him into a catapult ready to launch him in your direction. and please, please, let him design outfits for guizhong. PLEASE.

and it means so much that you enjoy my blade portrayal. it means a lot that you enjoy the others too, of course, but this one hits different bc i'm still in that anxiety-ridden stage of what if i'm not doing him justice, particularly as i'm still catching up on a lot of hsr content. so thank you for that boost of confidence that i will try to remember the next time i have doubts asfdflhkfh

oh, and don't worry - i have zero intentions of going anywhere. once i sink my teeth into a muse (or muses, in this case) like this, i don't let go

[oblivi0nskeep]

The Lone Walk to Eternity

Within this Horror Unwaking

Louis laments the many regrets he has in life. Eternity is a long time to pass; the list of nightmares could only span so far, no?

[Chapter 1, Crossposted on Ao3]

To think that either path damns his dearest all the same.

The crew defeats the frenzied Silva, leaving the relics to take Luciel's body as their new host. Luciel sooner finds the new additions to his body twisting his very being from the inside—it is by Louis's intervention that the Queenslayer does not complete his rebirth as the Queen.

General Information.

Rating: Mature

Genre: Angst

Point of View: Third-Person Limited

Tense: Present

Fandom: Code Vein

Characters: Original Character, Louis Amamiya

Relationships: Louis/Protagonist

Tags: scantily edited; no beta, we die like... well.; heavy angst; hurt no comfort; emotional baggage; emotional constipation; guilt; regret; unconfessed love; crying; grief/mourning; repeated trauma; canon-typical depiction of blood.

Warnings.

❗ Spoiler Alert: "Heirs Ending" The following fanwork takes place directly during and after the bad end of the game. If you have not yet experienced it yourself and are looking forward to it, please refrain from reading any further.

⚠️ Triggering contents may be present within this fic. Please proceed with discretion. Vivid portrayal of grief and symptoms of PTSD ahead. Although chapter two is yet to be posted, the current draft and the final product for that will feature heavy gore and graphic mutilation. The tags will be updated accordingly to match the content that is already posted.

Author's Note:

guess who used angsty fanfiction as a medium to vent their disappointment of life again, as always 😁

THE SILENCE THAT ENSUES RINGS DEAFENINGLY CLEAR. Deep is the blue that spills forth in the wake of his resolve, his royal decree; the brand that sealed his deal with destiny. But what quality marks nobility, if not the sacrifice it demands of those who wish to stake their claim upon it?

The sway of indecision is a dead adversary by now. A gallant knight is he to renounce his own heart if only to avail his dismal duty: the leap that tears him of hesitance’s manipulative strings. A shambling fool no more, he finds his limbs moving with fluid ease as they bring his sword through flesh and bone and the wicked Queen’s then-beating heart. 

And like so, his prove to be the hands that ply the blade, that sever this world from the fount of its suffering.

From chaos delivered.

But what of this cold mask of stoicism when it finally lets up, cracks and melts?

Down with his verdict comes bitter tears unbidden like the storm that had rained for many nights before.

“Leave the rest to me,” is the meagre much Louis could mutter out. A gruesome conclusion attained in solace; a pathetic attempt thereof.

And the Queenslayer, oh, crushed as he is under the weight of his sanction, could offer naught a word in reciprocation.

Both men suspended in a static of their own pain, time grinds to a halt for them. The rest of the world is a distant abyss whereupon desolation’s forbidding knell descends—a shallow fanfare for a hollow victory. Shatter goes the Queen’s judgement thorns as they are called to resonate, swallowed up in the void harmony.

Louis could just hear how his blood sings in beat with his rapid pulse; mayhem blaring in his ears. It stings in his eyes, to be so rife than ever before with sentiments, each a contradiction of the other. Tears ripe to fall—bountiful fruits of his soul. What more can they (his eyes) betray?

Every next breath comes with a needle down his throat. Air sifts into his lungs in uneven chunks; so awfully thick they are that Louis could not help but to choke on them.

Every next breath grows shorter and shorter for the Queen in death’s waiting. Whatever awaits him on the other side? When the blade is withdrawn from his heart, what then, will become of him? How absurd it is that the question seems to weigh heavier in Louis’s mind than it does in Luciel’s.

For what else has he to worry about? To resent? To regret? As far as Luciel is aware, order will be restored upon Vein. Everything is proceeding in accordance with their initial plan. Naught falls outside of his foresight. Or does his silence bespeak of something other than acceptance?

No, for it is not Luciel’s heart that is in conflict. He has long since decided and is content to forever hold his peace.

Tick-tock; as precious seconds fleet away, Louis finds the steel chain that holds his will together coming loose. What paltry resolve he had garnered over the course of their journey as though evaporates; trickles to waste through old cracks that have begun to resurface all across his heart.

Tick-tock; the present moment he takes for granted in favour of questioning what could have been done differently. Yesterday’s regret was over his lack of strength to spare the previous queen from a fate worse than her already disgraceful demise. Today’s sorrow is brought forth by his overcoming of that weakness. How his heart yearns for another answer, asserting a different question: why, why must it come to this again?

Why was he not strong enough to steer fate away from this outcome altogether?

Tick-tock; even with much of it stolen, time has never made it to his hand in enough the amount. Though he had made the most of what he was given, regret finds him all the same, all too soon.

All over again.

Nada; the seconds have passed him by before he can string together a single conclusive thought.

The moment carries him worlds away that for a moment then, he is granted the clemency to forget his immediate plight. It really matters that little when Luciel’s body fails and falls before him, hanging limp on the blade of his sword.

As the light leaves his eyes—as he draws shorter and shorter breaths, so too does the sword become too heavy for Louis to bear. Even with both hands on the hilt and his entire strength put into the effort, life is still too hefty a thing for him to hold, to fit in his palms, to be taken in indifferent spontaneity.

A deep inhale steadies his trembling figure. With nary much else, Louis pulls out the sword in a single swift motion. Like a puppet bereaved of its strings, Luciel collapses onto the cold hard ground, sprawled as he welcomes death with arms outstretched.

The next spill to join the bloody mire and feed into the Gaol’s unquenchable thirst is the blue of Luciel’s own life essence.

Herewith does the Queen’s life meet its end—slain before the throne in the midst of his ascension by the very sword that had sworn him fealty. His was an abrupt birth that has found its true pair in an equally abrupt death.

Luciel tries his best to retain acceptance until the very end. He thought that mayhaps, it would make it easier for Louis and everyone else. That, maybe, he would have a better time fading from their memories if he were to go out without much commotion.

But as pain sets in and instinct overtakes, there is not much that Luciel can do about the way his body jerks reflexively in defiance of its shutdown; a desperate struggle that only serves to choke the last of his fight out of him.

Only then does he feel the agony of flesh sundered and he could not hold back the urge to scream from being crushed under the intensity of it all. Before even a drop of syllable could be given sound, however, Luciel has bitten down on his tongue, persisting to wallow in silence.

His eyes flicker, searching through the haze of his vision until they find their mark in those of Louis's. But faced with the terror and anguish alike residing within those crimson depths, Luciel stays his tears, his tongue gone still on its own.

“I’m sorry…” Luciel mutters only above a whisper. “…Thank you, for…” He breathes his gratitude—and weaker yet, he mouths, “…you.”

Louis does not spare himself any of the details. He witnessed it all; holding Luciel’s gaze until he was sure the latter had breathed his last. There is no harm in that, no? It is the least—the only measure of comfort that Louis could provide.

The rest of the crew gives him a wide berth. They turn a blind eye to his gleaming tears and a deaf ear to his unceasing sobs, pretending otherwise. They yet respect his vision of an infallible leader, even while every gulp of air crushes the tender swell of his heart in, while he bleeds himself dry with every breath.

“Louis…” calls a voice he is most familiar with. “We don’t have much time.”

Louis makes an attempt to answer, to voice his compliance, but all that falls when he opens his mouth is a slew of pitiful blubbers. He bows his head lower as though in sombre prayer, hiding his sorrow—hiding from his sorrow, for behold: the nightmare that had caused him many a sleepless night has reared into reality before him.

“We’ll help you take it from here.”

But Louis remains a trembling mess that he was. Having abandoned his speech entirely as it seems, his companions again afford him the peace to grief.

There is then the clamour of footsteps, closely followed by the Gaol’s ambient silence.

True enough, when Louis cast his gaze to take stock of his surroundings, there is not a single soul left in the vicinity aside from him.

And…

His gaze next sweeps over the soundly slumbering form of Luciel. At the sight, his feelings come at him once more, each and every at once. Finally does he buckle and yield under the bulk of his conscience after denying it for so long.

The coarse stone digs into his knees and shins. But Louis could not care less about it; the gnawing pain that creeps over to his palm as he haphazardly crawls closer to the revenant he so cherishes.

Louis turns the stiff body of Luciel over with care so as to not disturb his sanctity of death. How distraught is he to find that Luciel’s eyes remain unclosed postmortem, blankly staring back at him. Tears well upon those lifeless eyes, while some had run and formed trails down his face. Stilling his shaking hand, Louis brings it over Luciel’s eyes, gently dragging his lids down to a close.

Then, he wails. He throws his head onto the crook of Luciel’s shoulder and wails. He wails and wails, hollowing himself of the words he has lost the chance to speak, of the feelings he never before allowed to be known, of the ache in his heart that had broiled overlong. He wails at the top of his lungs; until his throat goes sore, so sore that his tongue could fall out.

Loud as he and his anguish are, the person he is calling for never stirs.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I’m sorry.”

I’m sorry; a litany of apologies he utters without end with what little voice he has left.

Author's Note:

Thank you for reading! This was actually my proudest work of 2023. I hope you enjoyed it! There will be a second and third part, but I regret to inform you that I may not be able to dish it out anytime soon (the perfectionist within me treats this fic like an Asian parent's firstborn son, it needs to be EVERYTHING; I would know). Please look forward to it still!

If you enjoyed this fic, please don't forget to leave a like and reblog!

[dross-the-fish]

I saw your post about your version of Adam being inspired by Blade Runner. Do you have anything like that for Edward?

Like Adam my version of Jekyll/Hyde is a mix of different iterations, including non-Jekyll and Hyde adaptations. I have heard people say the Hulk is actually based on Jekyll and Hyde, admittedly i don't consume a lot of Marvel content and from what I've seen I've never felt the Hulk part of Bruce Banner's personality was very Hyde-like. I feel like the Hulk is a little too animalistic and I don't like that he doesn't seem to retain his intelligence. But you know what character I do see shades of Hyde in?

Just a disclaimer before I proceed: I love Batman TAS. It was my favorite show from childhood. However, I don't really like the way DID is handled in most media and while this isn't the worst I've seen by a long shot, this show is no exception. I also don't fully buy that Harvey Dent isn't aware of what Two-Face is doing, even under the influence of hypnotism. Like Jekyll he may be shocked by how far he's willing to go when he's Two-Face but I've always believed he remembers what he did and him asking "did I do this?" is more the result of that than a lack of awareness. What I do really love is how this scene basically states that Dent has always been Two-Face, even before the accident that pushed him over the edge. That rage and cruelty was always just under the surface and the longer he represses it the harder it's getting to contain. Especially as his life becomes more stressful you really feel like even without the accident he would have given into his alter ego and it would have destroyed him. I also really like that this is not the first time we see Harvey and it's established that he is Bruce's friend, so watching him fall has a real tragic impact because you see people who love him trying their hardest to save him and they just can't The vocal performance really sells it for me too, Richard Moll did a phenomenal job with this portrayal and I do draw a lot from it when I think of Edward's mannerisms vs Henry's. When written well I've always felt like Two-Face reads as more like Jekyll and Hyde than The Incredible Hulk does and I do take notes.

[novelconcepts]

Hey novel!!!! you are the most talented author on this site. Your portrayals of jamie and Dani are so deep and relatable and expand two wonderful characters into even more.

I know you are crazy busy and swamped with requests, but would you consider writing a one-shot about the famous deleted scene when jamie wakes up when dani tries to leave and convinces her to stay? (Or doesn’t, however you’d want to write it!)

Just a thought, I totally understand if you don’t have the time or are not feeling it!

The dream is the last straw. 

There are moments in your life, Dani Clayton thinks--with a clarity that seems unfathomable for this late hour--you simply can’t turn away from. Or, more accurately, you could--but you wouldn’t be you anymore, turning back. You’d be something else. Something untenable. 

The dream is one such moment. The certainty of it is one such awful, harrowing moment. 

Jamie’s expression never changed. Never faltered. Never so much as twitched away from that quietly-expectant misery--and that trust, even as the hand closed around her throat. Even as she went under. The trust, more than anything, will haunt what time she has left.

Because Jamie does trust her. Always has. Always, Dani knows, will, even if it’s the worst thing for her. 

Jamie will trust in Dani Clayton until it kills her, unless Dani does something about it first.

And so, when she wakes with her hand inches from Jamie’s throat--when she wakes with the tips of her fingers brushing the slow, steady thrum of Jamie’s pulse--she makes the choice. The hard call. She makes it like a woman, a thousand years ago, made a choice to turn away from a bad marriage before it could land. The way a woman, a hundred years ago, made a choice to turn toward an uncertain future born of a dark lake. She makes it with the calculated, unshakeable certainty that, every so often, you have to make this kind of choice. Because it’s essential. Because you couldn’t live with the person you’d be if you didn’t.

She moves slowly, counting every breath that leaves Jamie’s parted lips. Jamie, who sleeps so comfortably in this bed. Jamie, whose nightmares soothed themselves in the wake of Dani’s hands on her skin over the years. Jamie, who carries more than enough scars of her own without bearing Dani’s burdens, too. 

She moves, sliding off of Jamie’s body, sliding off the mattress upon which they’ve had thirteen good years. Thirteen solid, loving, happy years. That isn’t nothing, she assures herself. That is so much more than the woman she’d been all those years ago, freshly freed and freshly haunted again in equal measure, had thought she deserved. 

Thirteen years in this bed. Reading, talking, kissing, sleeping. Thirteen years. It isn’t enough. Nothing will ever be enough. But it’s not nothing, and Dani tells herself--with the solid assurance of the dream--she can make do. Thirteen years of Jamie’s accent wrapped lovingly around her name. Thirteen years of Jamie’s hands seeking hers out across the dinner table. Thirteen years of petty arguments resolved with tearful apology, or with giggly kisses, or with the steadiness of Jamie’s eyes meeting hers. Jamie nodding. Gold rings holding firm against the dark. 

It’ll never be enough. And maybe Jamie won’t forgive her for this. But there are things a person can’t live with becoming--and even knowing how close she’s come tonight to brushing up against the shadows she’s been carrying for too long is...it’s...

Enough, she tells herself, knowing it’s a lie and a truth and a promise. 

She doesn’t pack. What does a dead woman toss into a carry-on? There will be no final costume change, no coiffed hair or carefully-applied makeup. She’s more or less given up on all of it, anyway, exhaustion draining her dry even on the rare occasion the mirror doesn’t leer in her direction. Jamie doesn’t seem to mind. Jamie doesn’t seem to mind any of it. 

I’ll feel everything for the both of us, she says, and she means it every single time. Means it the way Jamie can’t help. The way only Jamie has ever known how. It never, ever comes from a place of pretty words, with Jamie. Never comes from a should be this, a script without heart. Jamie can’t not say it. Jamie can’t not mean it.

Jamie can’t not trust her.

So Dani has to go.

Her hand is on the door, her head bent forward against the familiar wood. This door, through which Jamie walked so recently with that all-important piece of paper. This door, through which Dani walked so many years ago with a plant in her hands and a promise on her lips. This door. She’s stopped seeing it, hasn’t she? Juggling groceries, or mid-conversation, or pushing Jamie hard against it with a flare of passion. The door has become, like so many things, a standard piece of set dressing. Irrelevant, compared to the story. Forgettable, compared to the intricacies of the day. 

And now, this final time, her hand on the knob--now she thinks, I will remember. This door. This apartment. The walk, made so many thousands of times, from the bedroom to the bathroom to the kitchen. The couch, where Jamie often dozes over a book with her legs sprawled in Dani’s lap. The rug, picked out together the first year living together. The photos on the wall, the postcards on the fridge, so many tiny memorials to the people they’ve grown into together. 

I will remember, she thinks fiercely, all of it. 

Foolish, to stop. Foolish, to give in to this moment of such human weakness. Such human fear. If she could only keep walking in a single, unbroken line--like she would, like the path taken up those stairs and into that wing over and over again--she’d have been on the street by now. She’d have been calling a car by now. She’d--

“You’re not even going to leave me a note?”

She closes her eyes. Presses her face harder against the door. The memories, she thinks, have snagged her as she should have expected. As memories always do. Hadn’t it been memory, keeping her with Eddie longer than she should have stayed? Hadn’t it been memory, keeping her in contact with a mother who had long unplugged? Memory, in the end, is as much a gravity well as a blessing. A treasure like love is so dangerously good at being multiple things at once.

A thing like need. A thing like fear. 

A thing like I don’t want to go. 

Jamie doesn’t sound angry, exactly. Her voice is ragged with sleep, and with something so quietly broken, Dani can’t stand to look at it. That sound, that unfamiliar tension, has been creeping into Jamie’s voice more and more lately. A sob unuttered. An unfamiliar desperation. 

Jamie doesn’t do desperate. Jamie doesn’t do terror. Jamie is a solution with a grin, a pair of strong hands holding Dani steady when the world rocks around her without pause. Jamie is a foundation. A bedrock. A gloriously embedded series of roots, planted with hope, tended with care, turned from a pot into a home with time and effort and love. 

Jamie is waiting now. Quiet. Not angry, exactly--but not forgiving, either. Hurt, Dani thinks, recognizing at last that utterly unfamiliar note. She’s hurt. I’ve never hurt her before. 

She’s frustrated Jamie over the years, plenty of times. Upset her. Knocked up against exposed nerves she hadn’t known to look for. She’s made Jamie grumpy, even angry a few times--and Jamie’s done the same in return. Two people can’t share a single life without crossing boundaries from time to time. Without finding fragility under overturned stones. But it’s always been fixable. Always been so clear, where the repairs were needed to get them back on track again. They’d never gone to bed angry, not once in thirteen years, because you can’t promise tomorrow. You can’t promise a chance to make it right if you let it go too long. 

You can’t promise.

Dani can’t promise. 

“Not even going to answer?” That old Jamie grit, winding into the syllables, but the hand that brushes between her shoulder blades is soft. Jamie isn’t angry. Jamie is hurt. Jamie is scared. Jamie is half-asleep and so awake, and if Dani turns--if Dani looks now--

Tell her, some panicked part of her pipes up. Tell her what happened. What you almost did. What you’re going to become. 

She won’t care, the more rational part replies. Jamie trusts her. Jamie wants to carry it all for her. Jamie will carry her until it tears her open to do it, and then she’ll keep going. Jamie, even with blood staining the carpet and heart hanging out of her chest, would never know how to stop.

Jamie would drown, if Dani let her. If Dani were coward enough, selfish enough, to let the fear win. 

“Dani.” The way no one else has ever said her name, she thinks with eyes still scrunched shut. No one has ever formed those two syllables the way Jamie does. Like an oath. Like an I love you. Like an I’m listening. I’m here. I’m not going away. 

“Dani,” she says again. “Come back to bed. Please.”

It’s the please, Dani thinks as she turns at last, as she takes in the sight of this woman with whom she wants only to share her life, that does it. The please, a word that feels too much like begging to suit their thirteen years of equilibrium. Jamie, especially, doesn’t beg. Jamie listens. Jamie understands. Jamie fixes. Jamie doesn’t plead, or demand, or insist. 

Jamie, looking at her now with rumpled hair, in only a sleep shirt and a grim expression. Jamie, who’d sounded so shattered, saying those words. Come back to bed. Please. Like she knows already what Dani is doing. Like she knows already that there are things a person can’t come back from. 

Tell her no, the rational side thinks. Tell her no. Tell her you love her. Tell her there’s nothing that matters even half as much as that, not even this moment. Tell her goodbye.

I don’t, Dani thinks with helpless misery, already reaching out a hand, want to go. 

She’ll remember every step, later. Every step back to the bedroom. Every step with Jamie’s hand solid and soft in her own. The way Jamie walks with shoulders straight, with chin up, even as tired as she is. The way Jamie waits until she’s between the covers again before she’ll climb in, too. 

The way Jamie holds her as she sobs. As they both lose the composure they’ve spent too long clinging to. The way the mattress shakes beneath them, her face pressed to Jamie’s neck, the thrum of Jamie’s pulse ragged against her lips. 

She’ll remember it all, later. She needs to remember. Every step. Every kiss Jamie presses to her hair. Every stroke of Jamie’s hands down her back. She needs to remember it all. 

You’re not even going to leave me a note?

She will. She will do that much, she promises herself, as Jamie’s tears slowly wane. As Jamie’s breath slowly evens out. As Jamie, confident that she has--once again, as she has so many times before--fixed the problem, lets sleep wash the fear away. 

She’ll leave a note. She’ll try to get it all down, somehow. She’ll do her best.

But first. First, for a little while longer, she’ll stay. Jamie’s heartbeat is so familiar, a metronome of security beneath her head. Jamie’s breath is so familiar, a lullaby she’s been falling asleep to for almost fifteen years. Jamie, who makes a soft sound in her sleep and holds Dani all the closer, like she’s been doing for as long as anything has ever mattered. 

Jamie, who may never forgive her, but who will certainly have to understand. Someday. Somehow. Jamie has understood it all, even when she shouldn’t have. Even when there was no rhyme or reason to it. Jamie is good at listening. Jamie is good at piecing it all together. 

Jamie is so good. 

She’ll leave a note. She’ll do that much. But not yet. Not quite.

Dani Clayton, folded in the embrace of the woman who loves her most, does not want to go. 

[plasticnightmaredoll]

Mortal Kombat (2021) Review

Well, well, well....here we are, a Mortal Kombat movie -- not the first, obviously. I will say, it's much better than both films from the 1990s. I will also say that, for the most part, I enjoyed it more than "Mortal Kombat 11" and its garbage DLC "Aftermath."

Come for me all you want, but I am standing by my thoughts on that game and its DLC.

Overall, I did like this new "Mortal Kombat" movie. It was entertaining. However, I have...a lot of issues with it, too, pertaining to lore, acting, and special effects.

What was the best part of this movie? If I had to pick one? Oh, definitely Hiroyuki Sanada as Hanzo Hasashi/Scorpion. He is one of the best Japanese actors working today. He's one of the best actors working today. Having him play such an important character was probably the best choice the producers made.

Also, quick side note: Hiroyuki is 60 years old. HOW?! I mean, he doesn't look 20, but 60? I have my doubts.

Also, this is the first time I've heard him speak English. Interesting.

Another wise decision the producers made for this movie is casting Josh Lawson as Kano. I don't like Kano. He's a dick, but Josh gave the idiot a sort of douchebag charm that you couldn't help but be amused by.

So, what did I like, broken down:

Josh Lawson and Hiroyuki Sanada

The opening scene and final fight were the best scenes in the movie. Fantastically done, both of them.

Some cute little references to MK lore: a picture of Nightwolf, the use of "flawless victory," the use of "fatality," some suspiciously MK-sounding music cues, the massive statue of Shao Kahn...There were some nice fan service moments.

The fights, even the training ones, were all entertaining. Kind of like with "Godzilla vs Kong," the action is one of the strongest points of "Mortal Kombat" (2021).

The concept of the dragon brand to indicate who would fight in MK tournaments was actually a great choice. It does give the writers an excuse to not worry about including EVERY MK character; only the ones who have been "chosen" can fight at this time. It makes sense, it works, it's intriguing.

Kung Lao slicing Nitara in half (Sorry, Nitara -- love ya, Girl!) with his "spinning hat" technique was probably the most Mortal Kombat kill of the movie. It was extremely graphic, bloody, gross, over-the-top...it was perfect.

Hanzo toasting Bi-Han with his classic fire breath was a badass move if I ever saw one.

I did like how Mileena's mouth "worked" in this movie. She had sharp teeth and reddened skin(?) around her mouth to indicate that there was something not quite right with her face. Then she gets pissed later in the movie and opens her jaw completely, revealing an almost snake-like mouth, the skin tearing in the process. It was pretty badass. I liked it.

I actually liked Raiden a lot in this movie. I don't particularly like him in the games (don't come for me -- it's just my opinion) but I thought he was awesome in this movie, a truly intimidating but wise presence. His lack of full assistance made more sense in this movie, too (again, don't come for me because this is just my opinion).

The special effects were sometimes quite good. Sub-Zero's ice powers were well made, for example. Another example is Goro, who was fantastic (so much better than he did in the 1995 movie).

The backstory behind the main weapon of Hanzo was a pleasant surprise: it was a gardening tool to being with, and he just so happened to find it and turn it into a weapon.

Mixed thoughts:

The acting was decent overall. The only two I thought did great were Josh Lawson and Hiroyuki Sanada, but everyone else was ok. Some of the performances got a little hammy at times, but...I'm not going to take too many points off for that.

I liked Mileena but also was disappointed. She wasn't as malicious and flirty as she normally is; like she was watered down in this movie for some reason. However, she still was a dangerous fighter and her mouth was crazy! 👄

What I didn't like:

Some things didn't look so great. When Jax lost his arms, it looked...well it looked like blatant CGI. The lighting barrier Raiden created to protect his fighters from Shang Tsung looked pretty cheap as well. Some set pieces looked a bit too much like set pieces. I know we're on a set because this is a movie. However, when it looks kind of obvious, it really distracts you. I know this is a Marvel movie or something, but I think the special effects and sets could have looked a bit more refined.

I preferred the Quan Chi twist in regards to the death of Hanzo's family. It provided a much more complicated revenge story, and...I just think it was a better choice than making Bi-Han the murderer, like in this movie. I get that if they did use the Quan Chi twist, this movie would have become, like, 5 hours long or something, and would have had yet another character to develop (or attempt to develop). Still, it's not my favorite take on the Sub-Zero vs Scorpion story. So...meh.

Reptile looked impressive. He was more like a ... reptile than usual, you know, as opposed to a humanoid reptile creature. However, he didn't speak and didn't wear any armor, and his role in the movie seemed forced. It felt more like a badly executed fan service moment, like, "Heeeyyyy, it's Reptile, Guys! Ok, kill him because we have too many characters already...."

Cole was a likable guy, but I didn't see a point in his character being in the movie. He isn't an MK character from the games, and this just doesn't seem like the time to make a new character for the franchise. There are so many more MK characters to choose from, I think they could have avoided making up someone.

At the same time, though, this movie does suffer from having too many characters to focus on: Cole Young, Kano, Sonya Blade, Jax Briggs, Liu Kang, Kung Lao, Reptile, Mileena, Reiko, Kabal, Shang Tsung, Raiden, Hanzo Hasashi/Scorpion, Bi-Han/Sub-Zero, Goro, Nitara...I mean, damn, that's a bunch of characters to cram into one two-hour film. People who know little to nothing about MK may not be bothered by this, but fans like myself most likely will feel disappointed with how certain characters were handled in the movie.

Reiko, what...did they do to you? Did...he even need to be in the movie? I mean, he was just.....there.

Having the concept of "arcana" was just...I don't know. It wasn't a terrible idea but it also made things even less believable. No one got their unique traits due to some sort of weird-ass prophecy or whatever in the games. I suppose the writers used this "arcana" thing as a way to keep the movie flowing and avoid having it be hours long. However, it just didn't sit right with me.

I know this movie is only two hours but I would have liked a little more development for Mileena, Reiko, and even Kabal. Kabal gave us the short version of what happened to him but, again, it was so quick. Like, blink and you'll miss it. I think Mileena and Kabal are two very interesting characters in MK, and having them be so one-dimensional was disappointing.

Hanzo was barely in this movie. It seemed....weird to me. Bi-Han was out there wrecking everyone's shit and Hanzo was somehow trapped in the Netherrealm until Cole was forced to fight Bi-Han one-on-one? I mean, eh? They chose the absolute best actor to play Hanzo but didn't use him much.

I was so disappointed to see Kung Lao killed off. I mean, characters that die in MK games don't always stay dead but still....he was so much fun in this movie (as he should be).

I didn't care for the portrayal of Nitara at all in this movie.

I didn't hate "Mortal Kombat" (2021), but I didn't love it, either. I'd watch it again, and I would watch a sequel, but there is definitely room for improvement. There is a lot of potential for the next MK movie(s) to be much better (this movie had clear potential, too, to be honest). I just hope that maybe the writers will realize this if a sequel is made.

Final grade: C+

[ragesin]

Anyways fuck that narrative Nakaba has that Mel's sometimes dumb and over the top perverted attitude is to hide what he knows about Elizabeth to the readers. A lot of NNT is so so good, and then you just have stupid shit like that thrown in.

Elizabeth may not really say anything against it  ( besides looking discomforted at times )  and Hawk + others usually stopped him themselves when he went too far, but overall I'm not amused when Nakaba uses blatant sexual harassment as cheap humor points.

Like ?  I can make up my own reasons why Meliodas would do it here and there ??  Like that previous hc about why he doesn't bother anyone else but Elizabeth. That thing Nakaba said about distraction but apply it against others in universe to divert them from his info on Eli. It could also be a habit born from him acting out more to compensate for lack of emotions and pretend to be more of a person - to feel some emotional spark / anything at all. Maybe it's just Meliodas being an all around bastard, or all of the above. In any case none of that justifies the harassment.

Honestly I've basically yeeted most of that specific behaviour off my interpretation of Meliodas. It doesn't add much to the story and I don’t like it in general. I acknowledge the points I listed above but that’s about the extent of it, outside of what I discuss with Mia. He's still a Meliodas level of dirty but not the fan service harassment kind Nakaba flings in.

[talesfantastic]

*NOTE: these headcanons are highly canon-based, but 100% subject to alteration depending on the headcanons of any Ardyn/Aera/Gilgamesh rpers writing with him. These work in tandem with my Gilgamesh portrayal. Regardless, don’t be afraid to ask for adjustments!

History:

Lucis’ Founder King came from humble origins, son of a winemaker and one of the greater warlords who controlled a large part of Cavaugh. He wanted for nothing growing up alongside his older brother Ardyn under the watch of their bodyguard, Gilgamesh.

When both he and Ardyn manifested magic early on, he was constantly at his brother’s side; they learned elemancy together, taking to different elements and complementing each other time and again as they grew old enough to be swordsmen. They learned to warp and they learned the armiger and when daemons began to manifest across Eos they were ready to fight side by side as they had done all things before.

Then Ardyn discovered he could heal. It was the first divide, as they were taken down very different paths. Despite being what Somnus would affectionately call ‘an absolute menace with a blade’ Ardyn walked the path of a healer now, and with him went Gilgamesh on a journey around the continent to heal those afflicted with the scourge.

Somnus, on the other hand, joined the ranks of his father’s warriors and quickly rose through them to his father’s side. And there were many throughout the Lucis Caelum lands, too, afflicted with the scourge.

Ardyn was not there to heal them, nowhere near close enough to even send word for.

Under his father’s guidance, Somnus learned the very limited options existed for the rest of the world: you either let the infected suffer and become a daemon, a threat to everyone around them and able to pass the plague on, or… you put them out of their misery, as soon as they showed definite signs of the scourge.

He learned to be gentle with his mercy killings, using the poisons his father had developed to send them to sleep on their way to a permanent rest, and the bodies were burned because a daemon might return from a corpse but nothing came from ashes. 

He tried not to resent that his brother wasn’t there, that he had no other options. That the gods had not favored him with the gifts of healing. And mostly he succeeded. Trying not to be jealous of the starry-eyed, reverent regard that others had for Ardyn, though… that was harder. 

The situation continued to get worse despite their efforts, and Somnus tried again and again to lure his brother home, where he could take care of their own people instead of this foolish attempt to save the world - a trial that he logistically couldn’t complete, even with the newly-arrived Oracle at his side.

An Oracle who declared that a king would come of their lineage, to rule over Cavaugh with the strength of a powerful magical artifact. Somnus rightfully assumed it would be him, the one of them who was standing his ground and putting in the work. Their father was getting older, and as the kingdom he had been slowly fostering began to come together, it was under Somnus’ banner. It hadn’t been easy, it hadn’t even been originally wanted, but now this was his kingdom, full of blood sweat and tears. It was a given it would remain so. Maybe then, with the blessings of the gods, his brother would come home to stay.

They gathered around the Crystal, Somnus and his men and Ardyn flanked by Gilgamesh and Aera, and prepared for Somnus’ appointment as king.

And then Aera - in truth or in the bias of her love for Ardyn - declared him king.

There was a beat of silence, disbelief on Ardyn’s face and horror running through Somnus. He loved his brother, of course he did, but the thought of him as king, fumbling through a task he knew nothing of, the price their people would inevitably pay to say nothing of the price Ardyn would pay from a job that would eat him alive --

No.

No this could not stand.

Both brothers rushed towards the Crystal and Ardyn reached it first, laying a palm on its surface before abruptly if flared to life with energy and rebuffed him.

And in the purity of its light, his brother’s skillful illusions were torn away, revealing the price for all his healings, a man who should be dead a thousand times over for the scourge he carried. In that moment, his eyes were gold instead of blue, and black ichor dripped down his face in a mockery of tears.

Unclean.

The voice of the gods spoke in his ear and he froze, sucking in a breath.

This cannot stand. His words? Theirs? It blurred.

Everything blurred. There was a lot of screaming, much of it his, and when he came back to himself… they were dead.

Gilgamesh dead and his corpse left in the Tempering Grounds.

Ardyn dead and his corpse locked away in Angelgard.

Aera dead, returned to her family - the only one laid to rest, and they did not thank him for it. In fact, it was only when he tried to reach out to them about that blasted Crystal that they laid the cruel truth at his feet. A ring was thrust onto his hand and a prophecy given for generations of agony and suffering for what he had done - or, at least, what he had not been strong enough to resist. A prophecy that would see his blood pit yet again against his brother (not dead, no, nothing so kind; he had been damned to thousands of years suffering) before the world would ever truly be free of the scourge.

Somnus would spend the rest of his life searching for a means to avert the prophecy. For a cure to the scourge, for his people and - selfishly, perhaps - moreso for his brother. These efforts gained him nothing but the title of The Mystic and a remaining lifetime of pain, regrets, and disdain for the gods that had used him.

Description:

Somnus comes in at 6’0, with short black hair and bright blue eyes. His clothing of choice was a linen toga with a blue sash and crimson belting as a boy, though he would grow into wearing leather armor as a teenager and adult when traveling. When he was in a situation where he didn’t need to fight, he had a long blue robe and black cape. 

|| character tag || character page ||

[tailorvizsla]

A Proper Mandalorian Courtship - Chapter 1

Title: The Armorer and an Introduction Word Count: ~2350 Pairing: Paz x Reader Rating: PG-13 Warnings: Cursing, canon-typical violence, crack humor that’s also serious Summary: 

Mandalorian courtship is very simple: declare your interest in someone, spend time together if they reciprocate, and get married after a year or so. Getting married is even easier – simply swap the vows and announce it a few days later to the Tribe so you can all celebrate the happy news. Then spend the next few months fending off the nosy Elders (who all want to know when they can expect to hear more little feet on the ground). At the end of it all, Mandalorians court the same way the rest of the galaxy does.

Except for Paz Vizla. Despite his Traditionalist background, he goes about this courtship and marriage business in a very nontraditional way...a very, very, very nontraditional way. This can also be found at AO3. Chapters: 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10

📚 My Master List 📚 Author’s Notes:

This is my first attempt at a multi-chapter story in a very long time. 

I’ve been working on this since February. It’s been finished for a few weeks now, but I’ve been procrastinating in posting because I have had such a hard time justifying why Paz behaves the way he does even though we only see him for like 3 seconds in the series. I’m not sure if anyone else does this, but I like having a reason to write a story, even if it’s just to get the fluff out. For this, I wanted to flesh out Paz’s character for future works, but I have had such a hard time figuring out the words for it that I just...didn’t post. It felt wrong to continue forward without being able to explain to myself why he does what he does. Something that @plexflexico said in one of their responses to a review I left resonated with me and finally inspired me to post this publicly.

“Paz might have had less than a minute of screen time, but that time was VERY enlightening because both scenes were at moments of great tension and high emotion. I felt that any man who could succinctly put his people’s plight into words, and was so angry over this betrayal by someone who should have known better that there was no way this was simply a brute. This is a man who thinks and feels, deeply.”

This. This is exactly what I couldn’t find the words for. This, to me, is Paz Vizla. I have seen stories/HCs that portray him as a brute in an attempt to show him as a strong, confident, and masculine character. I am not fond of that portrayal because it lacks depth. I don't see that from a man whose culture embraces competency and skill before gender or sex. For those of you who have not read Asterism, go do it now, I promise you will love every single word. @plexflexico perfectly captures every emotion and thought of each scene just perfectly. This is Grade Amazing Super Plus Rank writing and Plex deserves an award for their work. And also for the inspiration because her Paz is the man everyone who wants a man deserves to have in their life.

The Foundry is the most sacred place for any Tribe blessed enough to have one of its own. It is the physical manifestation of the Resol'nare: education and armor, self-defense, the tribe, the language, and the leader. Here, children and new recruits receive their first set of beskar'gam and swear their oaths to follow the path, making the Foundry the spiritual birthplace of every member of the Tribe.

At night, when the work is finished, and the flames are dimmed, the young and old gather within so they may learn from and educate one another. Most importantly, this is where most individuals begin their first lessons in Mando'a, under the guidance of the Elders. The foundry is where the armaments are made and dispensed for the protection of each person and the Tribe as a whole. When a hunter returns with their offerings, they return to the Foundry, and disperse it to those who depend upon them for sustenance and care. Finally, the Foundry serves as a place for the leadership to gather.

Armorer has had the distinct honor and privilege of being both armorer and leader to her people for many years, though she is now only the armorer for the tribe. Upon joining with tribe Marell, she relinquished her role as the Alor. However, the respect and authority she commands is not diminished in any capacity. Should Alor Dezha not be available to decide on a course of action, the Tribe will come to her, and her decision will be both supported and respected. Dezha respects her a great deal, and he will often seek her opinion if his path is unclear. Despite the differences in their interpretations of the Oath, they have come to live in harmony with one another. They strengthen what is weak in each other, and that is how it should be in a flourishing Tribe.

Tonight, she once more has the honor of being part of a marriage ceremony. Lifting her heavy hammer, Armorer brings it down onto the glowing ingot of metal, watching as it flattens and spreads under her blow. She continues to strike the metal with slow, methodical precision until it reaches the proper thickness. Then the Armorer takes it back to the flame, where she allows it to glow blazing white. It only takes a few moments, and she returns it to the anvil. The steady clang clang of her hammer is punctuated only by the occasional trip to the flames.

The union of two Mandalorians in marriage is – and always has been – a joyous occasion, for that union brings forth stability for the children and the Tribe. Traditionally, the parents take turns hunting, or if the Tribe has the numbers, both parents will hunt together, and leave their children in the care of the rest of the family. Having that one trusted person, the one who knows their every strength and weakness by their side, leads to success, both in the field and at home.

She pauses once more to check the ingot. When she sees it is properly folded, she divides it in half, and begins to form each blade precisely with her smaller hammer. Two Mandalorians, forged into one soul and body by marriage, whether they are together, or they are apart. Two blades, made from a single piece of steel, to symbolize that union. When they are formed to her satisfaction, she takes the blades to the oil vat and quenches them, a satisfying hiss escaping the bubbling liquid.

Then she returns to the forge, narrowing one of the flames to begin the differential tempering process. Here, the tang and the edges of the blades will be hardened to resist shattering, yet the spines will remain flexible, so that they may flex as needed. Once joined, the couple hardens themselves to outsiders; instead, they will turn their affection and respect inward, so they may grow together. Where one is brittle, the other is flexible, and together, they become stronger than they would be individually. She withdraws the first blade from the flame just as the pale amber color creeps to the edges of the blade and plunges it directly into the water bath to cool.

It takes hours to sharpen the ceremonial blades on the grinding belts, but she works steadily and carefully, honing the edges with precision. The hilts are left bare; they will be wrapped by the parties entering the marriage. When they speak their vows, they will exchange blades, so they may carry a piece of the other with them when they are physically parted. She nestles the blades into separate boxes lined with soft fabric. When she delivers the blades tonight, the newlyweds will handle the rest on their own. Armorer lowers the heat of the flame before she returns to her quarters. There she draws the curtain across her living space. Exhaling, she takes a seat at her low table with a pot of hot tea to await being summoned by the Elders to acknowledge the vows. Her shoulders are tense and tight. It is a good sign of hard work.

It has been many years since she has witnessed a proper Mandalorian courtship unfold and blossom into marriage. The Armorer has known from the start that Paz would be the one to fully embrace the traditional ways. Now, he has chosen to make himself an example to the younger Mandalorians and enter the bonds of matrimony. Her heart swells with pride as she imagines the future progeny they will gift to the Tribe, whether they are born or found. However, she takes the time to close her eyes and pray to the spirits. The newlyweds will need guidance.

Hopefully, the wedding night will not result in nearly as much structural damage as the courtship had.

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The first time Paz ever laid eyes upon you was shortly after the Armorer had finished negotiations to join with yours. It took nearly three weeks of negotiations, but your Tribe had ultimately yielded. No sane alor would turn away a dozen Hunters and their children, anyway. Paz admits that he did not find you all that impressive at first. You were – and still are - pretty average. Your armor at the time consisted of a bes’kar helmet and a steel chestplate that looked like the Armorer’s. Everything else was made of leather.

Tradesperson, he thought to himself, and he put you out of his mind.

As time went on, Paz came to like you, and even enjoy spending a few minutes with you here and there as his duties allowed. Even though you openly admitted that were an average warrior (at best), you did your job freakishly well. You had made your desire for a large family vocal, and that, combined with your skills, had caught the attention of several Hunters visiting to deliver the latest news. According to the Elders, the offers of marriage had come flooding in the instant you completed your first hunt, even though you hadn’t completed it until your twenty-third birthday.

When the average Mandalorian completed their first hunt by their nineteenth.

And Paz completed his on his seventeenth.

It didn’t take long for him to understand how you earned the loving-yet-frighteningly-accurate nickname shu’shika from the Tribe – you truly are a tiny disaster. You are dearly loved by your Tribe, but there is a tendency for things to break while you are around.

You are stubborn to a fault. That Paz can deal with. Over the past thirty or so years, he has had plenty of practice to out-stubborn his subordinates, and he always wins. The same holds true with his bounties. With you? There have been a few situations where he has come dangerously close to cracking and losing his temper. It is only your terrible self-defense skills and his affection for you that keep him from simply putting you in a headlock until you submit.

Paz sometimes wonders if you provoke him on purpose because you know he will not throw fists with someone who lacks proper training. He takes no pleasure in winning a fight if it was never a true fight to begin with.

Far too often, you get mouthy with him, to the point where he sometimes wants to grab you around the waist and launch you straight into the lake for being such a brat. You are never truly disrespectful, but you have no problem telling him what you think. Even when he does not ask for your opinion. He does, however, appreciate your honesty with him, since others are usually too intimidated by him to be as direct as you.

You’re kriffing fearless, to the point of recklessness. His threats to launch you into the lake have gone from true threats to playful teasing, and it always earns a laugh from you.

Your forgetfulness…it is truly obnoxious. At this point, he has stopped reminding you to pick up your shit. He has grown used to simply picking up your things off the floor (or the couch, or the tables, or the showers), stuffing them in a bag, and dumping it all on your table in the workshop. Just like everyone else in the Tribe does for you. Or, if he wants to see you, he will pocket your datapad until you come wandering into the common areas, and hand it over without a word. It never ceases to amaze you that Paz somehow seems to know exactly what you are looking for.

Paz has no doubts that if you ever set your bucket down, you will lose it. He kind of finds it endearing. But only from you. He has no problems holding armor, weapons, or personal property for ransom if some idiot leaves it unattended.

If there is even a single power cable in a wide-open room, you will invariably find it and trip over it. Stairs have to be clearly marked with vibrant tape to remind you of their existence even though they’ve been there for ten kriffing years. Your navigational skills are nonexistent. It is all Paz can do to refrain from simply attaching a tracker to your backside to keep you from getting lost whenever someone takes you to the market.

The first time he had taken you to the market, he lost you within forty-eight seconds. He panicked the entire time he looked for you. Fortunately, he found you trying to dig enough money out of your bag to buy some ice cream, with no regards as to how you were going to eat the kriffing ice cream with a damn bucket on your head.

Sometimes, Paz feels like his relationship with you is going to give him a full head of grey hair before his fiftieth birthday. But he thinks you are the most beautiful disaster he has ever seen in his life.

You get his dumb jokes and laugh at his silly puns. You let him steal the end pieces of the bread when you bake. You try so damn hard to improve your hand-to-hand combat skills, even when Doctor Shen threatens to tie you to a bed to keep you from hurting yourself. You turn to him first when you want to learn a new technique. You play hunters-and-prey with the children for hours, like you don’t care that the others are grumbling about you spoiling the kids. You listen to him ramble about whatever random topic he has picked up that week, and while you may not know anything about it, you ask questions and take the time to learn more about what makes him happy. You even offer to share your tiingilar with him, even when you only have a quarter ration of it.

He has spent most of his forty-four years alone in life. His eight-year relationship had ended exactly ten years ago when his partner chose to commit adultery. He was on the verge of proposing marriage when he caught them in his bed. Neither had been wearing their helmet. It was a privilege his partner had never granted him, even after nearly a decade together. After that gut-wrenching betrayal, something had shattered in him. Paz invested himself in his work fervently, his bitterness turning him away from the possibility of a long-term relationship. Now that he is older and wiser, he feels a sort of emptiness to his days. Like his successes mean nothing without having someone to share them with. He wants someone there to encourage and support him in his hunts. Someone who is not as cynical and burnt out from the constant threat of death and war. Someone who still has that shereshoya – that Mandalorian lust for each new day and every experience that it brings. That brightness in your soul draws him to you like a moth to the flame. It is your hidden gentility that has him so happily trapped in your orbit.

He wants to make you strong where you are weak.

He wants you to make him strong where he is weak.

Seeing you waiting for him at the shooting range brings a spring to his step. Hearing your laughter at one of his awful jokes makes him glad he wears a helmet so no one can see the ridiculous grin on his face. Smelling the sweet, flowery soap that you use makes his knees go all wobbly, though he’s not sure if it’s from affection or just from age. Just feeling your hand brush up against his makes him turn into a sweaty, flushed mess.

Paz Vizla feels like he’s strapped to the wing of a TIE fighter spinning out of control as it plummets to the ground below, or something like a fully-grown rath’tar has wrapped itself around his heart to squeeze. His belly is jam-packed with spice-crazed minochs and his heart is pounding wildly. When he thinks about kissing you one day, maybe just gently pressing his helmet against yours, his heart gets so full he can barely breathe.

You make him Feel Things he has never felt before.

Paz Vizla turns into a hot kriffing mess under his armor when he is around you, and he wants off this malfunctioning jetpack.

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Feel free to leave comments, concerns, or critiques. I love all sorts of feedback <3

[kinetic-elaboration]

September 17: 3x07 Day of the Dove

I am incredibly discombobulated today—usual weekend nocturnal shenanigans I guess! Anyway it’s somehow midnight. Gonna try to write up these note on the Classic episode The Day of the Dove in as efficient a manner as possible.

Hmm, a planet with wavy pink Fraggle plants. I like it already.

But where is Spock? Very suspicious.

I really appreciate Kirk giving a little speech to set up the overall question/issue for us. (I know he does this all the time with the Captain’s logs but this is out loud and so… more obviously expository.)

Oh no, it’s our old friends…the Klingons.

I will admit that this ONE TIME, the Klingon is being reasonable. Like, it is reasonable to think that Kirk and the Enterprise attacked his ship, given that his hip WAS attacked, and who else would it be?

Three years of peace between the Klingons and the Federation? That is inclusive of the show so all this tension must technically be “peace” and also implies there was something more like a direct war going on, like, right before Kirk got the captaincy.

Zoolander voice: What is this, a colony of the INVISIBLE?

“We have no devil. But we understand the habits of yours.”

No takers? No takers on the torture? No volunteers to be mercilessly tortured by the Klingons?

Star Trek Beyond could have had Kirk and Chekov bond over being brothers! I mean, to other people.

They’ll kill 100 hostages at the first sign of treachery. He does know there are only 400-some people on the ship right? Maybe you should pace yourself, Kang.

Kirk’s so badass he needs MULTIPLE guns trained on him just to use the phone.

Oh-ho secret message to Spock. Which version of the iPhone will be capable of doing THAT?

The Klingons are “suspended in transit” is an awfully nice way of saying they’re just dematerialized atoms in space. Philosophy major and/or Bones nightmare fuel.

How did Kang not see this coming, by the way? Like, he just says “I’m taking your ship now, me and my 6 men versus your 400-some men, and I’ll do this by simply declaring it to be so. Now let’s beam up to your ship, where I’ll be greatly outnumbered, and there are armed security guards all around me.” Guess he’s been reading The Secret!

WIFE AND SCIENCE OFFICER

Aka the most important part of this whole episode.

Kirk’s face is very ?????? You can have both????

It’s legitimately not even important for her to be the science officer tbqh. Like that is so gratuitous. That’s just in there to drive me insane.

"We're prisoners, somehow, after I demanded to come on the ship, assuming they'd just give it to me without any kind of fight. How DID this happen?”

Federation death camps lol—someone’s been watching Fox News.

I do kind of wonder… is this an actual rumor that goes around the Klingon homeworld or is it something that the alien entity put in her head specifically to make her angrier right now? I mean it really could be either.

I also appreciate this episode for being pretty much the only one to actually attempt to give the Klingons a reason for being as they are. The Romulans… maybe aren’t well-described, but they do have a sort of regalness to them, appropriate for being related to Vulcans, and you can kind of imagine that they are the way they are because they’re Vulcans without the intense self-control. Plus they’re literally only in 2 TOS eps and in the second, the Federation are the aggressors. But the Klingons show up a half-dozen times only to be depicted each time as just like Cartoonishly Bad, aggressive, violent, and selfish for basically no reason. And I mean, some people really are!! But TOS has so much nuance in other places, that it always seemed a little disappointing to me that the Klingons are really just like ‘well we’re just bad and we hate everyone and we really like killing I guess.” At least in this ep there’s a little more added to that: that there is poverty on their world, that they feel aggrieved, that they feel unprotected, that taking and conquering is how they look after themselves…

I think that’s later in the episode though.

He’s detaining them in the LOUNGE lol. With their favorite dishes available to them to eat. Absolutely barbarous conditions.

I can’t believe Chekov is hanging in the elevator with the cool kids. Like, one of these things really isn’t like the others.

Kang is officially sure of himself for someone currently imprisoned in the lounge, that most fearsome of Federation death camps.

Hmm, could the glittery light alien have taken over??

You know what, that's a lot of tasks for Johnson to do all by himself: search the whole ship, fix the engines, and free 400 people.

Sulu would love this: everyone gets a sword!!

“Bridge. I gotta show this to Sulu immediately.”

Klingons have maintained a dueling tradition. That’s interesting. Finally some characterization going on.

Spock is really living up to his logical nature today. Everyone else has gone off the emotional deep end and he’s like “have you considered this completely rational explanation that accounts for the actual, observed facts??”

Whoops Chekov is actually an only child. Scratch that previous Beyond headcanon. (Interesting that his dead brother does really resemble Sam though—killed on a research colony??)

Love that Sulu knows that about him though.

Oh, that’s a pretty schematic picture of the Enterprise. I want that on a t-shirt.

Lol the pan out to the armory, now filled with… swords!!

Do ALL of these men have a fetish for swords? Sulu and fencing, Spock displaying swords in his quarters, and Kirk in his San Francisco apartment, and Scotty salivating over this Scottish blade.

“Klingon units.”

Finally Sulu gets his sword! It’s what he deserves.

Love that the shiny light alien also has a fetish for swords.

Oh no, it’s our old adversary, an alien life force.

What is the alien’s purpose? Um, I’m pretty sure its purpose is to start shit.

“An appropriate choice of terms, Captain.” I don’t even remember what this is referring to but I think it’s pretty clear that Spock is enjoying himself during a crisis again.

Bones, being so dramatic. Were there atrocities? He’s talking about the Klingons as if they were literally hacking off limbs—it’s a few stab wounds here and there, chill.

Oooh, time to behave like military men—strong words. (But I thought it wasn’t the military?? @ S**** P****) (This might not even be my best argument, given the context of this episode, but I’m sticking with it.)

This is like a giant game of capture the flag.

AU that’s just about the Enterprise crew playing capture the flag with the Klingons.

Sulu in the background standing guard with his sword

Damn, turning on Spock with the slurs now!!

Spock was absolutely ready to kill him. Like he would 100% have taken him out with a blow to the head. And he’d been doing such a good job of not feeling the alien’s effects so far! Admittedly, that was a strong provocation though.

Honestly, I really like this scene. It’s uncomfortable and tense and you can really see how the alien is bringing out the worst possible influences of their respective races. And I liked how Spock was definitely full on pre-Reform Vulcan for a minute there. It was a more effective portrayal of what that might have looked like than All Our Yesterdays tbqh.

A result of… stress?

Kirk got himself out of it first. He’s so strong. He knows himself so well, he cannot be outsmarted by any alien.

“We’ve been taught to think in terms other than war.”

“The alien brings out the worst of us—patriotic drumbeating…even race hatred.”

He’s so sad; he can’t imagine thinking like that about Spock :(

Sulu in a Jeffries tube! A man of many talents. It’s okay bb, take credit for turning on the lights.

The alien must have been getting bored. The Klingons must have been doing too well, and the playing field needs to be leveled for maximum shit-stirring.

“Let’s find that alien.” That’s how I ALWAYS feel.

Oh, Kang, you’re so close—“What power supports our battle but thwarts our victory.” So, so close to getting it.

ALIEN DETECTED.

Spock takes his sword, of course.

“Jim.” Obligatory Jim moments hit differently when they’re not so obligatory.

“Jim—stop hitting my protégé. And put that sword down.”

Kirk looks so sad, picking Chekov up to carry him bridal style.

Also in addition to ‘race hatred’ I think we need to add ‘rape-y tendances’ to the bad stuff that the alien is inspiring here.

“A brief surge of racial bigotry. Most distasteful.” Spock winning for understatement of the year.

They're assuming the alien is trying to test out their relative powers but I think it just wants entertainment. I mean, doesn’t it look like a naughty little thing?

Mara’s outfit is… little shorts? Interesting. Usually not my style but she makes it work.

Spock doesn’t even look at Johnson as he falls lol. Another one bites the dust.

“It exists on the hate of others.”

What does this remind me of? Oh, the Vast of Night and the whole “aliens made us do every bad thing ever” conspiracy theory. At least this one makes more sense, in part because it is not quite so overwhelmingly broad!

All hostile attitudes must be eliminated, he says, and there's Mara right behind Kirk giving him a death stare lol.

Kang is so obviously posing. Google Earth, always taking pictures.

Only a few minutes before drifting forever in space becomes inevitable? Good thing Kirk works well under pressure.

“Well… do whatever you can, Scotty. You know the drill.” Doesn’t even bother giving real directions anymore. We’ve been in this scenario before.

“So we drift in space, with only hatred and bloodshed aboard.”

And the 392 people below just get to…live in Enterprise prison, I guess.

Star date: Armageddon. So dramatic!

I’m not even making that up; that’s an actual quote. Can you imagine being an Admiral listening to this?

“Stop the war now.” An actual line, really aired on television.

Spock wants to threaten the wife lol. That's the old pre-Reform Vulcan seeping through. Surak who?

Damn, Kang is cold. “Eh, she gets the concept of being killed in battle.” They’re gonna need marriage counseling after this.

“There is another way. Mutual trust and help.” Yes that’s my hero!!

“No one can guarantee the actions of another.” Can’t remember the context of this entirely anymore, but great line.

The entity is loving this—multi-person choreographed sword fight!!

"Those who hate and fight must stop themselves. otherwise it is not stopped.” Another baller line. Spock has a lot of deep thoughts today. And so does Kirk. And Kang.

Kirk tries to reason with the alien. Nice try.

“Shoo. Shoo, alien. Off the ship, go away.”

Omg that last moment—Kang slapping Kirk’s back way too hard, Spock’s completely ridiculous wide-eyed expression when he does, like some sort of combo of amusement and confusion, and then Sulu just passing on by in the background….

Then the alien just yeets itself into space. And that’s the end!

Always feels weird when there’s no wrap up on the bridge.

Also, what are they going to do with the Klingons? They have no ship. They really did come out of this a lot worse than Kirk and co. No ship, huge casualties—and no one to blame even, but the alien.

I feel like the alien messed up a little in killing so many Klingons. Like, it could have accomplished its purpose, angering the Klingons and turning them on Kirk, by attacking the ship a little less violently—you know they’d react to 5 deaths pretty much the same as 400, and then there would be many more people to fight forever and produce that sweet sweet anger!

Maybe the alien’s powers aren’t strong enough to influence 800 people though. Also it wants equal forces and 800 people wouldn’t fit on the Enterprise, one assumes. So it still makes sense.

That was, of course, an excellent episode. 100% agree with is classic status, even though the main things I remembered going in were the wife + science officer bit, and everyone laughing at the end in a really forced, fake way, in order to make the alien go away.

I thought the Klingons were a lot better/more interesting today than usual. First, I think Kang is a better character, or a better actor maybe, than the others; he has a certain way about him that is… more watchable, more sympathetic. And he’s always saying these really dramatic things that make it seem likely he writes patriotic Klingon war poetry in his off time. Also, including his wife made them seem more… not human obviously, but normal. Not just cardboard cut-out villains. And of course the actual lightly specific motivations I earlier mentioned helped too.

Also, the plotting was very good: it built up slowly but surely over time, so at first the alien’s influence wasn’t that obvious, and then it became more so, and then it became horrifically obvious and extreme. And then you had to re-evaluate earlier moments: was that the alien changing facts in their heads, or a real part of the animosity between humans and Klingons? And it wasn’t always clear, which I appreciated. The tension when the people were at their worst wasn’t overdone, like in that moment with Scotty, Spock, and Kirk—or even in Chekov’s assault on Mara, tbh. The various strategies of the different sides were very entertaining too; there was never a dull moment, and they fit in a lot of straight-up actions and twists into 50 minutes.

The possible threat was truly terrifying, also: stuck in a space ship, forever, unable to die, feeling the worst possible emotions all the time, besieged, angered, despairing, fighting a war that can’t be won, being injured and suffering only to recover and fight again, and it never stops… A perfect nightmare mixture of insanity and violence and pain. And the alien, in encouraging hatred and anger, doesn’t discriminate between sides: they turn on each other just as much as on the Klingons, breeding paranoia and infighting. For eternity.

The episode also felt much more strongly anti-war than I remember tbh. Like it was not subtle. Kirk literally says “stop the war” in so many words. He has a part in his speech where he talks about the possibility of other aliens out there, encouraging other wars. And while I do think “maybe the aliens are making us do it” is a cop out explanation, or would be if it were real, the scenario gave the show a lot of room to say, like, pretty ballsy things: to include “patriotic drum beating” along with “race hatred” in a list of corrupting feelings they were experiencing; to show how the same instincts that lead to warring also lead to sexual assault and the aforementioned ‘race hatred;” to reveal the true horror of an endless war by making the participants unkillable and sticking them in a singular space ship in the middle of nowhere; to imply that the combatants of war gain nothing from it, but outside or third-party entities will pull strings of their own design to profit from the conflict as long as possible; even to make an impassioned plea to camera to stop the endlessness of the conflict. Like I can’t even totally unpack this but it is a lot!

Finally, it was also a great Kirk episode, which of course is my most important factor. He’s smart; he’s strong; he’s so sure of himself and his values that he cannot be manipulated to mindless hatred, he represents the values of the Federation, and the show itself; he treats even his enemies with basic respect and humanity; and ultimately, he saves the day.

Okay I was not efficient in writing this up at all! It is very late!!

[xxyumeno]

PORTRAYAL: Canon / Canon Divergent / AU

Unlike the original timeline in which Ryou had lost all memories of his time playing The World as Sora after he came out of his Data Drained induced coma. Ryou had managed to retain all his memories. Including the little joy ride Skeith had with Sora’s PC body.

Despite retaining his memories from his time of playing The World he had kept the secret from his parents. Seeing as his parents had no intention of even telling him he played the game. Even though The World was his escape from all the pressure of being the heir to his father’s company put him under (he was 10 at the time of the events).

This actually caused a sort of strain in Ryou’s relationship with his parents. That eventually led to him blowing him up on them for keeping secrets from him (hypocrite) about him playing the game that put him into a coma.

His relations with those in the Twilight Brigade largely remains the same. Though, he does not mention what, or more specifically whom, The Key of Twilight is. Finding some kind of amusement in them trying to find someone that basically made themselves MIA. Actually wonder if it would be easy to find Aura himself, but nah.

Him going on a PKK war path doesn’t exactly happen, but he is legit pissed the fuck off with what happened to Shino. If only he could remember the face of the one that Data Drained her. Aside from you know, getting Data Drained TWICE.

Ryou’s relationship with largely remains the same with most of the people he has met and befriended along the way. His relationship with Atoli is strictly as friends as he see her mainly as a friend slash little sister.

NOTES

Ryou had actually started to play The World R:2 months prior to the original story taking place. His first account was for nostalgic reasons as he had remade his character from R:1 Sora and made the PC Twin Blade as well. His second account as Haseo came later.

As much as Sora was a homage to his time playing R:1 he also uses that account to troll specific players in The World specifically Yata previously known as Wiseman during R:1. How he obtained this information or even recalls him despite not actually meeting Yata/Wiseman, blame Skeith. He does the same to Kuhn as well finding out he was Seig.

Ryou is asexual/demiromantic. He floats between sex neutral and sex repulse. In a way this effects how he receives physical affection from others. Really, there are just times where simply doesn’t want to be touched by others.

After Ryou had come out of his Data Drained induced coma. Ryou had decided to self teach himself to become a hacker. He already had the knowledge prior, but it never hurt to improve one’s skill for whatever reason.

Amazingly, he still in contact with Helba.

[ddagent]

Jaime is a fan of actress!Brienne and her show Oathkeeper, even going so far as to cosplay at events she attends. He is not, however, a fan of her love interest, played by Hyle Hunt. YES PLEASE

“Seven Hells, mate, you look exactly like Goldenhand!” 

Jaime grinned at the man ahead of him in the queue. He looked down at his breastplate; the burnished steel and actual gold lion heads. “What, this old thing?”

“Um, yes! You look more like Goldenhand than the guy they got to play him on Oathkeeper!” 

As his fellow con attendee nudged his friends and pointed at Jaime’s breastplate and broadsword, his brother sighed. Jaime frowned. “What?”

“You know full well that you look exactly like Goldenhand the Just. Not only because Goldenhand was a Lannister, but because you spent more than people spend on a house on your cosplay.” 

Jaime shrugged as best he could in his armour. “You’re always saying I should live a little.”

“Yes, but buy a yacht; a round of drinks in a bar. Not a historically accurate suit of armour and an actual Valyrian steel blade.” 

“It’s foam. Wouldn’t get through the metal detectors otherwise.” 

Tyrion hung his head, but quickly lifted it as the doors to King’s Landing Comic-Con opened. Jaime did not share his brother’s love of wine or women, and Tyrion did not share his love of fencing or boxing, but the television show Oathkeeper was something that they could enjoy together. They had viewing parties every week, and were now attending their first convention in the hope of meeting the cast and crew. Tyrion, and no doubt most of the men in the queue, were hoping to meet Margaery Tyrell, famous for playing Queen Rose on the show. 

Jaime, however, had his eye on someone else. 

As the queue progressed inside, Jaime rested his hand on the scabbard he hoped to get signed by Brienne Tarth, the actress playing Lady Alysanne, who would later become the Blue Knight. As a child, Jaime had been fascinated by stories of Ser Blue and Goldenhand; as an adult, he had devoured a series of historical fiction novels set in the period. The show was...okay. Far too much nudity; several factual inaccuracies that Jaime did not care for at all. But Brienne Tarth was perfect. 

And today, he would get to meet her. 

The line pitched forward, and the Lannister brothers entered the exhibition centre. The cast and crew of Oathkeeper were sat at a string of tables on the east side; queues already forming for autographs and selfies. Tyrion pointed at the furthest table. “There she is. Margaery Tyrell.”

“And Jon Snow beside her. He looks confused.”

“Probably can’t remember what show he’s on.” They shared a laugh. The Wolf King and the White Walkers were the most boring storyline on Oathkeeper in Jaime’s opinion. “And there’s your least favourite person.” 

“I’d give up my entire inheritance to see Cersei at a convention, but I don’t think that’s her.” Tyrion rolled his eyes and pointed at the table closest to them; sitting behind it was the actor who played Goldenhand. Hyle Hunt. “Oh, that least favourite person. Smith save us all, he’s terrible. I don’t know why they haven’t fired him. He can’t act. And he has no chemistry with Brienne. None.”

“You know, I think I might have heard this before. Was it the critical reviews of last season? The online fan boards?” Tyrion tapped his thumb and forefinger on his chin. “No, I think it was you during every episode.”

Jaime glared at his brother. “Don’t you have Margaery Tyrell to meet?” 

His brother grinned. “That I do. Meet back here when we’re done? We can have a look at the stalls before the photo ops.” Jaime nodded. “Fare thee well, Goldenhand. Go get your maiden.”

He flipped his brother the finger; Tyrion cackling as joined the throng of people desperate to meet the beauty playing Queen Rose. Jaime had no interest in Margaery Tyrell. Or, in fact, any of the other actors from Oathkeeper signing at the convention that day. He only had eyes for Brienne Tarth. Fuck. Jaime wiped his damp hand on his historically accurate breeches and tried to recall his plan of what to say. He’d been practising it in the mirror for months ever since Tyrion had sent him a link to the con. At least he’d have some time to wait in the queue to collect himself. 

But, as Jaime approached Brienne Tarth’s table, he saw that no one was waiting. Margaery Tyrell had a ticketing system attached to her signing. Even Hyle fucking Hunt had a queue of ten people. But no one wanted to talk to the woman playing the first female knight. Fuck that. 

Jaime approached the desk. Up close, he could see the freckles adorning her cheeks in a way that an HD television could never represent; the white scar above her lip that they covered with make-up. And when she lifted her head, bemusement crossing her features at his presence, he realised that Brienne’s eyes really were that blue. Fuck. 

“Hello,” she greeted, and Jaime lost all power of thought and speech. “Would you like an autograph?” 

He wet his top lip, struggling for the words. All he could think was blue. “Yes,” he managed to get out. “Yes, I would.” 

Jaime handed her assistant a twenty dragon note. He’d intended to get the scabbard signed, but instead, he looked at the array of stills in front of Brienne. All were group shots; some of the cast, two of her and Hyle. None of Lady Alysanne. He frowned. “Do you have any stills of just you?”

This time it was Brienne’s turn to lose the power of speech. She glanced at the photographs in front of her, muttering to herself, “No one really—” before cutting off her sentence and turning to her assistant. “Podrick, do we have those stills from last season?”

“I think so; let me check.”

Podrick, good lad that he was, produced a slim stack of production shots of Lady Alysanne: one at Queen Rose’s wedding, and one in her blue armour; a gift from Goldenhand. Jaime chose the armoured picture. Brienne beamed, and warmth spread through him at the sight of her smile. “That’s my favourite, too. What’s your name?”

“Jaime.”

Brienne laughed, immediately clamping her hand over her mouth as she did so. Her blue eyes widened; her hand resting upon his wrist in a gentle touch. “I am so sorry; I didn’t mean to–it’s just, you’re dressed as Goldenhand, and canonically, Goldenhand’s name was—”

“Jaime Lannister, I know.” He grinned, staring down more than once at Brienne’s hand on his wrist. “I’m named after him. And you’re named after the Blue Knight.” 

At that, Brienne retreated, leaning backwards in her seat. “I’ve never said that in any interviews.” 

“You didn’t need to. I know my history. Better than the Oathkeeper producers that’s for sure.”

Brienne snorted, betraying her own opinion, but quickly composed herself as she scribbled on the still of Lady Alysanne. She handed Jaime his autograph. “I really like your cosplay, Jaime.”

“And I really like you—” Fuck, Jaime, don’t be weird. “—your portrayal of Lady Alysanne. She’s my favourite character.” 

Behind him, someone cleared their throat. A couple of people had joined Brienne’s queue, now; group stills requiring Brienne’s signature clutched in their hands. Jaime nodded at Brienne and left her to continue signing. When he was out of the pit, he looked at the autograph Brienne had given and grinned.  

To Ser Jaime, 

You are truly a knight of the Seven Kingdoms; thank you for your bravery in approaching my table when few else would. Enjoy Season 3.

Lady Brienne of Tarth

Jaime couldn’t stop smiling, even when Tyrion returned clutching his own autograph.