#I think it’s decently long

[cyber-streak-extra]

:) The ITP: Happy Ending AU was made by @maraariana01

Title: A Fun Time... Only For The Bear

Description: Ralpho and Oswald’s time with Funtime Freddy quickly worsens——especially for the rabbit. Spring Bonnie searches.

(TW: Blood)

(TW: Injury)

Spring Bonnie flinched, sitting upright on the couch now, rather than leaning against the back of it. Quickly, the bunny began to look around—and at himself.

Both remnant and agony were leaking from him—but he barely paid that any attention. Instead, first, he stared down at his hands. They were shaking.

However, he noticed a lack of anything red on them—and Spring Bonnie relaxed ever so slightly. He didn’t have any blood. There wasn’t any blood on him.

Yet the bunny wasn’t calmed entirely. Oswald! Ralpho! Spring Bonnie hurriedly began looking around further. And, thankfully, it didn’t take too long to spot them both.

They were both beside him on the couch. Ralpho was laying down, his eyes closed. Spring Bonnie knew that he could sleep, but he wasn’t sure if he was or not.

It wasn’t that hard to find where Oswald was. The boy was laying across the rabbit’s stomach. And while he wasn’t sure about Ralpho, he knew Oswald was asleep—he could hear him snoring.

Spring Bonnie glanced at the TV, and then back at them. The three had settled for watching a movie together—but it hadn’t been a rom-com. Instead, it had been an action movie that Oswald liked.

Moving closer, the bunny gently hugged them both—not wanting to wake either of them up. Yet, a moment after he started the hug, Ralpho’s eyes opened.

Spring Bonnie didn’t notice anything until he heard the rabbit speak. “Honey Bun?”

The bunny pulled away from the hug, but he remained right by Ralpho’s side. Spring Bonnie messed with his coat for a moment, unsure what to do. He was just relieved.

Ralpho slowly sat himself up, though he kept the sleeping Oswald right where he was, adjusting the boy slightly. He didn’t want to wake him, either.

“Everything fine, Springy?” Ralpho questioned, ears twitching slowly.

He watched the bunny start writing—although he was trying to keep the remnant and agony from staining the paper.

“Did you have a nightmare?” Ralpho added after a moment. He’d never seen the bunny sleep, but he still figured that all of this was possible.

Spring Bonnie paused for a moment. Then, he erased whatever he had already been writing, and began writing something else. Ralpho waited.

“Not really. But, it felt like one.” Spring Bonnie wrote. He was never all that sure on how to explain what happened. He had them every now and then, but he never fully explained it.

He had flashbacks—flashbacks of what happened back at the pizzeria when he had used him. And they were just that—flashbacks. Typically.

The flashbacks already weren’t the greatest—but every so often, something in them would be different. Oswald would be there. He’d see him. He’d see... Ralpho there, too. He’d see both of them.

They felt like nightmares—from what he knew about them—but they weren’t. They weren’t.

“Something... bad happened. Something bad happened to you and Oswald.” The bunny added after a moment. He saw them both hurt. He saw them both motionless.

He remembered their faces before they were motionless—they both had looked confused. Terrified. Hurt. The kids—Ralpho—Oswald—none of them had seen him. They just saw him.

Ralpho frowned. He moved a little closer, wrapping an arm around Spring Bonnie—the other was being used to keep the sleeping Oswald in place.

“I’m here, Honey Bun. Oz is, too.” He glanced down at the boy, before back up at Spring Bonnie. “I’m okay, he’s okay. We’re both okay.” He’d never been the greatest at comforting—but he wanted to get better for the bunny.

“Honey Bun, nothing bad’ll happen to us,” He tried to reassure him. Ralpho moved closer, giving Spring Bonnie a kiss on the cheek. “We’re A-OK, Springy.”

Spring Bonnie leaned against Ralpho. I’m glad you are. The bunny’s ears lowered ever so slightly. I don’t know what I would do if something like that happened.

...

Gripping the hat tightly, Spring Bonnie managed to make himself stand up. He glanced towards the building. He made his way towards the front door.

As he opened the door, he had to bend down to actually get inside—and while doing so, Spring Bonnie placed the hat over his ears, placing it on his head. He wouldn’t lose it that way.

Looking around, he almost didn’t see anyone—but Jeff popped up from behind the counter. What he was doing didn’t matter to Spring Bonnie. He made his way to the man.

After hearing heavy footsteps, Jeff looked up. He blinked at the distressed bunny. “What do you want?” The man tiredly asked.

Spring Bonnie stood there, hurriedly writing something on the notepad, before turning it to the man. It was stained with agony and remnant, but it was still readable.

“Who came here?”

The man sighed. “Nobody, really. Except for that boy of yours, and that rabbit, too.” He shrugged a little bit. “Why?”

He watched with a frown as Spring Bonnie began writing again—this time, a little faster. He also watched the remnant and agony drip onto the floor.

“Did you hear or see anything strange?” Spring Bonnie held onto the counter, ears twitching.

Jeff thought about it for a moment, before nodding. “Uh... yeah, I did. About an hour ago or so, I think.”

Spring Bonnie’s grip on the counter tightened at what he heard next. “Heard some noises- some laughter. Went out to go check, and I saw this broken bear leaving with some people.”

...

The giggling bear tightened his grip around Ralpho’s neck. The rabbit didn’t need to breathe, but it still hurt. “Trying to protect Little Ocelot, hm?” The bear spoke in his glitchy voice.

For a moment, he glanced between the rabbit in his grasp and the boy. “Oz!” Ralpho looked, too. “You need t-“ He was silenced when the bear slammed him down.

Lifting Ralpho back up into the air, Funtime Freddy continued. “Maybe I should kill you first, Stuffy Rabbit. That way, I can choose a way for Little Ocelot without you bothering me!”

Funtime Freddy hummed thoughtfully. He looked back down at where he was keeping Oswald. “Say, Little Ocelot... what do you do with a stuffed animal? What should you do?” He smirked.

“L... Love them?”

“Wrong!” Funtime Freddy cackled. “You shouldn’t do that! Instead, Little Ocelot, you should tear them apart!”

“W-What are you-“ Ralpho yelped as he was slammed against the nearby wall. Funtime Freddy kept him in place with his hand-less arm.

Funtime Freddy was giggling excitedly as he reached down with his hand, and grabbed Ralpho’s entire left leg. His grip was tight.

The bear began tugging and pulling. Ralpho gasped. The rabbit tried pushing Funtime Freddy away from him—tried breaking free from his grasp—but it was useless.

He only stopped for a moment when Oswald started rushing over, wanting to try and help Ralpho—only to get shoved away by Funtime Freddy. He returned his focus on the orange rabbit.

“I’ve heard that rabbit’s have lucky feet...” He giggled, his massive grin growing. “I wonder if the whole leg is, too...”

Funtime Freddy tugged. He tugged. He pulled. After a few seconds...

Ralpho screamed. He screamed. his eyes widening and filling with tears that were already beginning to spill. Blood spilled out after the final tug, getting all over the ground.

Funtime Freddy just laughed. It was like music to his ears—he’d never heard someone scream like this before. It sounded so great. It made him laugh again.

Ralpho had felt pain before. He’d felt it before—like when his arm got torn once—that ended up stinging. Despite his previous interactions with pain, he’d never felt something like this.

Funtime Freddy looked away from the shaking rabbit, and towards Oswald. The boy was frozen, staring at the two, a hand over his mouth.

Looking back at the shaking rabbit, he dropped the leg on the ground. He’d pick it back up later—when he would leave. Maybe it would be a lucky thing.

“That was exciting!” Funtime Freddy felt like he was about to burst. His eyes glowed brighter. “But, Stuffy Rabbit, we still aren’t done!”

Loosening his grip, Funtime Freddy turned around, removing Ralpho from the wall. He threw him. Ralpho went a good distance, before landing on the floor, on his stomach.

“Ralpho!” Oswald finally moved again. He rushed over to the collapsed rabbit, sitting by his side. He wanted to do something—he needed to. But Oswald wasn’t sure if he could.

“H-Hey, Oz...” Ralpho sucked in a breath. He tried to smile at the boy, but it just quickly became a pained frown. He could hear Funtime Freddy approaching.

Lifting up a hand, he gently pushed Oswald back. “You... y-you should... get outta here, Oz...” He was sure that the boy could do it. He needed to get out. Get back to Spring Bonnie.

“But I- hey!” Oswald and Ralpho gasped when the boy was picked up by Funtime Freddy.

Ralpho struggled for a moment. He tried to get back up—tried to reach up to grab Oswald away from Funtime Freddy before the bear could do something. But, the rabbit fell back down.

The rabbit cried out in alarm when Funtime Freddy slammed one of his feet down onto his back, keeping him in place.

He moved Oswald around. He wrapped his arm around the boy—that way, he could actually use his hand while dealing with the orange rabbit.

Funtime Freddy reached down, and grabbed hold of Ralpho’s left arm. “Let’s have some more fun!”

...

It had happened again. He’d seen Ralpho and Oswald in a flashback again. After making sure that the two were fine, Spring Bonnie settled on going outside.

He was sitting on the ground, looking up at the stars in the sky, and thinking. He and Ralpho had stargazed before, so he was looking up there, trying to see if he saw anything.

Spring Bonnie’s ears twitched as he heard the front door open and close. “Hey, Honey Bun,” He felt himself start to heat up. He didn’t know where the name had suddenly come from.

Ralpho walked over, and sat down beside him. “You okay?” Spring Bonnie sat there, no longer looking up at the sky. He was staring at his hands. “Did you have another?”

Spring Bonnie was about to reach into his pocket to grab his notepad, but he paused. He’d forgotten that he wasn’t wearing his coat—it was back inside.

The bunny nodded. Looking away from his hands, he focused on Ralpho now.

Ralpho moved closer, and pulled the bunny into a side hug, resting his head against Spring Bonnie’s shoulder.

...

Funtime Freddy was beginning to tug the rabbit’s arm, giggling to himself and muttering things. However, he paused in confusion—he heard a noise.

Looking around, he, at first, didn’t notice anything. But then, he heard a noise again. Footsteps—loud, and rapidly approaching footsteps. They didn’t sound human.

Funtime Freddy stared long enough to see a shadow before anything actually entered. A bunny. The bear frowned. Spring Bonnie.

The bear stood there for a moment, looking around, debating on what he should do. It didn’t take him that long to make his decision.

Not wanting to deal with the bunny, Funtime Freddy dropped Oswald, and removed his foot from the collapsed orange rabbit. He looked around, trying to find something.

He spotted a door up ahead, and ran towards it—forgetting about the abandoned rabbit leg on the ground. Funtime Freddy glanced back. “See you later, Little Ocelot!~”

...

Spring Bonnie burst into the room. After asking around, he was thankful that enough people had spotted Funtime Freddy—enough to see where he was going.

The first thing the bunny saw upon entering the room was Oswald, who had run over towards the sound of the footsteps. Oswald! Spring Bonnie knelt down, pulling the boy closer.

The bunny started wiping at the remnant and agony that was leaking from his eyes. At the same time, Spring Bonnie began checking Oswald over, hoping that the bear hadn’t harmed him.

“S-Spring Bonnie,” Oswald backed away, shaking his head. “It- it’s not me. It’s Ralpho!” The partially relieved Oswald—who still had a lot of concern in him—pointed to the side.

Ralpho? Spring Bonnie stood back up, and looked in the direction that his son was pointing. Blood. He saw blood. He saw a leg on the ground. He saw the rabbit on the ground. Ralpho!

He paid no attention to the leaking agony and remnant—there would be no point in wiping it away—and rushed over to where the collapsed Ralpho was. Oswald followed.

Spring Bonnie fell to his knees beside Ralpho. Carefully, he turned Ralpho over, keeping one hand against the rabbit’s back, and the other against his stomach.

Ralpho stared up at him. “H-Honey Bun?” His smile was a mix of pain and happiness. “Yo-... you look good i-in my h-hat, y’know...?” He let out a pained groan, and his smile faded.

“Oz... Oz is okay, Honey Bun...”

But you aren’t. Spring Bonnie made sure to be careful as he stood back up, holding the rabbit bridal style. He was about to grab the leg, only to notice that Oswald had.

The bunny began making his way out of the building with Ralpho in his arms, and his son by his side.

...

On the way back to the house—which had taken a while, thanks to Spring Bonnie not being able to take car, Oswald had explained the situation to the bunny.

Upon the three’s arrival, they were greeted with a worried Jackie. She’d been trying to contact Oswald, only to become concerned, and she drove back home.

Ralpho was laying down on the couch. After a much more quick explanation to her, Jackie had searched around, and settled on trying to stitch the rabbit’s leg back on.

The entire time, Spring Bonnie sat beside Ralpho, holding the rabbit’s hand in an attempt to comfort him—both of them, really. He’d never seen Ralpho in pain before. He’d wiped away the rabbit’s noticeable tears.

He didn’t want to see him like this again. He didn’t want to see any of them like this.

“...Done,” Spring Bonnie’s ears twitched at Jackie’s tired voice, and he glanced at her. “I’ve done as best as I can for him.” The bunny nodded.

“He should stay laying down for a while.”

And with that, he watched Jackie leave—taking Oswald with her into her room. She wanted to check him over—even if Spring Bonnie already had. Just in case the bunny may have missed something.

It was only the bunny and the rabbit now.

Ralpho opens his eyes, and glances at Spring Bonnie, when he feels the grip on his hand tighten. His ears twitched, hitting against the sides of his returned hat.

Looking at Spring Bonnie, he noticed the bunny starting to leak again. “Spring...” Ralpho started.

Spring Bonnie didn’t let go of Ralpho’s hand. Instead, he used his free one to grab his notepad and start writing. Ralpho patiently waited.

“Oswald isn’t hurt, you protected him. Thank you, Ralpho.” It took him longer to write using just one hand. Remnant and agony was still dripping, but he was trying to keep it away from the pages.

“But you’re hurt. You were hurt. He hurt you.” Spring Bonnie’s grip on the pen tightened, and his ears lowered. “I should’ve been there. I should’ve been there to keep you safe. Both of you. To stop him.”

“Spring...”

“I’m sorry.”

“Spring.” Ralpho moved a little closer to the bunny. He placed a hand on the side of Spring Bonnie’s face. He was still hurting. But, it wasn’t as bad as earlier.

“It’s okay- I’m okay now, Oz is, too.” Ralpho started, giving him a little smile. “He...” The rabbit glanced towards his leg, “...did that, yeah. But...”

“Springy, you still saved us.” Ralpho put his other hand on the other side of Spring Bonnie’s face. “He was going to keep doing it- but you came in time. You saved us.”

“We’re okay, Honey Bun...” Ralpho hummed. He glanced back at his leg for just a second—he’d have to thank Jackie later. Although, he wasn’t sure how well his leg was right now.

“I’m right here, Spring. I’m not going anywhere,” Ralpho grinned, wincing ever so slightly in pain. “None of us are going anywhere.” Not Oswald. Not Jackie. Not Thomas. He was sure Fetch and Jinx wouldn’t, either.

The cat didn’t seem to like the bunny... but still.

Before Ralpho could say something else, he was—gently—pulled into a hug by the leaking bunny. Ralpho hugged back. But for a moment, he pulled away.

He looked at Spring Bonnie with a gentleness in his eyes. “I love you, Honey Bun.” Ralpho murmured, before planting a kiss on the bunny’s mouth.

For a moment, Spring Bonnie’s ears went up, and he could feel himself starting to heat up again. He returned the kiss.

After they separated, Ralpho rested his head against Spring Bonnie’s shoulder. The bunny wrapped his arms back around the rabbit. Both tails were slowly beginning to wag—Ralpho’s more than Spring Bonnie’s.

I love you, too. Spring Bonnie smiled, shutting his eyes.

[kcrra]

it makes me literally sick to think about alicent's relationship to her children. like. they are all she has. she loves them more than anything and hates them just as much. each of them is a shackle around her neck. they are her babies even though she was a baby herself, forced to be their mother. she'll pick up a knife for them. they are her living prison. everything she ever does is for them. their very existence makes her sick. she understands them and yet doesn't know them at all. they are her future. they stole her past.

she was 15 years old tethered to a rotting body of a man entirely against her will, watching each of her children invade her body as a result of martial rape. how were they ever supposed to have a normal relationship!!!!!!!

[bacchuschucklefuck]

they licensed his ass

my finished piece of the FWMS (official name definitely 100%) thing we started a few days ago! I had fun I hope folks had and/or continue to have fun with the sketch as well.

[keferon]

…here’s a bunch of Blurrs👍

[chiliyue-archived]

cause i love to love, to love, to love you

↬ in which you have him all lovesick and smiles

includes; dazai, chūya, atsushi, fyodor

notes; i am gonna pretend i didn’t disappear for 2-3 months. this has been in my drafts for so long :( i tried to clean it up as much as i could but it’s really old jfjdks

DAZAI

dazai appears happy. present tense.

his typical inquiries for double suicides came to lessen to conscious degree, substituting in drinking sake together when the sun cowers, nothing but a string of nonsensical chatter proceeding each sip.

he was sticky like that: unannounced visits, impromptu phone calls, sudden changes in his schedule to accommodate yours. in any case, he isn’t one to shy from stooping as low as whining if it rewards him with your familiar face.

( his windpipes splinter before he could mutter it out loud, but the solitude that’s wedged deep in his bones for so long felt lighter when you were near. he questions how long such benevolence would last before becoming sullied by his hand… ).

…and yet all things considered, it hasn’t deterred him from courting you nonetheless. at times he can’t help but think he’s taken a bite of his own medicine when he’s the one skipping around like a helpless maiden.

and yet again in spite of it all, his brazenness remains perpetually untouched as ever. he entertains different approaches if only to coax out a new reaction from you and he’s not bashful in the slightest. so much so, he remains unruffled even under the scrutiny of your coworkers.

. . .

“ this is highly unprofessional.”

“ don’t be so mean, bella. don’t you know how much i missed you?”

your eyes flit down to the man currently using your lap as a headrest, the rest of his body stretching over the expanse of the couch. he was shameless, that much was certain, but his ability to remain unperturbed whilst in his lovey dovey state was impressive. you cocked a brow, sighing.

“ osamu.” his lips visually twitched at the call of his name; it’s a word warm on your tongue but leaves the hairs on his nape at your mercy anyway. " you saw me fifteen minutes ago—”

“ twenty.” he corrected, cheeky (and quite frankly, you wouldn’t be surprised if he pulled that number out his ass). “ but it was the longest twenty minutes of my life.”

he was unrepentant as ever, experimentally positioning his head to rest on the plush on your thighs. by muscle memory, he began to absently draw shapes wherever he could reach, a crude rendition of stars decorating over the bend of your knee.

he smiles innocently when you squint at him, the gleam in his eyes unwavering. “ only a couple more minutes and i would have been yours,” you mutter out, your voice not as sturdy as you hoped. “ at home.”

dazai almost turns pouty at that. almost. “ but my love, i’ve missed you like crazy. twenty minutes is too long, how can i possibly manage?” the words come out through a breathy exhale and you watch as his lashes kiss his cheeks when he flutters them closed. “ all i could think about is you. and now i have you right here.” he hopes his words carry as much truth as the way his heart does, scurrying away the cold that's mocked him for so long. “ can’t we just stay like this a little longer? pretty please?”

resigned to your fate, you could only clamor your palms over your features— if only to salvage your waning dignity from your coworkers.

unfortunate though… that in doing so you miss the blissful smile curling on his lips as he peeks at you from below. and atsushi notes(after throughly grimacing, not expecting him to be so blunt), it reaches his eyes too.

CHŪYA

" chūya-"

" you can't flirt with me. i have a partner."

terse, stubborn and slurred. if the groggy voice wasn’t enough to confirm your suspicions, the shit-face look belonging to your boyfriend did. he was drunk. wasted if you were to speak bluntly.

in truth, it really doesn’t come off as much of a surprise; his ability to hold his liquor was nothing to brag of (despite what he may profusely argue) and you’re half-convinced he’s already forgotten his own name.

still, you don’t loosen your grip on his sleeve even under the figurative holes he’s burned with his stare. “ chūya. i am your partner.”

“you—! wha-!” his voice erupts into a sudden warble, eyes akin to saucers. " you… you are??"

he takes what’s left of his thinning rationality to study you proper; the style of your hair, your clothing, the smell of perfume/cologne, the familiar quirk of your lips—

oh, he thinks as you push back the loose bangs veiling his face. he doesn’t make any attempts to move, feet stalled and eyes blinking, evidently stunned.

you decide to press on. “ do i look familiar now…?” the lilit of your voice grazes against his ear, plucking out a faint memory tucked somewhere in the crevice of his fuzzy head.

oh. he thinks twice, the stern look bruising his face thawing.

without realizing it, he squares his shoulders in any attempt to remedy his current disheveled appearance, slumped posture pulled taut in— what he hopes— was a more put together frame. conversely, he wobbles on his feet when you continue to eat away at the distance, the ghost of your touch pushing pinpricks into his skin.

“ you’re- you’re really all mine…?” he cringes as soon as it leaves his mouth, coming off eager and hopeful. something like a laugh escapes you and he can’t tell if that’s what made his stomach turn or the alcohol. perhaps both.

“ that’s what i’ve been trying to tell you. you’re so stubborn when you’re drunk.” you punctuate the words with a kiss to his cheek, now warm with revelation. chūya, exhausting the last bits of his energy, shrinks beneath it, a gloved hand clutching his reddened face defensively.

“ why haven’t i made you my spouse yet?” he remarks it so suddenly, you nearly choke on air. he can’t even comprehend what you say thereafter or register the look beginning to contort your features, nothing but liquid courage keeping him afloat.

but- well, if there’s anything the haze trotting his head and his thinning cognition could agree on, it’s that your ring finger appears a little too barren for his liking.

( but not for much longer, he hopes )

ATSUSHI

the sudden change in atsushi’s behavior was a notable observation within the ADA, many of whom watched as the weretiger became stupefied by a face belonging to you. it wasn’t long before concluding it was all the result of a crush; the culprit of which being atsushi himself who played his hand poorly at discretion.

the lovesick chatter would leave his mouth without much rationality, waxing of "[name] this" or "[name] that," and effectively becoming on the receiving end of his praises. it was almost a routine of sorts, occupied by stutters, belated responses and his fidgety footfalls. by the end of it, he fruitlessly attempts to steady his rabbiting heart— if only to stop his blush from staining beyond his cheeks.

even now as he silhouettes by the agency door, the rattle of rain is deafened by the rush of blood to his ears. he anxiously worries the handle of the umbrella in his palms, bouncing from one sole of his feet to the other. should he just ask you? maybe he should wait… now that he thinks about it would be more appropriate to just leav—

“ damn it.” he perks at your sound of displeasure, his heart spiking. “ so much for leaving in a hurry…” you stiffen, realizing you have nothing but a coat protect you from the weather. the flimsy jacket you hurriedly plucked from your wardrobe only added flavor to your disappointment.

atsushi doesn’t miss the opportunity; his feet carries him to you before the unpleasant voice lurking deep in his subconscious bullies him otherwise. “ we can share,” he gestures to his own, silently praying his voice was leveled. it wobbles anyway and by now his knuckles are sheen white as a product of his nerves.

with the organ jumping around in his chest, he almost doesn’t register your ‘thank you,’ only that his fingers were quickly undoing the straps of the umbrella before you could change your mind ( he impulsively bought it earlier that day— his previous pair worned out and far too tiny for two people. but when you thank him with a kind smile, hands slightly brushing with each step, he argues it was the best 800 yen he’s ever spent ).

… that said, a more appropriate question is how you managed to remain naive to all his pining for so long— he’s become despairingly obvious against his own good and yet he can’t find it in himself to change himself, a perpetual lovesick look copy and pasted whenever you entered his proximity.

the same can't be said to everyone else however and he wasn’t particularly pleased when he caught wind of the bets exchanged among his treacherous colleagues. he fears it's only a matter of time before one of them blabs their tongue to you. at this rate, perhaps one of them should.

. . .

" y'know atsushi," ranpo once said, offering his companion a gleaming simper. " you reallllyyy talk about [name] a lot."

"oh.”

his heart flutters, eyes slowly blinking.

" yeah,” he smiles. “ i guess i do.”

FYODOR

" you've been awfully quiet, my dear." fyodor’s voice was just loud enough over the sound of clashing cutlery, fixing you a gaze of genuine interest. " is the meal not to your liking?"

you feel your lips twist into a frown. for being attentive, he (for once) falsely saunters pass the source of your displeasure, failing to recognize the extent of your internal woes. " no- no-" you fidget with your fingers, ignoring the way your propped elbows skidded against the table. the behaviour doesn't go unnoticed by the former, who takes it upon himself to hook his index fingers with yours. “ there’s something i’ve been meaning to ask of you. a… request of sorts.”

“ what is it? i’ll have it shipped to you by the end of the week,” he offers generously though it quickly fades into a confused hum when you shake your head at the proposition.

" it isn’t something you can buy…” you drop your gaze from him to the scantly poked portions of cuisine on your plate. fearing he may misinterpret your words and assume it to be unattainable - perhaps gifting you something ludicrous as a piece of land - you amended quickly. " it’s not what you assume to be either.”

at that, he bums questioningly. “ then what displeases you, my darling?” he provides a faint squeeze to your hand, igniting something warm and paradoxical to his thin layer of frigid skin. “ what can i offer to rid you that frown?”

" just your company.”

" my company?"

" yes." perplexed, he cocks his head; an invitation. willing an inhale to your lungs, you took a moment to gather possession of your words. “ these days you've been rather occupied. i was hoping for perhaps… if we may spend some time together?"

fyodor appears vaguely surprised by that, something unfamiliar fortifying around him. requesting his time felt like a hefty expenditure just in itself and it wasn’t too far fetched to assume he’ll disregard it in favor of some plot embellishing deep within his brain. but a swift refusal never comes.

“ i see,” he finally says after a brief pause. his voice was so soft you wondered if it was meant for you to hear.

it's grows quiet before he speaks again, the fingers curled around your hand withdrawing but not before providing the tips a delicate squeeze. " i can arrange some time tomorrow for you,” he proffers. “ will that satisfy your request, myshka?"

hardly anything can catch fyodor off guard, but something had to be said in the way you brightened at the suggestion, a deep curve coasting over your lips. how pleasant you are.

" yes," you hastily replied, dipping your head slightly. " more than perfect. thank you."

the way your lineaments crossed into a smile was always enduring to observe — exasperated, but one he wouldn’t mind seeing tomorrow knowing he was the cause for such elation.

( idly, he wonders what he can do to see it again ).

A/N !

i’ve been meaning to post this for months but it’s so old & i never quite (and still kinda don’t) liked it :(( fyodor’s is bit ooc jfjdkskla

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[dollypopup]

I get why people would think it but

Colin is NOT a rake. Colin is a young man trying to figure out his identity and what he likes sexually and trying to understand what the men of his society talk about and do. He's not out here messing around with women just to string them along and then leave them. He's trying to fit in and has been made fun of for being a virgin so yeah, he rectifies that by having sex, but just because he slept with a few women, that doesn't make him a rake? You wanna know who an actual rake in the series is?

Fife.

Because what the fuck happened to Miss Goring? I think about her sometimes and my heart aches for her. Her first season out, she's an 18 year old woman, and an older, titled man of her society who she assumes to be a proper gentleman makes her believe their relationship can actually be something, messes around with her the entire season, and then fucks her in a linen closet at a ball only to....what? Come back the next year with absolutely no mention of her whatsoever. Did she get pregnant? Was sent off in disgrace? Have to marry someone else?

Fife is a 30 year old man who has a bad habit of hounding after young, vulnerable women in his society. He fucks them and leaves them. He's a rake. Colin? Colin is not even close to that. Say what you will about the brothel scenes, but that IS the responsible place for a man of his time to go to for sex. Please stop demonizing sex work. Yes, many of these women are in that line of work because of less than savory reasons, but Colin is not taking advantage of them. He is paying for a service and they are providing that service. It is transactional, and he is the LEAST of their concerns in terms of clientele. A kind, handsome man who pays well and is discrete? Yeah, they're fine with him.

Colin has a history of respecting women. He respected Marina all throughout their courtship, and even after. I know some people sneer at him coming to see Marina, but please keep in mind she is a woman on her own who married a stranger far away from ANYONE who knew her. Colin was worried about Daphne when she came to him, asking if anything happened when she was away and clearly ready to fight for her, so of course he's worried about Marina. Partly he visits her for his own closure, but also like....y'all that's a WELLNESS visit. He's concerned that she's unhappy, but ultimately leaves because she's not hurt and that she tells him to. Colin listens to 'no' from the women around him. He asks for permission from them. He waited for Penelope's consent sexually, but he also didn't even get into the carriage until she allowed him. He even asks "Please, let me in".

Colin lives in a time when women do not have many rights, and he listens to the women around him even more than the men. He is the only one of his siblings to ask for his mum's advice and immediately takes it and takes action. He brings Eloise back a feminist text from his travels, even after she's besmirched as a radical, because he supports her pursuits. In season 2, he also knew of her going to the printers and didn't say anything. He has always respected and cared for Penelope. He hasn't insulted a single woman in his vicinity. He doesn't make the women he flirts with feel bad about themselves, or feel less, but compliments them, all whilst keeping respectable distance so as not to make them think he's interested in marrying them. He doesn't dance with any woman but Penelope in that season.

Colin isn't a rake. He's not a fuckboy. He's trying to act like he is, emulating the circle of his society, but that doesn't mean he is. I swear people just WANT to misinterpret him because that's the easiest way, but Colin is a character who doesn't lend well to surface level readings. He's a nuanced, gentle hearted character who has been looked down on for his sensitivity. He's a deeply relatable person because who of us haven't pretended to be accepted? Especially if we've been bullied or excluded. I know I have. Put on a persona for the sake of survival. And he does so for what? A few weeks? That does not a fuckboy make.

Just say you don't want to understand him and move along because those of us who get him GET HIM. And I'm grateful for a character like Colin.

He's the best man in the series by an entire mile and you can't change my mind about that.

[ganondoodle]

random (human) demise gesture sketch turned painting

(and version without bg)

[ladyloveandjustice]

Rewatching some episodes of Avatar in my sick state...and man, that silent sequence with Zuko where he sneaks into the Northern Water tribe is still like, the coolest thing. I remember being so impressed with it as a kid because it really made you feel the struggle he was going through to not freeze to death and it was so rare for cartoons to have totally silent sequences like that (minus Zuko briefly yelling at animals) where you were just feeling nothing but the intensity of the life and death struggle. It also just gets across how relentless and tenacious he is, entirely visually.

There's kind of the anime influence there because kids cartoons at the time were all bangbang next piece of dialogue, whereas a Ghibli movie would trust itself to be engaging enough that you could just sit with what the animation was saying.

Plus it was just such a cool firebending effect with the breath of fire and his hands heating up and breaking through the ice...

It's such a small sequence, but it just kind of captures what made the show special, in a way, and I think that kind of sticks with me.

[jovieinramshackle]

It's done omgomgogfndasfdjdsreg4y4wsdpdksdreagbsad

IT'S DONE.

Sorry I've been working on this on and off for MONTHS and it's finally done OMG.

Anyways the song Collared by Vane reminded me a lot of my little guy Rollo so ofc I went ham with this drawing

(Screenshot I redrew)

tagging: @ramshacklerumble @thehollowwriter @summerspook @scint1llat3 @skriblee-ksk

@cyanide-latte @twistedwonderlandshenanigans (lmk/dm if you wanna be added)

[silverskye13]

Helsknight showing up bloody at Welsknight’s base please I need suffering 🙏

There was something to be said about the stupid things he was willing to do in the name of self preservation. Damn his fears, and the unfairness of the universe, and the uncertainty of living [and dying] and everything else. The unknown had always been his greatest weakness, his greatest betrayer. Pity it was also one of the few inescapable things about living in general.

To say Helsknight stepped into Hermitcraft would be a terrible injustice of what stepping normally, let alone gracefully, looked like. What he actually did was stagger and drag himself into Hermitcraft on unsteady and shaking limbs. There were holes in him. He hadn't really taken inventory of them yet. Admitting he had a wound [or several] was enough. The minute he admitted the wounds were bad, in certain terms his mind could comprehend, was the minute shock would steal his senses. He was on Hermitcraft for the specific reason of dodging death, and it seemed to him shock, on any level, meant dying. If he wanted to die and roll the dice of respawn, he would have died in hels, in the alley he'd been jumped in, where he could at least take comfort in familiar cobblestones and the knowledge he'd dragged all his attackers down with him. But he didn't want to die, so he was here.

It was dark. He was inside a building. He was bleeding. Wels was nearby. Those were the only things he needed to know for certain. Helsknight looked around, trying to ignore the sluggish tilt his vision offered when he moved too quickly. The double vision of trying to parse memories of a place that weren't his battled with his wounded animal double vision and together they made him feel nauseous, more so than his wounding already did. Helsknight balled a fist against his sternum, like he could hold himself together that way, and concentrated very hard on walking and nothing else.

Helsknight didn't like being this close to Wels. Not while he was this injured. He could feel the awareness of his other half like a spider on his skin. There was a reflex-like urge to shout and try to shake it off, the instinct-like certainty that if it rested on him long enough it would find a reason to bite him. And he knew, in the way only experience could teach, that if he could feel Wels, Wels could feel him. Helsknight had the sensation of walking a tightrope: his body insisted speed was the only thing that could save him, while his mind insisted he must stay unnoticed. He must balance necessity with making his thoughts and emotions small, and it was hard work to do when he was losing blood.

Helsknight blinked slowly, tiredly. He picked a direction and walked, a hand pressed to the wall, keeping himself upright. Wels's potion room was nearby, a borrowed half-memory informed him, he just had to get there. He searched his drifting thoughts for a poem to repeat in his head, to keep fear and uncertainty from rising. His heartbeat was quickening, a symptom of something; panic, or fear, or blood loss, or all three combined. He was fixing one of those things. He needed to carefully manage the other two, before Wels felt them. The only poem he could think of was in Middle English, and mostly gibberish to him, which told him it came from Wels's memories somewhere.

Why have ye no routhe on my child?

Have routhe on me ful of mourning;

Tak doun o rode my derworth child,

Or prik me o rode with my derling!

[Rhyming child with child was a lazy, but this was written back when one could convincingly spell "down" as "doun" so he supposed he shouldn't be overly critical. The real trick was figuring out if "derling" was supposed to mean "darling", or some other archaic word lost to time. He could only figure out so much from context clues. "Mourning" apparently transcended centuries, and that seemed fitting. Everyone knew mourning, in some form or another.]

An ache opened up beneath his clenched fist, or it had always been there, and his body was only just now reinforcing the fact that it was important. It felt like the mother of all cramps in his muscles, and he stubbornly pretended that's what it was. He needed more potassium in his diet or something, and the gods would forgive him the smear he left on the wall when he leaned on it, waiting on the intensity of his pain to ebb. The doorway he was walking towards seemed close, but also very, very far. Closing distance with it was going a lot slower than he thought it would, and it was only one short hallway. He was glad he'd decided to do this, instead of his other half-considered option of attempting to walk across hels to the Colosseum. He wouldn't have made it.

Dread pooled in his stomach. Dread, and other more physical things, like blood, probably, but he pretended the dread bit was more important. He could feel Wels pricking on his skin again, an insistent spider twitching at a breath on his web. Helsknight breathed out the steadiest breath he could manage.

More pine ne may me ben y-don

Than lete me live in sorwe and shame;

As love me bindëth to my sone,

So let us deyen bothe y-same.

[Sorwe. What medieval idiot thought "sorrow" was spelled like "sorwe"? Maybe it had something to do with inflection. Poetry was half words, half rhythm. Maybe "sorwe" was supposed to indicate they wanted the reader to pronounce "sorrow" as a single syllable, so it sounded more like "sore". That's also probably why "bothe y-same" was sitting there like word vomit. They meant "both the same", but wanted it read without a pause between the first two words. It was really the method for the madness that mattered with poetry.]

Helsknight blinked. He was in the potion room. He couldn't fully remember the walk down the hallway, but that didn't matter. What mattered was there should be health potions in here somewhere, his salvation. Relief edged his vision in stars, and he once again felt Wels's attention cant in his direction, confused and curious. Wels didn't associate feelings of relief with Helsknight. It wasn't an emotion they felt in each other's presence, and it was far too strong to be muffled by the distance to hels.

[He knows I'm here.]

Helsknight opened a chest and rifled through it. His vision was protesting. Stars and tilting that would turn to spinning soon made a clutter of his eyes. It got hard to distinguish the colors of the stoppered bottles. He picked up one that felt overly warm to his cold and shaking fingers. He was pretty sure it was a health potion. It felt too hot, but he reminded himself he was cold from losing blood, so it should feel hot. Hesitantly removed his fist from where it was balled in front of his sternum, and let his eyes unfocus when he grasped the bottle's stopper. His hands were so unsteady, it took a couple tries just to grab it, and when he pulled on the cork, his fingers slipped off weakly. He tried again, eyes closed with concentration, pouring every ounce of his strength into the act of pulling a stopper out of a bottle, only for his hand to slip right off again.

Frustrated, nearing desperate, he looked down at himself for a clean place to wipe his hand on his tunic. It was a mistake. He knew it as soon as he did it. His eyes were inexorably drawn from the fabric to the poke-holes in it, to the wine-dark stain that flowed down his front and still dripped tak-tak-tak slow and inexorable onto the floor. It was a woeful amount of blood. He was honestly surprised he wasn't dead yet. Chalk it up to fortitude, and ignorance, and size. He had more blood to lose than some people did.

Helsknight's world suddenly gave an awful twist, vertigo and the crescendoing, cramping agony of his wounds, only staved off by how his now shattered ignorance, kicking him off his feet just as surely as a horse could. He slumped against the wall, and then to the floor, and the awful jarring of it hurt him worse. Half a dozen other wounds on him aired their grievances, and the big one near his sternum pushed blood onto his fist when he clutched it. Helsknight sat pinned, unable to breathe for many long seconds, feeling a bit like he'd been struck by lightning. The pain was blinding and numbing and overwhelming all at once.

Why-- have no-- have ye no-- something something...

[Words. Breathe. Think of words.]

[Gods... But it hurts......]

Why have ye no routhe on my child?

Have routhe on me ful of mourning;

[And what the hels did "routhe" mean, anyway? He knew the word "route". He knew the name "Ruth". Neither of them fit, unless his bloodless brain was missing something. There was a chance "routhe" was supposed to be read like "bothe", as a double word slurred together, but that still left "routhe the" which made less sense in context than "routhe" did.]

Right. He was supposed to be doing something other than bleeding to death on the floor. Helsknight blinked, looked down at his hand and realized the health potion he'd grabbed was gone. He must have dropped it when he slumped over. Looking around, he spotted it just to the side of his left boot, unbroken, thankfully, but it might as well be a lifetime away for all the good it did him. Helsknight knew without a shadow of a doubt he couldn't reach it. The idea of tensing his muscles and dragging himself forward to reach was exhausting, and he hurt so much he knew the movement would feel like tearing himself in half, and there were just some things a mind couldn't power through. Helsknight laughed dismally and let his head fall onto his chest. Both motions were white hot agonies, but all his pains were starting to blur together into a smear of overwhelming sensation that took thought away. It occurred to him he was breathing too fast, like he'd run too far too fast, and his fluttering heartbeat agreed.

[... It hurts...]

[Gods and saints it hurts.]

[I'm dying.]

A feeling he could only describe as doom fell on his shoulders, a cold grasp of fear that wrapped stony hands around his heart and squeezed. He'd heard of this. Never felt it himself. The utter sureness that if he didn't do something now, he would die. All the unconscious bits in his body in charge of keeping him working all unanimously agreeing they needed divine intervention, preferably right now, before they started shutting down. It wasn't something he often had occasion to feel, though he had heard people tell of it after particularly grizzly matches and bloody tournaments. Death was normally too quick in the Colosseum, or else he'd won his match, and even if he was falling to pieces there was a health potion too close to hand to let him dwell on his harms. This was so terribly different. Death stalked toward him unhurried and unbothered, waiting on him to finish drowning in blood. He might panic, if he wasn't already so cold and scared.

"Ah. This makes some sense, anyway."

Helsknight, who had stopped seeing the world in front of himself without really closing his eyes, refocused his vision on the open doorway. Wels stood there, an angel of death in azure and silver, his sword in his hand. His eyes were the ruthless blue of hels freezing over and lifeless corpses, and Helsknight thought there was no one else in the world he would rather not watch him die. But the universe hated him, so here Wels was, just as surely as if he was fated.

"I didn't think all that fear could possibly be for me."

Helsknight tried to reply, but all he managed was a dying-animal noise that strangled itself out when he tried to breathe a little steadier. He tried again, and this time managed a very weak, but vaguely defiant, "Fuck off."

"Rude," Wels said chastisingly. A glow of something like smug satisfaction prickled Helsknight's skin. The feeling came from Wels. "Especially given I'm the only person who can save you."

Helsknight chuckled, and then stopped when his body seized painfully around the motion. "We both know you don't want to save me."

"No," Wels admitted. "But I don't want to do a lot of unpleasant things I agree to do anyway."

"How... charitable."

"It is a virtue."

"Sure."

Wels didn't move. Well, he did move, but only to sheath his sword. He crossed his arms and leaned against the door frame, the image of patience, as though they had all the time in the world.

[Hungry spider. Waiting on a web for something to struggle.]

"If you're waiting on me to beg," Helsknight informed him through staggering breaths, "I won't."

"Too prideful?"

Helsknight searched himself momentarily for pride, and came up short. Pride would've dictated he die in the alley, instead of here where Wels could lord it over him. This was something different than pride.

"No."

"Then why not?" Wels asked, raising an eyebrow. "It's easy. Just say, 'Welsknight, please give me a health potion'. Or if you're feeling monosyllabic, just 'please' will work."

Helsknight managed a smirk. "Why not help me out of the kindness of your heart?"

"I don't have any kindness for people like you."

[People like you. What a loaded phrase.]

Have ye no routhe on my child?

There was an entire philosophical debate that could happen in the phrase 'people like you' that Helsknight had neither the time or the energy to bother with. Besides, it was all words Wels knew. Wels pretended to be a chivalric knight. Chivalric knights helped the weak. Chivalric knights saved the defenseless. Helsknight, for all the grievances of his existence, was both right now. Then again, the chivalric knights were also supposed to make war against their enemies mercilessly, so he supposed Wels would be in his rights, as a chivalric knight, to walk away and let him die slowly and painfully on the ground.

As if sensing his thoughts, and likely because he could actually sense his thoughts a bit, Wels said, "You are always going on about how I need to be a better knight. There's something ironic here. No matter what I decide, I think you'll owe me an apology regardless."

The feeling of doom, of bone-deep, agonizing dying mantled over Helsknight again and Wels stopped existing to him. His sense of urgency, of desperation to live clawed its way up his throat. He tried to move his arm, his leg. He got his fingers to twitch. He tried to lean forward, to drag himself with willpower alone towards that stupid potion just out of reach. The potion he wasn't even strong enough to open. His vision collapsed in quickly, and he only knew he'd cried out because he was breathless. But he hadn't moved, besides managing to lull his head forward onto his chest again. Cold fear crawled around in his empty guts, a relentless, caged animal that refused to stop squirming.

[I'm dying.]

[Breathe.]

[I'm dying.]

A shadow fell over him, a presence freighted with hate, and deserving, and dissonant guilt. Wels had come forward, only to stop short when Helsknight's terror swept over him like a wave, and he stood baffled by it, and guilty for it. The fool knight probably thought Helsknight was scared of him. If only. Helsknight thought he would prefer that. At least then he could manage to die gracefully. Wels's fortitude bricked itself up against him then, a bitter soul trying to will itself to be cold and cruel, and Helsknight was thankful for it. It staved off his fear, if only a little.

"What did you do to bring this on, anyway?" Wels asked breathlessly, trying to recover his resolve. Looking for a reason to hate him.

"I was... walking home."

"That's it?" He sounded so skeptical, it was almost funny.

"I committed the terrible sin..." Helsknight laughed out a breath, "... of being fearless when I should have been cautious."

"Hubris."

"Habit."

"Yeah right."

"If I got stabbed like this every day, I wouldn't have come crawling here."

Wels glowered, parsing this statement for truth. Helsknight might have mustered some hate in him for it, if he wasn't so scared. His vision had taken on a permanent blur, and he was getting cold. He hadn't gone numb yet, which was something he found profoundly cruel. He wanted to be numb. To stop hurting. To stop fearing.

[Breathe.]

Why have ye no routhe on my child?

Have routhe on me ful of mourning;

Tak doun o rode my derworth child,

Or prik me o rode with my derling!

[Derworth... "Dearworth", probably. Beloved. So "derling" was probably "dearling", which turned into "darling". Middle English was strange. Just slightly to the left of normal. He didn't think "tak" was a word anymore, except where it existed as pieces of words. "Tak" to "take", to take hold, maintain, maybe. "Tak" to "tack" like a nail. "Prik" also, like "pricking" flesh, like a point digging.]

"Hold down the road, my dearworth child," Helsknight muttered. "Or pick me a road with my darling."

"What?"

"Stupid poem."

"How much blood have you lost?"

Helsknight laughed, and his whole body flinched, and for a moment he couldn't breathe because his pain was so alive and electric it almost stopped being pain. The concern from Wels was laughable. He wished Wels would make up his mind about whether or not he cared. Then he could get on with dying, and the terror would stop, and the universe would take him or it wouldn't, and if it didn't, he would respawn and sleep for a week. He felt Wels's hand on his wrist, which was its own kind of hilarious.

"Trying to figure out how many heartbeats I have left?" Helsknight asked.

It would be nice to know. If Wels figured it out, he hoped he would share the information. Then Helsknight could keep count.

"Your heart's too fast."

"That happens."

Wels stood up and paced, all nervous energy, back and forth across the room.

"You don't deserve my help," Wels told him scathingly, angry for how conflicted he felt. "You don't. You've been nothing but cruel ever since we met."

More pine ne may me ben y-don

Than lete me live in sorwe and shame;

["Pine", like pining. Or pain. More pain? Punishment maybe. "Don" to done. Something like: More pain to me could not be done than to let me live in sorrow and shame.]

Helsknight decided whoever wrote this poem had never been stabbed. He'd felt both sorrow and shame, and neither of them packed quite this amount of punch, in his opinion.

"It probably goes against my tenets anyway," Wels continued, still pacing. "And yours too. Aren't you the one who follows some crazy death god?"

"... Saint... of Blood and Steel."

"He probably thinks dying in a puddle on my floor is glorious."

"... they."

As love me bindëth to my sone,

So let us deyen bothe y-same.

[Maybe he was just getting better at this, or maybe this part was just easy. "As love I'm bound to my son, so let us die, both the same." It didn't flow very neatly when it was simpler. Maybe Middle English wasn't that stupid.]

"I can't help but think you did this on purpose to... I don't know. Test me somehow. Prove you're better. Weak again, Welsknight! For helping your enemy when you should have let him die, or speed him along. Don't you know knights are supposed to be cruel?"

Helsknight tried to call up his own tenets, or Wels's tenets, or anything to do with knights and their duties. He got a little lost on his way, his thoughts meandering and dying, and gasping back to life again when they remembered they were supposed to be searching for something. Something he was scared of. Dying. A wave of fear crashing over him that made Wels flinch, and bid Helsknight keep breathing, because any agony was worth not confronting that one, great, crippling unknown.

"What would you do in my place?" Wels asked him suddenly. "Answer me that, perfect knight. What would you do if the person you hated most showed up one day bleeding on your floor?"

That... was an excellent question. Helsknight searched briefly for the answer, and found it wasn't very hard to find.

"I would help."

"You're lying," Wels said guardedly.

"I... can't lie."

"Then you're dodging the truth. What would you do?"

"I would heal you if I could. Or I would kill you if I couldn't." With strength he didn't know he even still had, Helsknight leaned his head back against the wall. It was easier to breathe that way. To talk.

"Why?"

"No creature is deserving of dishonor or pain."

"That's not a tenet."

"It's not a chivalric tenet." Helsknight shrugged one shoulder weakly. "Chivalry states you can hang my guts from the ceiling if I'm your enemy."

"It does not."

"It might as well."

Wels didn't seem to have a ready reply for that.

"What is routhe?"

Wels blinked down at him, guarded and confused. "Routhe?"

"Routhe." Helsknight repeated, as though it were helpful. "Middle English."

"As in?"

"Poetry."

"Use it in a sentence."

"Why have ye no routhe on my child?"

"Ruth." Wels said, a bit too quickly, like he'd known what Helsknight was asking and was trying to avoid the answer. "We don't use it as ruth anymore. It shows up in rue, like regret, or sorrow. And... ruthless."

"Merciless."

"Yes."

Why have you no mercy on my child?

"Why are you asking about Middle English while you're bleeding to death on my floor?"

Helsknight let out a breath. It hurt, but everything did. "Stupid poem."

"Can I hear it?"

"I'm busy bleeding to death on your floor."

"Tell me and I'll heal you."

There it was again, asking for an excuse. That was Wels's real cowardice, his failing as a knight. He was scared of making decisions. Scared of dealing with the consequences of his actions. Paralyzed by indecision. He wanted to hate Helsknight because it was justified. He wanted to watch him suffer, because hatred allows suffering. He didn't want to label himself cruel, nor be accused of weakness, or softheartedness, if he showed mercy. And he didn't want to pick up his sword and kill, if it meant killing someone defenseless. He wanted Helsknight to give him a reason to act, so he could blame it on him later if it turned out wrong. Given it would likely be Helsknight rubbing his nose in it later if it was wrong, he couldn't really blame him for that.

Helsknight closed his eyes and counted his heartbeats, and pretended he wasn't scared.

"Do what you will."

An hour long minute ticked by. Helsknight felt the time moving like it was physical, like he was falling through it and he couldn't catch himself, and he was nearing his limits. He thought the only thing stopping him from begging for it all to stop was the crushing weight of his fatigue, the exponential strength it took to take his next breath, and that stupid poem, skipping in a circle in his head. It kept his thoughts away from his fear, from bearing the weight of the unknown that came next. It was still there, a nameless, formless anxiety that formed the undercurrent of his thoughts. But he didn't have to think about it when he was busy being annoyed about a poem stuck in his head.

Wels moved. He stooped to pick up the potion Helsknight had dropped and unstoppered it deftly. He was surprisingly gentle as he helped him drink, aware that every movement could cause pain. Helsknight could feel Wels's caution in the air like wings, like a bird hovering before it lands. The first potion wasn't enough to heal him completely, so he got a second from his chests and helped him with that as well, one hand hovering over Helsknight's wounds, waiting on the skin to knit back together. Helsknight got to his feet, shaky, and feeling like he'd been wrung dry of all vitality. There was no pain to speak of, but he was thirsty, and hungry, and exhausted.

"You should rest before you go anywhere," Wels said, words of pragmatic care that sounded stilted coming from him. "I can get you some water."

"I'll be fine," Helsknight told him, allowing himself some hesitant pride now that the smothering pain was gone. Even exhausted, he could think so much more clearly now -- think at all, really. And he thought the longer he stayed here, the higher the chance Wels would come to regret his decision to heal him. They were not made to like each other. They didn't even respect each other as enemies. And Helsknight knew if they fought now, he would lose, and he might lose very badly, if Wels decided to leave him to bleed out again. It was something Wels had never done before, but if he could convince himself Helsknight deserved it, he would.

"Do what you will, then," Wels said, bitterness creeping into his tone. He probably thought he was being coy and ironic. Helsknight mostly thought it was annoying.

"The poem isn't mine," Helsknight said. "It's one you've read before. Middle English. Why have ye no routhe on my child. I don't know the title. It might just be the first line. I think it's a lament."

"... I see."

"Next time you find yourself bleeding out on someone's floor," Helsknight snorted, "Pick something stupid like that. It makes things... manageable."

"Right... manageable."

Helsknight gave a helpless sort of shrug, as though what he'd just said were perfectly normal.

Wels mustered an enviable facsimile of concern when he said, "I've never felt terror like that before."

Helsknight felt his already parched mouth somehow go drier. The sympathy he felt rolling off of Welsknight was sickening. Literally. He could feel himself becoming nauseous.

"What are you so scared of?"

Shame, red hot and searing, clawed at the inside of Helsknight's ribs. He wished so badly he could hide it. Distract himself from it. At least turn it into anger. But he was tired, and he didn't know how to bring his emotions back to heel, and Welsknight was already giving him an open, piteous look like maybe they'd stumbled onto something significant. He could feel hope there, like maybe there was a reason they hated each other like they did, and if Wels could figure out where that fear came from, they could find common ground -- or at least the leverage Wels needed to make Helsknight relent.

"I don't need your pity, white knight," Helsknight snarled. "Go sate your savior complex somewhere else."

Wels scowled. A cold wall of loathing, resigned and inevitable, closed itself around anything else he could possibly feel.

[As it should be.]

Hours later, home and safe, Helsknight cracked open his journal and wrote:

Why have you no mercy on my child?

Have mercy on me, so full of mourning;

Take down the road my dearworth child,

O give me a road with my darling!

More pain to me could not be done

Than to let me live in sorrow and shame

As with love I am bound to my son,

So let us die then, both the same.

[witchspeka]

When Ritsu grows up he'll exclusively wear trenchcoats and one day he'll be walking down the street and see Reigen and they'll be wearing the same coat and it'll be the worst day of his life

[yeollbae]

Taylor zakhar perez | Eye drawing(s)

[bacchuschucklefuck]

found those sketches I mentioned. and added more

[anggeese]

Kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss

[i-heart-hxh]

Does killua know gon loves him?

Hi anon! This is such a simple question, but not a simple one to answer. I'll do my best, though!

So, I think the answer is both yes and no, in different ways.

Yes, in the sense that Gon has directly expressed his appreciation of and admiration towards Killua multiple times, said he enjoys being with him and wants to stay with him, and even called him his best friend at the end of Greed Island (really BEST friend, 最高の友達, saikou no tomodachi--I think the translation of "best friend in the whole world" gets the emphasis of this phrase across pretty well).

He said it "Has to be Killua," (キルアじゃなきゃダメなんだ, Killua ja nakya dame nanda) in the dodgeball match, which has implications both during the match and outside of it, that Killua is the only one he fully trusts and the only one who can be by his side for something this pivotal. This phrase has romantic implications, essentially the subtextual meaning is "Killua is the only one for me," hence why Killua reacts as strongly as he does to it. Notice how much he hides his face on this page.

So, I think it's silly to say Killua has no idea Gon cares about him deeply and values him. There are so many moments where Gon says things like this. It's partly why Killua loves Gon so much, because Gon isn't afraid to express that level of love and care and appreciation towards him, as uncomfortable as he acts about it. He's just unused to that receiving kind of praise and attention simply for being himself, rather than being praised for his abilities.

With Killua's views of himself, it's hard for him to fully accept Gon's affection and take it to heart, but luckily Gon is straightforward and doesn't hold back, and keeps repeatedly telling Killua how much he means to him. As the series goes, they form a strong mutual bond and relatively good understanding of each other.

The problem is that multiple things happen in Chimera Ant Arc to disrupt Killua's sense of where he belongs in Gon's life.

He "fails" by fleeing from Pitou with Gon and "leaving Kite to die." While Gon doesn't blame Killua for the decision he made and neither does Kite, Killua nonetheless certainly blames himself for this to a degree. (Remember the scene with Morel and Knov mocking him?) It doesn't help that Bisky tells him that because of his inability to face opponents he sees as stronger than him, he'll eventually leave Gon to die. Then he watches the awful ramifications of what Kite's death does to Gon, knowing he had a role in what happened.

Gon goes on the date with Palm, and Killua variously misinterprets this whole situation to mean that Gon has been on real dates with women previously (I do not think he had been on any dates in an actual romantic sense), Gon actually might have romantic feelings towards Palm, and that they're in some degree of a relationship even after Gon tells her they can't be together and Palm quietly dumps Gon in favor of Knov after the date. This sends Killua spiraling into his whole "Are we friends? Or are we teammates?" concerns, in conjunction with the next factor.

Gon's "I swear... I'll take on that bastard myself," about Pitou, and the later "This has nothing to do with you," line. Remember how much Gon relied on Killua in the dodgeball match, and how much that meant to Killua? Remember how Killua very nearly died and his last thoughts were apologizing that he wasn't more useful to Gon? Killua stakes his whole sense of self on being useful to Gon, so when Gon makes taking down Pitou a solo mission, Killua doesn't know what role he has at Gon's side any more.

I'm sure there are plenty more factors I'm leaving out, but these are the main issues that lead to the gulf that develops between them during the course of Chimera Ant Arc.

Ever after all of this, they're still friends, they're on reasonably good terms when they part even though it's complex and fraught, but there's just so much they're not saying to each other about how they really feel.

I think Killua still knows Gon cares about him with the way they leave off--they agree to stay in touch, say they'll meet again, Killua even teases Gon about the way he treated him a few times and sees that Gon feels awful when he brings it up. I'm sure Gon apologized to Killua when they first saw each other again after all of that, no matter how non-comprehensive that apology may have been.

But, I do think Killua sees his feelings towards Gon as deeper and of a different nature than how he assumes Gon feels towards him. He may even feel a degree of guilt about the extent and nature of his feelings, with an assumption that, as much as Gon cares about him, Gon doesn't reciprocate Killua's romantic feelings. It may be one of many puzzle pieces contributing to the separation.

I think Killua has strong beliefs about Gon not returning his feelings in a romantic sense, which is part of what leads to how much pain he goes through in Chimera Ant Arc and beyond. But these beliefs are less about what Gon does or doesn't do--because *I* believe Gon has romantic feelings for Killua, even though he likely doesn't recognize them as such yet, and obviously in CAA his relationship with Killua is not at the forefront of his mind--but more about how Killua sees himself and how he projects that self-perception on Gon.

The thing is, Killua hasn't directly expressed his feelings (even on a friendship level) towards Gon either. and even hides how much he does for Gon, so Gon also doesn't fully understand the weight and degree of Killua's feelings for him either. He sees what Killua does for him and I'm sure he knows that's a way Killua expresses friendship to him, but at the same time, the reasons or feelings or depth behind those actions remain unspoken, so how is Gon supposed to know fully where Killua is coming from?

As much as he may have some inklings of Killua's feelings from reading his body language and all the time they spent together, it's not something that has been confirmed or stated the way Gon has expressed his feelings. So, it makes sense that these two boys might assume the other doesn't love them back the same way they love each other, because their own self-esteem is so low and they don't see themselves as deserving of the kind of love they have for each other.

So, in response to your question, both yes and no, and "It's complicated," too.

[carlyraejepsans]

i think i might be legit happy for the first time in my life.

i got out. i actually got out.