#and neither of us could unsee it ever

[gaerlhoss-a]

I’m not here but this url is officially ‘girlboss’ now,  odette has decreed it.

[clanwarrior-tumbly]

Reader takes post Hisui Ingo (and possible Emmet) to Sinnoh where he takes them to Lady Sneaslers cave, Ingo would probably find her fossil and be sad until Reader reminds him that they can now bring back well preserved fossils. Que Ingo and Ladys reunion (headcanon that fossils retain their memories cos its cute)

It took quite some time for Ingo to readjust to the present, considering at least five whole years have passed since he got thrown back in time...lost in the ancient region of Hisui.

You've been stuck there too, but eventually you made a deal with Arceus after "seeking out all Pokémon" as requested and capturing it:

If you released your cherished team back into the wild, it'll let you both go home. Of course, that wasn't an easy sacrifice to make, though after bidding farewell to the Pokémon that helped you save Hisui--and the world as a whole--Arceus did fulfill its end of the bargain.

It dropped you and Ingo off into a familiar underground subway, where Emmet so-happened to be patrolling alone at that same time.

He nearly passed out upon seeing that you both finally back home, especially his older twin.

Fortunately, he remembered everything about him the second they met eyes....leading to the brothers hugging and sobbing for a solid ten minutes together. You simply stood on the sidelines as Chandelure and Eelektross gave their trainers space and celebrated your return.

After the media caught wind of the good news, life pretty much resumed as normal--except the brothers put a temporary halt on their battle subway operations as you suggested a vacation to Sinnoh. Obviously Ingo's mind was still foggy, so he wasn't quite fit to resume any dual battles yet.

He did, however, wish to show Emmet what he learned of this region based on his experiences in Hisui--especially Mt. Coronet. He took you both to the cavern that used to be his warden post.

"I gotta admit, you're turning into quite the historian." Emmet remarked, looking all around as the three of you ventured further into the cave. Only your flashlight shined the path forward. "You were just..guarding this so-called "Noble Pokémon" from danger?"

"Indeed. That's exactly it!" Ingo explained with much vigor. "As warden, it was my duty to ensure Lady Sneasler's territory was protected and that offerings were delivered to her from time to time. Of course, I didn't think Pearl Clan would ever trust a stranger like myself. But it ended up being a wise decision on their part."

Emmet simply muttered an "ahh" in surprise, nodding his head as you and him continued listening to the older twin's story. He went on to discuss the baby Sneasels that were under Sneasler's care, saying they were cared for in this very cave and that you were nearing her den.

However, you three would soon happen upon a rather...unfortunate sight. But neither of you knew it yet until Ingo abruptly stopped in his tracks, having found something he wishes he could unsee.

"...oh, so...that's all there is now...." His voice turned flat.

"Ingo? What's wrong?" Emmet asked in worry.

"I think I know.." You frowned slightly, standing beside Ingo and flicking on your flashlight, revealing bones embedded into the dirt of the den.

But they weren't just any regular old bones scattered everywhere...

They made up the fossil of a certain Sneasler.

"..of course, h-how could I forgotten? She's gone.." Ingo bowed his head in mourning, feeling the ache in his heart growing as the reality of this discovery hit him hard. But even with the bill of his hat casting a shadow over his eyes, you and Emmet could see his lips tremble, tears sliding down both cheeks.

"M-My Lady..."

Hearing his voice break was something neither of you expected, but of course....you understood why.

This had to be a difficult thing to confront, knowing that the Noble he formed such a close bond with, the one who helped him in that lost and unfamiliar distant past...was now extinct.

There will never be another Sneasler like her again.

The only proof of her existence was kept within a fossil-

'Wait...her fossil...'

You suddenly remembered something extremely crucial, and smiled, knowing exactly how to help Ingo in his moment of despair. So you gently put a hand on his shoulder, trying to get his attention. "Hey, Ing-"

"I never even thought about what became of her until now.." He put his hand over yours, voice still trembling, as he believed you were only trying to comfort him. "We left so suddenly and...god, she must have been so confused. Did she think we abandoned her? Did she live out the rest of her days in anger or sorrow? Oh how I...I-I just wish I could see her one last time..."

"We can make that happen, Ingo."

"..huh?" Blinking, he stared at you with puffy eyes, eyebrows furrowed in confusion. "What do you mean? We can't go back-"

"We've got the technology to revive fossils, remember?" You reminded him, seeing his expression shift for a moment. And then recollection seemed to flash in his eyes.

"Ahah..that's right. I-I must have forgotten..." He chuckled softly, wiping away his tears as he finally calmed down. "Is it possible to fully restore her?"

"I believe so! Her fossil looks verrrry well-preserved!" Emmet nodded, happy to see his brother's smile again. "We must dig this up post haste! It'd be an honor to meet this "Lady Sneasler"."

"Then it's decided, gentlemen." You grinned, clapping your hands together. "Let's get to digging!"

.........

The excavation of Lady Sneasler's fossil went off without a hitch, and you wasted no time heading to Oreburgh's Mining Museum afterwards.

The scientist in charge of reviving fossils was initially taken aback by the odd skeleton piece you gave him, though he accepted it nonetheless and insisted you three waited outside until the process was complete.

Yet his words left Ingo nervous as he paced back and forth in front of the museum sign. He kept muttering train-related facts under his breath, trying to keep calm. But he couldn't help wondering if something could go wrong.

What if it's impossible? What if she's brought back wrong or without any memory of who he was?

Would she be terrified of the sudden changes that modern society brought and go berserk??

Did..any Fossil Pokémon feel that way when they were first revived?

Fortunately, as quickly as these concerns descended upon him...they were just as quick to leave when he heard a familiar cry and footsteps growing louder. And he turned in astonishment to see who came running out of the museum, a frantic scientist in-tow.

Both you and Emmet looked on, the latter surprised to see it was a tall Sneasel-like Pokémon with purple fur jogging over to you all. But you had a huge smile on your face, knowing very well that's the Noble you hoped to see again. She looked the same as she did all those years ago.

"I'm sorry!! I'm sorry!! I-It ran out the second I brought it back to life!!" He kept shouting.

"Halt! There's no need to proceed further!" Emmet barked, putting his hand up to stop him in his tracks. "Thank you for your services. We'll take care of her from here."

"...a-ah yes, of course! Sorry." Coughing nervously, the scientist smoothed out his ruffled lab coat, before heading back inside the museum.

"Sneas?" While initially confused at Emmet's presence, Lady Sneasler perked up at Ingo's voice as he approached her.

"My Lady..."

For a moment, she looked down at the man, at first not recognizing him outside of his tattered Pearl Clan garb. But after sniffing him a few times, the usually stoic Pokémon smiled warmly and ruffled his head gently. "Snea!"

"O-Oh, thank Arceus...you remember..!!" He beamed, although her mood suddenly switched as she huffed, before stepping back and crossing her arms, foot tapping with impatience.

The look in her eye told Ingo "you owe me an explanation big time".

But before he could speak up, you intervened, knowing it was really your fault that they never got to properly say goodbye to each other. So you explained everything to her, and she seemed to understand, given how her facial features gradually softened.

After nodding her head in respect, she turned back to her warden, embracing him in an act of forgiveness. At first he was in shock, though he returned the hug seconds later, tears of happiness streaking down his cheeks this time.

He'll worry about how Lady Sneasler will adapt to this new world later on...but for now he just wanted to take in this moment.

You and Emmet just looked on, relieved to see the pair reunited after being thrown timelines apart.

"Awh, that is verrrrry touching." He clasped his hands together with a grin. "I wonder how she'd fair in batt--ough!!"

Elbowing him in the gut, you huffed in annoyance. "Not the time, Em."

"..r-right, sorry!"

[magicclownjuice]

BEAUTY AND THE BEAST x DCA AU SNIPPET FOR Y'ALL CUZ WE'VE BEEN ABSENT FOR A LONG TIME LMAO

Sun pokes and prods at Moon's consciousness inside their shared headspace softly; it's a sensation they can never get quite used to. It's very much like being crammed into a tight space with someone else; very little space to breathe, too much contact all over. There are some times where they can feel themselves merging into one, identities blurred beyond recognition, wants and needs perfectly aligned. But there are other times where their wills wrestle with one another, times where they can't reach an agreement and their body suddenly shuts down on them.

This is one of those times.

Their body lays prone atop the bed, staring at the ceiling, breathing in and out softly, chasing traces of your perfume, eyes glazed over, unseeing.

"Moon," Sun says in their headspace, "I beg of you— we need to make a move soon! I— we can't do this any longer."

Moon's discomfort grows.

He had never felt this way about someone before— granted, neither had Sun. They had never cared much about other people, much less other's opinions of them. People knew that Sun was petty, punishing, and vindictive, that he was temperamental and held terrible grudges for the slightest of offenses. Moon was equally as bad; contrary to what one may think, he had never been quite sociable despite his position as the court jester. Oh no, he pretty much hated people, and that's why he took great pleasure in humiliating them, dragging them through the mud, at least verbally.

In conclusion, they were terrible people, and continued to be, until—

They met you.

You, fiery, stubborn, sweet, gorgeous you. Everything changed when they met you, in the blink of an eye, their painful familiarity was gone, replaced by uncertainty and warmth. You, you brought light along in your stride and set their hearts on fire, and oh, how much they want to bask in your radiance now, how desperately they want to curl up around you, hold you in their arms and call you theirs.

Their body heaves an involuntary sigh, clawed hands flexing, as if to reach out, get up and go find you so they can make that small fantasy come true.

Moon tries to shake the feeling off and regain control— it's too painful, thinking about the possibility of rejection. After all, they are monsters, both figuratively and literally.

Sun falls quiet, and Moon curses the fact that they share a body and a mind; Sun can feel his emotions, hear his thoughts. And he doesn't like them one bit; they stab him in all his soft, vulnerable spots.

Moon speaks, finally, even though it's unnecessary for them to communicate.

"Look at us, Sun. Do you think they'll ever see any good in us?" His voice trembles, almost a whisper, but Sun hears it loud and clear. "And even if they did now— once they know of our past, they'll leave. They'll be disgusted, they'll hate us—"

"You don't know that—"

"Neither do you."

They both fall quiet. It's true. They don't know, they will never know. Sun's resolve to confess is snuffed out at once.

The line between their selves becomes blurred once again.

"After all," their voices ring out as one, outloud. "Who could ever learn to love a beast?"

A single tear rolls down their body's cheek.

[reds-skull]

BLOOD||HUNGER

[PREV PART] [AO3]

So remember how I didn't like how short the last chapter was? Well this one is almost as long as the longest chapter I've ever written (insane how when it goes smoothly and I don't feel like the words are fighting me, I actually write more!)

This chapter is called "Droops and Decays"

Page 11 of the “Blooede Starvatfōre-dēde”, parable 4:

And a knight, wearing the blind man’s colors, Brings his sword forth and calls, halt beast, Leave my brother to be, release him from your bloody maw. The blind man steps forth, hands raised, And he calls his brother-in-pain, lower your steel, This monster is unharming, it is calm, And it needs guidance, as the blind do. The knight asks, why would the blind lead the sinners? And the blind man answers, when all other paths are blocked, We can only move forth on ways seen only by the unseeing.

Ghost doesn’t sleep in the company of others. It is not because of the person in the room, his body and mind just genuinely, physically, can’t trust anyone anymore.

(He wonders if it were Price-)

So Ghost lets his eyes rest, while his mind turns and churns over the events of last night.

“I know ye would rather leave me to die, go scurry away to whatever hell ye crawled out of. But we both know ye can’t. Now, would you rather die alone…”

“…or fight together?”

Soap… no, John MacTavish. He has quite the bleeding heart, offering to work together with the man that pointed a gun to his head not an hour prior. He wonders who he was before being discharged, if fighting alongside him tonight was how it would’ve been to work with him.

(He wonders if he could trust him-)

The 141 will arrive to the wreckage they left any moment now. Instead of finding the Sergeant, they’ll come across the charred remains of the Hunter’s soldiers. Ghost knows they’re smart enough to figure out neither of them are dead, considering there are no tire tracks beyond the destruction.

(If he were to burn and die, would Price be able to tell his body from the rest-)

He wishes he could sleep. Would’ve been more useful than the shit that’s stirring around his brain right about now.

(Maybe talking to Soap could be more useful-)

The Sergeant wouldn’t want to talk to him. Not after what he’s done. 

(No better than the Hunter, no better than Roba-)

(But he wants to-)

Ghost doesn’t want things.

(That’s Simon’s job-)

Simon is dead.

(Simon can’t be dead when Ghost is still living-)

Soap shifts next to the window, and sighs. Ghost gets reminded of the way the Sergeant stirred in his sleep, his eyes scrunched up like he’s trying to close them in his dream. He took mercy on him then, kicked his shoulder lightly. Soap grasped at it like a lifeline, eyes snapping wide open to swivel around the room.

(Searching for ghosts-)

It was then he started wanting, Ghost reckons. Wanted to know what burrows into Soap’s mind, what crawls beneath his bed to sink its claws while he sleeps.

(Wants to see the beast himself-)

Fucking hell. Since when does Ghost care what other people bloody dream about?

In an attempt to stop all those buzzing thoughts, Ghost opens his eyes. Soap is still by the window, rifle in his hands, clicking lowly as he fidgets with it. He looks about as lost in his mind as Ghost was just a few moments ago.

(He wonders what Soap is thinking about-)

Ghost sits up, internally annoyed with his own stupid mind. Soap looks at him as he stretches his limbs slowly, taking stock of their condition.

“Yer leg’s faring better?” the Sergeant asks.

Surprisingly, it is. The muscles no longer shake, even if he has a general feeling of weakness across his body.

Ghost raises from the tarp, “affirmative. Ready to move?”. Soap jumps off the table, and opens the door. The fields outside are bright and calm, wheat stalks idly swaying in the soft breeze.

They return to the road, Soap still tapping at the metal body of the rifle. Eventually, he speaks up, “you think Price and Gaz reached the trucks already?”

Ghost spares him a glance, “certainly.”

The Scot slows his steps, “...maybe I should go back-”

“By the time you reach the trucks, the 141 would be gone.” It took them hours to get this far.

Soap sighs, dragging a hand over his hair, “fuckin’ hate that yer right.” He catches up to Ghost.

(He wants to know more-)

He doesn’t need to-

(He needs to know more-)

“How do you know Price?” Ghost instantly curses himself.

Soap raises an eyebrow, “how do ye know him?”

“I’m not telling you shit, Sergeant.”

Soap crosses his arms, “then I’m not tellin’ ye shit either.”

Fuckin’- how did he get stuck with such a childish, impudent, little bastard.

“Everyone knows Captain Price.” Ghost almost growls, bluffing through his teeth. Soap’s eyes light up like he caught him with his pants down.

“Aye”, Soap smirks, “everyone in the British Army knows the Captain. But not everyone knows how he looks.”

He leans in closer to Ghost, “no, ye had to be in a high rank fer that. Said ye were SAS, Lieutenant? I’m thinking ye weren’t lying after all.”

Bloody wanker. He’s not fucking stupid.

Soap leans away again, finally answering his question, “well, I didn’t know Price too personally. Was on a few missions along his squad. Tried to recruit me before I got… discharged.”

Ghost narrows his eyes. So that’s the game he wants to play. Give me a bone, I’ll give you something to chew on. As much as he wants to be annoyed, he supposes that’s fair.

(Now that he’s been given a hand, he wants the whole arm-)

“Why did they discharge you?”

Soap’s smile falters, “disobeyed direct orders one too many times. Killed an HVT they needed alive.” his blue eyes dim, “sliced his neck and choked the blood outta him.”

Ghost frowns, “how important was the fucker that they booted you out?”

Soap stops walking, Ghost turning around to face him.

“Ever heard of Vladimir Makarov?”

Ghost blinks, “you’re not-”

“I am.” Soap’s face twists, in grief or in anger, Ghost can’t tell, “I’m the one that killed Makarov.”

They stare at each other, Ghost mind whirling. If Soap is the one that… 

Everyone knew what Makarov was planning. The power vacuum he left was huge, leaving Konni Group to disintegrate. Leaving people like the Hunter, to attempt to take his place in the twisted international power game.

“Ye can tell me Ah’m feckin’ daft, I’ve heard it all.” Soap starts walking, his frame more taut than usual.

Daft? “You eliminated the biggest nuclear threat since the Cold War.”

Soap laughs bitterly, “yer talking like Ah’m a fucking hero.”

“None of us are heroes, MacTavish.” Not with the amount of blood on their hands.

Yet, men like Soap… Ghost can’t say he’s evil. He’s too… compassionate for that.

Soap looks ahead, eyes fogging over with memories, “...said that to Price once. He told me…” He refocuses on Ghost, “...forget it.”

(What did Price say-)

“What did he say?”

Soap huffs, a sad smile on his face. “He told me about his previous Lieutenant. How he was a man of many sins.”

Ghost’s heart stops beating.

Soap continues regardless, “but he said Lieutenant Riley was his most caring soldier. Would always fight as hard as he can to bring everyone back home.” he turns to Ghost, whose breath caught at the Lieutenant’s name, “for those he saved, the Lieutenant was a hero. At least, that’s how Price saw it…”

“Ah wanted to be like him, back then.”

Ghost barely managed to whisper the words out, “and now?”

John smiles, “now Ah want to be better.”

His eyes shine so brightly, Ghost thinks at the back of his mind. His body is still as a statue, ceasing to exist in the now, sinking into the dark waters of the past.

(Yet Simon feels more alive than he’s been for years)

Ghost continues to scan the horizon, as the city comes into view. It becomes clearer and clearer what causing the sounds echoing through the lonely fields.

Someone is fighting against the Hunter’s soldiers. And they’re vastly outnumbered.

“What should our next move be?” Soap crouches next to him, overlooking the battle.

Well, Ghost’s goal is to find a high ranking soldier, bring the intel on the antidote out of them (gently or violently depending on how cooperative the tosser will be), and find it. He’s working with limited time - who knows when his body will lose the fight against the poison and simply give up.

Soap however… Ghost still doesn’t understand why he’s here. All he knows is that the Sergeant seems to hate the Hunter’s soldiers about as much as he does.

He supposes it’s good enough for him.

“Need to capture a soldier.” Ghost murmurs, combing for stragglers.

Soap does the same, “shouldn’t we help whoever’s fighting ‘em?”

“Don’t think they’re gonna hold up for much longer…”

The Hunter’s soldiers swirl like a swarm around one house, flashes of rifle muzzles coming from opposite windows. The fighters are cornered. It’s only a matter of time before they get overwhelmed-

Soap Jumps over the wall they were hiding behind, and starts running at full speed towards the fight.

“Sergeant!” Ghost shouts after him, “where in the bloody hell do you think you’re going?!”

Soap doesn’t spare him a single glance, swinging his stolen rifle to aim at a few soldiers, “Price and Gaz are in that building! I cannae let them die!”

Ghost’s eyes widen. He looks over to the house again. The Hunter’s soldiers are closing in…

(Price would never leave him-)

(The Lieutenant was a hero-)

(You saved them, Simon. Why?-)

(No man left behind, except when the man is Simon Riley-)

(I can’t leave them to die!-)

Ghost heaves a breath, pulling out his pistol and taking point next to the Sergeant. Soap finally looks at him, face contorted in confusion.

“If we want to do this, we need to make the soldiers split up.” Ghost says, already calculating how many hostiles they’ll need to take down, “we don’t have much to work with, but they don’t know that.”

Soap nods, “divide and conquer, eh? Sounds good.” He scans the left of the house, “I’ll take that side, circle around that building and get into a higher position.”

“Copy, I’ll take right.” that side has more winding alleys, where Ghost can pick soldiers off one by one with his knives.

“Understood. What if ye-” Soap cuts himself off, and Ghost watches how he chews on his own lip.

“What is it, Soap?”

The Sergeant’s brows furrow, “nothin’, uh… good luck.”

Ghost doesn’t answer, Soap already leaving for his path.

(Simon asks himself, if it means Soap cares whether he lives or dies-)

He needs to focus. They don’t have the night to cover them anymore, pale blue skies leaving no shadows for men like him to melt into. Ghost takes a long way around the nearby buildings, until he finds a little group of soldiers.

He unsheathes a knife, long and serrated edge gleaming under the sun. In a flash, he yanks one soldier back, burying the knife in his throat, twisting and pulling it out. The man is dead before he hits the floor.

His squad mates only realize something is wrong when they turn to talk to him, finding the soldier in a growing puddle of bright red blood. Ghost is already changing angles, quickly walking around another soldier to pull them back and grant him the same fate.

Panic spreads through them, more and more joining the search for Ghost.

More and more victims for his ruthless blade.

When the number of hostiles dwindles, Ghost circles back to the house Price and Gaz were holed up in. He watches them from afar clearing the surroundings, before opening the front door and stepping out.

He can’t see Soap anywhere. Something pinches at his chest, and a wave of concern wrecks through him.

It makes sense, that he wouldn’t return to Ghost. He did technically kidnap him… surely he was waiting for a right moment to buck it.

Hopefully, he met up with Price. The Captain will insure his safety, in that Ghost doesn’t doubt.

(He’s dead, he left you, he’s captured, gone, lost, your fault, your fault-)

Ghost hears footsteps behind him, and in a blink grabs a rifle from his latest victim and points it at the source.

“Relax, jus’ me Ghost.” Soap raises his arms, mildly annoyed.

Ghost instantly lowers the gun, “why didn’t you leave?”

The Sergeant looks around, inspecting the carnage Ghost left behind, “for one, when I say we’re fighting together, I fuckin’ mean it.” he mutters the rest, “unlike someone ‘ere…”

Soap steps forward, and Ghost can see how his hands are absolutely covered in blood, “and… I’m still not done.”

“What do you mean?” Ghost asks, stare climbing up Soap’s bloodied forearms.

Soap’s voice lowers, “you’re after the Hunter, right? I want him dead.” If Ghost was a lesser man, he would tremble at Soap’s tone, “What they’re doing to this city, killing and destroying everything in their path, it needs to stop. And Ah know the only way to do tha’ is to take them out.”

Ghost wants to tell him he’s stupid, for sticking his nose in business that’s not his, for endangering himself like this, that it’s not his job, that he should turn his back. Injustice will always exist, and in the long run, this city won’t matter.

(But Simon’s heart beats faster, his eyes shine bright, and he wants to see Soap succeed)

(he wants to make sure he succeeds)

Soap snaps him out of his reverie, “ye said ye needed to capture a soldier?”

“Affirm. We need intel on the Hunter’s location.”

The Sergeant’s grin is sharp when he replies, “could always build a little trap from ‘em…”

Ghost huffs, his mouth stretching into an unfamiliar smile, “nobody would fall for that shite, Sergeant.”

Soap sputters, “ye did!”

“Yes, because I was broken.” Ghost starts walking out, knowing they won’t find any living soldiers on this side, “your needlessly complicated contraptions will be a waste of time to build. We just need to find one distracted wanker, grab him and tie ‘im up.”

Soap walks beside him, “good thing there’s plenty of feckers out here.” he grumbles sarcastically.

Ghost hears the quiet sound of someone sneaking in the alley in front of them, and it takes a great effort to suppress the urge to shoot when the person rounds the corner.

“Stop right there!”

Gaz stands in front of them, gun pointed at Ghost. He glares at him, jaw clenched.

“Gaz!” Soap calls, hands raised to calm him, “just wait-”

“John, come here. Don’t let him grab you again.” Gaz orders. Soap, to Ghost’s surprise, keeps his feet planted beside him.

(Simon, in his heart, knew the Sergeant would keep his word)

“No. Stop aiming at ‘im, and listen to me.”

Gaz’s rifle doesn’t stray from Ghost’s head, “John-”

“Kyle.” Soap snarls, “fuckin’ listen to me for a second mate!”

The SAS operator pauses, slowly lowering his guard, “what the fuck is going on?”

“Ah know it’s crazy-” Soap starts.

Gaz cuts him off, “it ought to be if you’re protecting the bloody Ghost!”

Soap continues, “But I need to stick with him fer now.”

Ghost watches Gaz’s eyes flicker between them, “if he’s threatening you brother-”

“He’s not doing shit to me, Gaz.” Soap growls, “I… I need to kill the Hunter. And Ghost is my only way to do that.”

Gaz’s brows furrow in sadness, “John… Didn’t your therapist tell you to stop chasing this- this adrenaline?”

Ghost wants to laugh. Soap isn’t doing it for the thrill, that much is pretty fucking obvious at this point. No, the Sergeant’s goal is far more noble than that. He considers pulling out a knife again, maybe make a show of threatening Soap to get Gaz off his back, but…

(Simon doesn’t think he can see the light shatter in Soap’s eyes as he’s being betrayed again-)

What Ghost forgot is, Soap and Gaz are friends, and the Sergeant is an honorable man.

“Ah can’t jus’ go back to Scotland and pretend this never happened! I have to stop it, Gaz.” He steps closer to the man, “please…”

Gaz shakes his head minutely, “if you die-”

“I’ll die a soldier, a fighter. For a good cause, trying to protect innocent people.” He stands in front of Gaz, “what better way is there to go?”

Gaz’s eyes soften, his grip on the rifle drops completely, “...I don’t want you to die.” he almost whispers.

Soap pulls him into a hug, holding onto his friend tightly, “I died the moment they discharged me. Here, I feel more alive than I have the past year.”

“You- why didn’t you tell me?”

Soap lets him go, still holding his shoulders, “what is there to tell?” he asks in a sad tone.

They’re quiet for a moment, before Gaz sighs, looking up at Ghost.

“If you hurt him, I’ll chase you to the end of the fuckin’ earth, and make you regret ever picking up a gun.” he barks at Ghost.

Ghost, for his part, doesn’t answer. His word will not be trusted either way.

(But Simon knows, he won’t be able to hurt Soap anymore-)

Gaz turns to talk to Soap again, “I don’t know if I’ll be able to bail you out after this, mate…”

Soap hums, “I understand. What about Price? Will ye be alright?”

“Don’t worry” Gaz smiles sadly, “I never saw you.”

As if on time, Gaz’s radio crackles, “Lieutenant, have you seen anything?”

Ghost’s heart jumps, as if the Captain is talking to him.

(As if things are still as they used to be-)

The Lieutenant presses the comms, “negative, whoever it was disappeared.”

“Copy, circle back to the house, we’ll keep looking.”

“Rog, out here.” Gaz clicks off his radio, and nods at Soap. “Good luck. Don’t you dare fuckin’ lose, Soap.”

The Sergeant smirks, “wouldn’t dream of it, Lieutenant.” he shoves Gaz playfully.

The Lieutenant laughs, “fuck off, Sergeant.” Gaz’s eyes shine suspiciously, and suddenly he drags Soap into another hug.

They exchange a few words Ghost can’t make out, and Gaz retreats, leaving to find his Captain. Soap continues to watch him until he turns a corner and vanishes from sight.

The Sergeant sighs, muttering to himself, “hope I don’t fuckin’ regret this…”

Ghost is sure he will.

(Simon hopes against hope he won’t)

[princess-of-the-corner]

Headcannon

One of my friends brought this up as a joke, but now neither of us can unsee it, and it has become our own personal theory. Tell us what you think

XY is actually really smart. Specifically with programming and things like special effects. He’s the one who figured out his holograms that he uses in shows, and he’s the one who wrote the algorithm for writing super popular songs. In fact, he could probably have an amazing career as the special effects guy for just about anything ever. 

Unfortunately, he was born conventionally attractive, and Bob Roth is his dad, so he’s being pandered about as a teen singing sensation, which he HATES WITH A PASSION.  He could be having a ball and actually be making millions as the guy who makes realistic explosions during rock shows, or breaking new ground with movie effects, but no, he’s stuck as a dancing, singing monkey for his extremely shallow dad, who doesn’t seem to realize that XY could be making him INFINITELY more money if he just let his son do what he wanted.

My friend and I have a running joke in this headcanon on how various characters react to finding this out, and how it even ever comes up, but so far our only consensus is that Jagged’s going to see exactly the kind of insane, hard-core nonsense this kid can produce when he’s let loose, and immediately offer him a job. Jagged wants dinosaurs during show? He can have dinosaurs. mythical creatures singing acapella? No problem. Want to collaborate with the Squid Sisters from Splatoon? Guess who your next opening act is. All the crazy pyrotechnics he wants, that are completely safe so no one can tell him he has to tone it down? Jagged’s already having a ten-year contract drawn up, contacting his lawyers, and insisting that XY has to meet his honorary niece, because he desperately wants to see Marinette’s creativity meet with the holographic magic XY can do.

-

Tbh I am 100% down for this.

[iridescent-petrichor]

inkpot gods

Pairing: Jaskier x Reader

Warnings: reader kills four people, a little graphic, reader and jaskier both get injured

Words: 5.3K

A/N: hi!! i rlly hope this fic like . makes sense?? it's four in the morning and i couldn't get this idea out of my mind but i hope the jumping around isn't too disorienting

Oh what, these? These aren't tears

It's just the rain that wasn't brave enough to fall

You tried to calm the tears streaming down your face when you heard Jaskier approaching, quickly wiping your eyes with the back of your hand when his footsteps stopped just beside you. Shifting your weight so you sat facing away from him, you blinked back the tears that continued to threaten to spill.

“There you are,” His voice was gentle, already noticing something was wrong. Despite his boisterous personality, he was always able to tell when to take a more tender spirit. “Everything alright?”

You nodded, still refusing to look at him knowing full well your eyes would give you away.

“Love,” Jaskier took a careful seat beside you, gingerly placing a hand on your knee. You couldn’t help the slight smile pulling at your lips from the pet name he used. Jaskier rarely called you by your own name, opting towards more poetic and affectionate names. While neither of you had taken the step towards anything official, it wasn’t hard to see how close the two of you had gotten.

“I’m fine.” You insisted, though the crack in your voice betrayed you.

“You don’t have to be, you know.” He said, staring at the view ahead of the both of you. Before you stood a wondrous mountain view, something worthy of one of Jaskier’s songs, especially with the sunset painting the sky with deep oranges and reds.

There was a beat of silence before Jaskier spoke again.

“Think of your tears as the rain.” Your brows furrowed, giving him a confused look. “Your tears are just the rain that wasn’t brave enough to fall.”

“Is this some piece from a song you’re writing?” You ask, wiping away the fresh tears that were now streaming down your face.

He laughed, moving his hand from your knee to rest over your shoulders. “I’m trying to say that there’s strength in crying.” Now risking a glance towards you, his eyes softened at the tears glistening in your eyes.

“I don’t feel very strong.” You responded, voice hoarse.

“But you are.” When you didn’t say anything, Jaskier pulled you closer, the comfort of his embrace making you sigh in relief. “You’re stronger than you know.

And what they hear isn't laughter after all

It's just your voice learning for once to stand up tall

Your laughter rang through the crowded tavern, music to Jaskier’s ears. He’d made some offhand comment about Geralt’s hair that you could no longer unsee, looking back at the witcher who had been grabbing a fresh ale before you turned back to the bard before you.

“Your laugh is the most beautiful sound I’ve ever heard,” Jaskier said, his voice so soft you felt your heart swell in your chest. He looked at you as if you held the stars in your eyes, the smile on his face was contagious.

“After all these exhausting days, it’s nice to laugh again.” You said, leaning back in your seat, visibly relaxing.

“It’s like a breath of fresh air. Like,” Jaskier sat forward, reaching to you to put his hands over yours. “There’s this cruel world that wants nothing more than to break us down, and in spite of it, we continue to laugh, we’re still grateful for the fortune we have!”

“In spite of everything we’ve gone through, we can still hole up in a tavern and I can listen to you play music until the sun sets.” You continued, his eyes lighting up at your words.

“Well, I have people to entertain, dear heart,” Jaskier said, grinning from ear to ear. “That does include you.” His thumb rubbed over your hand, a movement you weren’t entirely sure he was even aware of.

By the time Geralt had rejoined the table, your face hurt from how much you were smiling. Jaskier had a keen ability to keep your mood up even in the worst conditions. With his infectious laughter and poetic pep talks, you knew you always had a light in your life to keep you going.

And when the rain came down

When Jaskier found you laying in the mud, rain pouring down over the both of you, he screamed for Geralt louder than he’d ever screamed in his life. You were unconscious, the blood from a cut on your head running down your face, mixing with the rainwater.

Geralt was too far off from the group to defend them when a monster stumbled across the two of you. In your attempt to get it away from Jaskier, you ran off the beaten path deeper into the forest.

He lost you in the downpour, barely being able to see two feet in front of him. Despite the ever-present danger of the monster that had been there only moments ago, Jaskier stumbled blindly through the woods until he found you.

“Geralt!” His voice was hoarse from yelling, desperate for his friend to hear him.

Jaskier knew the importance of timing, and he used all his strength to pull you back to the path, barely registering Geralt’s thundering footsteps that grew louder by the second.

“Jaskier.” Geralt’s voice went in one ear and out the other, with Jaskier continuing to bring your limp body through the woods, muttering pleas under his breath.

He only stopped when Geralt placed a hand on his shoulder, looking at the witcher with glassy eyes.

“You have to help her.” He begged, barely holding it together.

Without another word, Geralt bent down to pick you up, lifting you with ease. Jaskier trailed behind him, squinting to see ahead of him through the dense rain while Geralt brought you to a safe and dry location to fix you up.

Despite his outwardly calm demeanor, Geralt was moving quickly, trying to get through the forest to the inn you were all staying at for the night, glancing down at the blood running down your face every few seconds.

I made a vow out to the dark

Please let her live just one more day

For the first time in Jaskier’s life, he prayed.

He sat by your bedside, praying to any god that could hear him, anyone that was listening, to do something to help you.

You lay before him, a blanket covering you. Geralt was off on the other side of the room, concocting a potion that would help you. It was a delicate balance, and he was focused more than ever to create something that wouldn’t do more harm than good. The cut on your head was hastily cleaned and bandaged, but neither of them could tell what the extent of your injuries was.

“Please,” Jaskier whispered, eyes screwed shut with his hands clasped tightly in front of him. “Please just let her live. Just one more day, please, I’m begging you.”

On the other side of the room, Geralt raised the potion, holding it up to the light and swirling it around. The movement caused a faint glow in the bottle, and Geralt brought the potion back down in front of him, grabbing one final ingredient.

'Cause she is so much more than all her scars

And if she doesn't have the will

“She can’t die,” Jaskier muttered, voice breaking. “She can’t.”

“She won’t.” Geralt’s voice didn’t sound very certain. There was something in his tone that made Jaskier’s heart drop. After knowing the witcher for so many years he was able to deduce even the slightest changes in his attitude, and Jaskier could tell how worried Geralt was under his hardened exterior.

He finished mixing an herb into the potion, setting it to the side while Jaskier spoke.

“She’s endured so much, Geralt.” There was a faraway look in the bard’s eyes. “Everything she’s gone through; all her scars, all her pain… It can’t end here. It can’t be for nothing.”

“It’ll be okay.” Geralt crossed the room, standing in front of you. He knelt down, gently pulling your mouth open and pouring the potion down your throat.

“Is it working?” Jaskier asked when he set the empty bottle down. Nothing had happened yet, but Geralt let it slide seeing how nervous he was.

Still, the witcher said nothing, staring intently while the potion worked its magic. Your veins glowed a faint blue color for a moment before it died down, the silence between the two men was deafening.

But it seems the whole world does I'll stay because

I will be the man my father never was

As he stared down at you, the first person to make him feel comfortable with his emotions, he couldn’t help but think back to a moment between him and his father when he was a child. The tears on his face were long forgotten with the memory playing in the back of his mind.

“Julian!” His father’s booming voice echoed around the room as he looked down at his crying son. “Stop your whining, you need to man up! No child of mine will be caught sniveling like a little girl!”

Jaskier sniffled, wiping the tears from his eyes to no avail. He took a shuddering breath, hiding his face behind his hands. A broken lute sat before him, smashed by his father during an argument about where the boy’s future was going.

“Julian, now!” His father’s voice rang through his ears, and after a couple more moments, he was able to catch his breath, angrily swiping the tears out of his eyes.

He had barely managed to compose himself, long enough that his father lost interest, going off to find something else to be angry about.

Before he left the room, slamming the door on his way out, Jaskier could hear his father muttering about his worthless son. Still, he forced the tears back, biting his lip hard enough to draw blood to keep his sobs at bay.

When Jaskier looked at you, he remembered the first time he performed in front of you. The way you looked at him while he danced around the tavern was forever imprinted on his mind. There was so much adoration in your eyes, and you were smiling wider than he’d ever seen. Afterward, you’d told him how much you loved his singing, and he felt such a resurgence in confidence in his music that he hadn’t felt since he was very young.

And what you hear is not silence

It's just the trees waiting to hear what next you'll hum

On a quiet evening on the road, Jaskier had stopped strumming his lute. You noticed his shift in emotion, slowing to walk by his side. The three of you were traveling deep in the woods on your way to the next town with Geralt perched on Roach as per usual while you and Jaskier walked down the dirt path behind him.

“Why’d you stop?” You asked quietly, nudging the bard lightly to get his attention. He seemed lost in his thoughts, staring up at the night sky with a heavy sigh.

“It’s quiet.” He said, dropping his gaze to look around at the expanse of trees. The only other sound around you was Roach’s hooves hitting the ground. “I don’t want to disrupt that.”

“Oh Jask,” You could see a hint of a smile at the use of the nickname, something you picked up after his constant use of pet names towards you. “That’s not just silence.

He turned to you, slowing his walk with a look of confusion on his face.

“It’s the trees waiting to hear your next song.” You grinned, gesturing towards the open woods. “The world just wants to listen to your music.”

Jaskier laughed, his gaze falling to the ground.

“Please,” You persisted when he didn’t move to grab his lute. “I want to hear it.”

With a slight reluctance, Jaskier grabbed the lute he’d maneuvered over his shoulder, adjusting it in his hands. He began strumming the instrument, a soft tune echoing through the trees as he hummed the beginnings of his next ballad.

You couldn’t help the smile gracing your face, hanging on to every note he sang.

And what you see is not the dark

It's just the gods upturning inkpots

'Cause they know what you'll become

Not long after that evening, the three of you had set up camp not long after the sun had set, walking a few minutes off the dirt path to steer clear of other travelers.

Geralt was fast asleep not far from Roach, while you tried to relax in your own bedroll close to Jaskier’s.

It didn’t take long, however, to notice Jaskier sitting upright and staring out at the darkness around him, eyes darting around the woods as if he would miss something that would leap out and attack him. You frowned, scooting closer to him, apologizing quietly when he jumped at your movement. Stopping when your bedroll was touching his, you placed a careful hand on his shoulder, giving him a worried look you were sure he couldn’t see in the dark.

“You alright?”

He didn’t respond, still looking out into the empty night. “Do you hear that?”

You stopped for a moment, listening.

“No?”

He turned to you with a start, eyes wide with fear. “What if there’s something out there?”

“Then Geralt will handle it.” You nodded to the witcher a few feet from you, hand resting on his sword in his sleep.

Jaskier didn’t respond, but you could tell he was still on edge. An idea popped into your head, and you shifted in your seat, preparing to give the storyteller the gift he’d given you so often.

“The dark out there,” You pointed, watching him follow where your hand led. “It’s the gods upturning inkpots just for you.”

His brows furrowed, still looking out where you’d pointed.

“See, they know what an artist you’ll become. They’re giving you the proper materials.” You grinned when you saw him relax slightly, moving closer to you.

“The world, the gods, everyone can see what you’re going to become. I can see it, too.” Your voice was quiet, now, the moment becoming startlingly intimate.

“Can you, now?” Jaskier smirked, trying to ignore his increased heartbeat at the lack of distance between the two of you.

With an overconfident nod, you moved your hand over his shoulders. “Of course I can.”

And to those gods I will speak bluntly

We've an accord

If you ever touch or harm him

Your scream pierced the air when you saw a stray arrow flying through the air, striking Jaskier in the side. When you turned back to the bandit who sat atop his horse, bow still at the ready, your eyes darkened.

It didn’t take long to deal with him, reaching up to slice a dagger into his chest before he could reload his bow, barely paying him any mind as he slid off the horse, rushing to Jaskier’s side.

“Geralt!” Your voice carried through the air, praying it reached the witcher who wasn’t much further down the path.

Cursing under your breath, you ripped the cloth from your sleeve, pressing it onto his wound around the arrow to stop the bleeding.

The sight before you broke your heart into pieces, looking down at the bleeding bard. Someone who was once so vibrant, so loud and eccentric, rendered practically silent.

“Geralt!” You called again, voice cracking. Your hands were covered in blood, seeping through the fabric of your torn sleeve. The thought of it being Jaskier’s blood made you nauseous, but you persisted, shutting your eyes tightly and cursing again.

“I swear to you,” You muttered, opening your eyes just long enough to send a glare to the sky, addressing any god that could hear you. “If you allow him to die you will never know peace for as long as I live. You have to save him. You cannot let him die. You can’t.”

Please rest assured

That you might not fear a man

But to a woman by the end you'll kneel and plea

By the time Geralt reached your side, you were still hovering over Jaskier, the body of the bandit not far from either of you.

“The rest of his group are on their way, I can hear three more bandits.” He said, shifting his focus to Jaskier’s wound. “Deal with them, I’ll handle Jaskier.”

You nodded, standing shakily. “Don’t let him die.”

There was a fire in your eyes that stared deep into Geralt’s, and he knew there would be hell to pay if any more harm came to your bard. He unsheathed one of his swords, handing it off to you.

“Go.”

And with his word, you were off.

The three bandits barely stood a chance against you, your blood boiling with the fear of losing Jaskier and the anger of what had been done to him.

You gripped the sword tighter in your hands, seeing one of them approaching. He grinned when he made eye contact with you, unaware of how little life he had left.

By the time you were finished and making your way back to Geralt, the final man left was bleeding out off to the side of the path, propped against a tree with blood pouring from a deep gash on his leg.

“Please,” He begged, looking up at you as you passed. “I beg of you, save me.”

You looked down upon him, grimacing at the sight. His eyes were filled with hope when you approached him, Geralt’s sword still stuck inside the body of a bandit not far off.

It wasn’t until you picked up the axe just out of his reach that the hope faded from his eyes. He didn’t have enough time to beg once more for his life before you brought the axe down over his head, barely flinching when he went limp. You stepped away, pulling the sword out of the corpse that lay bloody in the grass and walking in the direction Geralt had gone.

When you finally found Geralt, who had laid Jaskier onto a bed, handling the wound as fast as he could, he looked up at you.

You gave him a blank stare, letting the sword fall from your hands with a loud clatter, walking to the other side of the room to work on a potion that might help Jaskier. The witcher knew without having to ask that the blood slashed across your face wasn’t your own. Once he gathered you were uninjured, he turned his focus back to the bard before him.

'Cause I'm more than what my mum told me to be

When you thought back to the man pleading for his life, you were reminded of what your mother had always told you when you were younger.

“Y/N,” Your mother sighed when she saw you enter the house covered in dirt, a wide smile on your face that slowly faded at her reaction. “Wash up immediately. It’s not ladylike.”

To avoid an argument, you quickly washed up, wiping the dirt from your face and putting on a clean pair of clothes.

“I wish you wouldn’t play in the woods so often.” She continued once you reappeared, gathering dinner for you and her.

“But it’s fun?” You were truly confused why she had such a problem with it, it’s not like dirt was permanent - you could wash it off any time.

“It’s not ladylike. It’s uncivilized.” Your brows furrowed.

“But then why are the other boys in town allowed to play in the dirt?” When the question left your mouth, the look on your mother’s face made you regret even asking.

“You will never have a respectable life if you continue down this road. You’ll never find a good man, and you’ll just be a hag living alone for the rest of your life.” She didn’t even have to raise her voice to get her point across, the sentence striking deep into your heart.

You sat in silence for a few seconds before you nodded, trying to push away the insecurity burying itself deep within you.

Looking down at Jaskier taking shallow breaths, you blinked back tears, handing Geralt the potion you’d made. With your anxiety steadily increasing, you watched Geralt pour the potion into the gaping wound.

“And now?” You asked, watching the magic cling to Jaskier. It looked similar to a web, pulling at the edges of the wound, working to close it.

“We wait,” Geralt said, leaving the room to give you privacy. He knew you weren’t going to leave Jaskier’s side anytime soon, so he retired to his own room to rest for the night.

He was right - you planted yourself in the seat beside the bed, eyeing the lute that lay on the floor, unscathed.

And I can hear her sing

Jaskier as he lay in bed, felt so far away from the world he was so used to. It was as if he was in a dreamlike state, but he could distantly make out the sound of his own lute. The first few notes caught his attention, strumming carefully.

It wasn’t until he heard your voice singing quietly that he felt some strength return to him. The sound of your singing was so faint and almost distorted that it felt like he was underwater, sinking further and further away from the land of the living. He could barely make out the words you were saying, but it felt so familiar all the same.

With a massive strain of effort, he pushed himself forward, trying with all his might to get back to you.

And I know she's giving up

With you still laying on the bed, the blue glow from Geralt’s potion long gone from your veins, Jaskier couldn’t help the anxiety building in his chest.

“She’s getting weaker,” Geralt said, and Jaskier swore he felt his heart tear into pieces.

Trying to push back his fear, Jaskier knelt by your bedside, taking your hand in his with the utmost care.

“Please, my love.”

You didn’t move, didn’t even flinch.

“I need you,” Jaskier’s voice cracked painfully, a tear rolling down his face when he blinked. “Please stay with me.”

And I don't know what to do, how to help her

How to bring her home

Jaskier, stuck in a dreamlike state, pushed through the feeling of being underwater with your voice just beyond his reach. He had used up all his strength and was now floating in limbo with nothing but your soft voice filling his senses.

The pain was too much that he’d begun to panic, worried he wouldn’t be able to make it home to you. He wanted nothing more than to wake up, to see you smile, to hear your laugh, to be able to hold you in his arms.

He wanted to tell you he loved you.

He needed to tell you he loved you.

When your voice broke, he realized you were crying.

It brought a newfound strength to his body, fighting harder than before to get out, to wake up.

To get to you.

And I can hear him break

You knew you weren’t awake, that you weren’t conscious. You could practically feel how close you were teetering on the line between life and death, trapped in a void-like limbo. Your whole body was numb, the feeling of floating disorienting you.

It was so quiet you almost missed it, but you perked up at the sound of Jaskier’s voice echoing around you. It was so faint you had to strain to listen, unable to make out the words he was saying.

Still, it brought you an odd source of comfort. Even so close to death, Jaskier was still right there, waiting for you. It was a reminder of what to fight for. Something - someone you knew you had to fight for.

You could hear the way his voice broke, and you forced yourself to push toward the source of the sound, knowing you needed to get back to Jaskier no matter what.

And he doesn't understand

Jaskier, doing everything he could to get back to you, was strengthened by hearing you muttering soothing words. You’d stopped singing at this point, instead telling him how he was going to be alright. How you’d make sure of it. How you weren’t going to let him die. Anyone listening would’ve thought you were confident in your words, but Jaskier could hear the way your voice shook almost imperceptibly, fighting back the fear in your heart.

He would never understand why you were so scared of the idea of losing him - you’d mentioned it before on other days when he’d had brushes with death and danger. You told him about how much you needed him, and he couldn’t understand why someone like him was so important to someone like you. He had always wondered why you cared so deeply for him, but it wasn’t something he wanted to take for granted.

So, pushing on, he forced himself to move forward, your voice echoing around him louder than ever.

And I wish that I could take his hand

But where I'm going is for me and me alone

Still trapped in limbo, you bit back the pain you felt, forcing yourself to move closer to Jaskier’s distant voice. You had barely started to make out what he was saying; he seemed to be talking to Geralt about your condition.

“Is it working? Geralt, is anything even happening?” He sounded angry, angrier than you’d ever heard him.

Geralt had responded, but he was so far away you could barely hear him.

“I cannot lose her!” You heard him yell. The pain in his voice pulled at your heartstrings.

Continuing forward, you wanted nothing more than to take his hand in yours and tell him everything was alright. That you were alright.

Though, you weren’t sure if that was true or not at this point.

Another part of you knew, as well, that this was a journey you had to survive on your own, especially if you wanted to see him again.

And I can hear her sing

Louder than ever now, Jaskier could hear your singing. It was a ballad of his that you always told him you loved. It warmed his heart that you knew it so well. You were strumming along on his lute - he remembered when he taught you how to play when the two of you had spare time, which you often did as Geralt was often alone getting coins for the group.

Every part of his body was in pain, but with every note you played and every word you sang, he knew he had to get back to you.

He continued, fighting his way toward the sound of your voice that echoed around him, trying to ignore the ache in his side with every movement.

If I don't make it back from where I've gone

Just know I loved you all along

Jaskier was still talking - he was always good at that. When your limbs felt like jello and every step took every ounce of your energy, you let yourself focus on his calming voice.

For a brief moment, you wondered what would happen if you didn’t make it back. You were so weak you almost let yourself sink back down, falling closer to the line between life and death when Jaskier caught your attention once more.

“Please, Geralt. Please save her. I need her, I can’t-” His voice broke harshly, and you knew nothing would stop you from getting back to the bard that had found himself in your heart.

If I don't make it back from where I've gone

Just know I loved you all along

Jaskier’s finger twitched, and he was starting to feel his surroundings once more, bit by bit. The void state he was in began to fill with color. Your voice was unwavering, now moving on to humming random tunes while you plucked the strings of his lute, unaware of how close Jaskier was to waking up.

He was still unable to force his eyes open, but he could feel the world around him a little better by the second.

The warmth of the blanket laid over him, the light wind from the open window beside him, it all started to creep back into his senses.

After all, you’d been trying so hard to bring him back, he might as well try to do his part.

If I don't make it back from where I've gone

Just know I loved you all along

You made your way closer to where you could hear Jaskier, the desperation in his tone making you more determined than ever.

Ever so faintly, you swore you could feel someone grab your hand, so gently that you instantly knew it was him.

“My heart,” Jaskier whispered, the sound echoing into your soul. “Please wake up.”

The world around you started to fill your senses, so quickly that it was almost overwhelming.

Just as you began to come to, lightly squeezing Jaskier’s hand as a silent indication that you were there, the only thought in your mind was how there was no way in hell you were leaving Jaskier again.

If I don't make it back from where I've gone

Just know I loved you all along

Jaskier blinked awake, squinting at the sudden amount of light.

He barely had enough time to get his bearings before you wrapped your arms around him. He made a noise of surprise, blinking a couple more times before he realized what was going on. Still weak, he brought his arms up around you to return your embrace, letting himself relax in your arms.

“Y/N,” His voice was quiet, but you heard him clear as day, tightening your hold on him.

You finally pulled away, giving Jaskier a shaky smile, whispering a hello that made him grin. Quickly, you wiped the tears that had spilled from your eyes, his gaze softening.

“You’re alright,” You almost laughed, saying the words mostly for yourself than him.

(Loved you all along)

When you managed to open your eyes, Jaskier’s hand still firmly in yours, his breath hitched. He would later tell you it felt like the world slowed down around him the moment he saw your eyes open.

You tried to sit up in the bed before Jaskier hurriedly ushered you back down, not bothering to swipe at the tears from his eyes, too focused on your presence to even notice.

“Of course you were too stubborn to die.” He muttered with a wet laugh.

You barely nodded, still regaining your strength.

“Never scare me like that again, Y/N.” Jaskier’s voice lowered, suddenly very stern. “I can’t lose you. I really can’t.”

“I know, Jask.” He couldn’t help but smile at the nickname, hearing you say it with so much love that he could practically feel your adoration towards him.

Ever so gently, he pulled you into a warm hug, burying your head in his neck.

“I needed to get back to you.” You explained, voice muffled in Jaskier’s hold. “I wasn’t ready to leave you, not yet.”

Jaskier’s brows furrowed, though you hadn’t seen it.

“Why me?” The words came before he could stop them, and he regretted them for only a second when he felt you pull away only for you to maneuver yourself so your forehead was resting against his.

With Geralt long gone, wanting to give the two of you privacy to talk, you sat with him in the silence, comfortable in his presence in a way you could only be around him.

Breaking through the silence was a whispered confession, only to be heard by the both of you.

“I loved you all along.”

[inquisimer]

Happy friday Mer!!! For Valya & Mahariel, "such fascinations reveal far more about the teller than the truth." (from the As Said by Cassandra Pentaghast list) and/or "life isn’t fair, it’s just fairer than death, that’s all." (from the Quotes about Death prompts)

hi kia and ty for the prompt! here's a bit of Warden/Mage philosophy between Valya and Sari during a late-night research session in the Weisshaupt library for @dadrunkwriting

Sari Mahariel & Valya | wc: 908

-

“Do you ever regret it?”

“Regret what?”

“The Joining. Becoming a Warden.”

Sari looked up from the dusty tome before her, blinking owlishly. The dim light from Valya’s staff was the only illumination in Weisshaupt’s library—candles were a premium that the Wardens could not spare for late night researchers. Across the small table they shared, the young city elf was watching Sari thoughtfully, one finger marking her place in the odd, yellowed book that she only read at night.

“What makes you ask?” Sari answered, mostly to buy herself some time. The honest answer was yes, of course, but the obvious follow-up question—why?—was something she could not answer. Not without revealing herself and she still had work to do here.

“I…think about it, a lot.” Valya chewed on a piece of hair, lips quirking. “Hard not to, being here. Caronel, Sekah, Reimas…they all have different opinions. Either I’m wrong to doubt or I’m wrong to rush in. I guess I just wondered what yours was.”

Exhaling slowly, Sari set her ragged quill down on its rest. “The Wardens have their place, and their purpose. And little use for regret. The opinions of others will not give you the answers you seek. No one can tell you what the right path is.”

“A fair point. But you didn’t answer my question.”

“No, I didn’t,” Sari sighed. She rubbed at the Blight-blistered skin over her knuckles, a souvenir from Fort Drakon. Did she regret it? Yes, of course. And also not at all.

“I needed the Wardens at the same time that they needed me,” she finally said. “Did they save my life? Yes. But they also took many other things from me. And some days I wonder if the price I’ve paid is not more than my life is worth.”

She stared, unseeing, at her notes. “If I had another choice, I do not think I would choose the Wardens. But I did not. Given the months that you’ve already passed here unjoined, it seems that you do.”

“Do I?” Valya scowled. “The Templars will regroup. The Chantry will recover. The ones who are not so soft-hearted as Reimas will come for the mages that have scattered, eventually.”

“They might. Or they might not, not in the way you’re thinking. If nothing else, the Wardens have taught me that no matter the certainty of my thoughts, there is always a way for things to change. We cannot know, cannot predict, where we will be even five minutes from now.”

“But you regret it.”

“I regret the circumstances. But I have no real way of knowing what would have happened if things were different. What if I did have a choice, refused the Wardens, and things turned out worse?”

She smiled sadly at Valya. The young girl’s eyes swirled with murky confusion, the fear of the chaos outside and of the Wardens’ curse in equal measures. In some ways, Sari envied her; there had been no long debate on her behalf, so many years ago. With poison in her veins and a Blight on the horizon, it was never really a choice.

“It seems the logical thing to do,” Valya said. “The only way to be absolutely sure the Circles cannot touch me.”

“But?”

Valya frowned. “I’ve only just regained my freedom. It doesn’t seem fair that I have to surrender it to keep even a fraction of autonomy.”

“The Wardens don’t trade in ‘fair’.”

“Neither does the Circle, I suppose.” Pulling her staff over, Valya fed a sliver of mana into the weathered wood. The orb atop it flared briefly before settling back into the steady, dull illumination. “I just wish….I wish I didn’t feel an expiration date on the Wardens’ protection. Without the Joining behind me, they can always revoke sanctuary and turn us back to the Templars.”

Sari couldn’t help a wry smile. “I don’t know if you’ll believe me, but that’s not likely to happen. There’s not exactly a line of willing recruits at the Wardens’ door, what with the Blight over a decade past. If you stood before a Templar and a Warden and swore that you would take the Joining that second, the Chantry would have no authority to stop you. And the Wardens have no reason to turn you away.”

“Then why have they kept us here, researching? Not Joined, not training?”

“There is no Blight. No urgency, not yet. If I could wager a guess? They have their own….not regrets, exactly, but something like that. They’ve already made the sacrifice, so there’s a chance you won’t have to. No one is eager to put the promising youth to the death—and that’s the choice, when they put you to the Joining.”

Sari shrugged. “If the Templars come, all they have to do is say you’re a recruit. The Chantry has no hold over that, least of all here.”

“That’s…remarkably wise.”

“Remarkably?”

“I—well, I meant—“ Valya stammered over her sudden panic, but Sari was already grinning as she turned the pages back on her tome to make more notes. Her amusement fell away into familiar solemnity.

“Were I in your shoes, da’len, I would not rush headlong into death. They will force your hand eventually—you need not press them for it.” She kept her sorrowful gaze hidden from Valya’s curiosity. “Cherish the time you have now, and worry about the rest when the world shows its hand.”

[psychewritesbs]

Thanks so much for sharing your metas @theanimepsychologist , I learn a lot of things from you...

Sorry for just realizing it now, that you are the writer of one of my favorite 'Soul Eater' meta ever from a few years ago (love it so much).

Now I found your blog again through your JJK metas (new fan here, just got to JJK fandom last year)....

Can I ask something, do you think SatoSugu is queerbaiting? What do you think about Gojo and Geto's relationship as romantic subtext?

(Sorry if you don't ship them, it's just, I want to know objective pov like you that neither love nor hate Gojo and Geto as characters).

If I ask these questions to SatoSugu shipper or anti SatoSugu (Gojo/Geto hater) both of those groups are subjective to their likes and dislikes...

But if you don't want to talk about it, I understand, sorry if I ask too much.

Also, just want to tell you, one of the main reason why I entered the fandom, is because of stsg. The fan arts and fan fictions for SatoSugu are amazing....But I love JJK more and understand more about the story & characters are thanks to you @theanimepsychologist (Sorry again if my main reason for entering JJK fandom is because of shipping).

Well this is awkward... I've since changed my username and perplexed moots and followers alike because of it.

Anyways, is stsg queerbaiting???? HMMMMM let's taco'bout it under the cut.

I think the ship in the manga walks a very fine line between queerbaiting and whatever the opposite is, but imo, it is ultimately not queerbaiting. More about this in a little bit.

If I'm honest though, if we go by the strict definition of queerbaiting as a "marketing technique for fiction and entertainment in which creators hint at, but do not depict, same-sex romance or other LGBTQ+ representation," the anime feels by contrast queerbaity.

I say this because MAPPA seems to be very aware it is catering to a very specific target audience...

Like... did they have to go this hard with Nanami?

Similarly, they took creative decisions that were very openly supportive of stsg as a ship while still remaining somewhat ambiguous to all of the people who do not see the romantic undertones.

In other words, MAPPA goes out of their way to make certain aspects of the story more obvious, which can feel like it is very intentionally speaking to an audience that would enjoy such changes.

Honestly tho, I LOVED the creative liberties that the anime took in general.

ANYWAYS.

My thoughts on stsg... I've actually talked about how I do like this ship before. I used to be on camp "they're just friends" and came around because I saw the vision and now I can't unsee it. But the fact that I had to be shown the vision in order to "get it" makes me feel like you have to see the ship through a certain lens in order to appreciate it romantically.

Thing is that I personally find it dissatisfying that a ship is presented to me in little "hints" and "clues" rather than through the dynamic itself. Which is where the queerbaiting allegations come in.

HOWEVER, to me, knowing how Gege writes by subverting tropes, the "queerbaiting" hints are very intentionally placed in the manga to say "these two were lovers" as opposed to doing it for "marketing purposes".

Personally, I much prefer Tsubasa Reservoir Chronicle's kurofai because the clues are hidden in the dynamic and their emotional behavior to one another.

Compared to stsg, I can only read romantic subtext in two or three canon stsg panels, but I'm also not sure if it's because of Gege's skill level, lesser focus on emotional intimacy, idk...

That's how I see it at least. And I honestly respect anyone who doesn't think of them as lovers because, again, the ship is somewhat hidden in clues, not in the dynamic. And say a stsg fan reads this, they could very well think "is she blind?!"

And this is where we get into post-modernism and jjk's main theme: no one owns the objective truth. You are reading jjk through your very own unique lens, and any meaning you make out of jjk is always filtered through that lens. Trying to say your truth is absolute is basically power scaling.

At one point or another someone has to agree to disagree.

So yeah, you'll hear me say this bit about not owning the ultimate truth a lot.

Anon, thank you so much for the kind comments 🥲. I am so happy to hear you loved my Soul Eater write up and that you've ran into my jjk rambles too.

Honestly, I love writing about my favorite ships and nothing makes me sadder than the state of shipping in jjk fandom because people won't just mind their own business about who should be shipped with whom.

As a side note, I've been brainrotting about atsumei recently. Might actually write about the breadcrumbs because these two move me the way some of my absolute favorite ships, soma, asucaga, and kurofai move me.

Anyways I'VE RAMBLED WHY DID NO ONE STOP ME?, it looks like you are feeling worried about my thoughts on you starting to read jjk because of stsg. I say it is a wonderful thing that you started reading it and found enjoyment in it.

Thanks for reaching out, and as per usual I apologize on taking forever to answer asks... I have like 50 and I do try to answer most of them.

[waltwhitmansbeard]

go on, claim my heart: chapter twenty-two

see my masterpost for what came before this.

Back in the abandoned tea shop, the group looks significantly worse for the wear, though few of them saw any real action up at the castle. Pike has completely healed Vex's neck wound, though she can sense from the delicate way she and Percy are dancing around each other, there are other, deeper wounds that her divine magic cannot touch.

The same can be said for Keyleth, who looks more haunted than she has since they left Zephrah. Pike cannot imagine the images that must be plaguing her, the memory of seeing her baby girl and not being able to carry her out of that place to safety. She sits with her back straight up against a wall of this basement, her legs outstretched and her eyes staring forward, unseeing. Vax sits just beside her, his fingers interlaced with hers, and neither of them say a word.

Pike knows that she was asked to join this mission primarily for her exceptional healing abilities, but now that they know that they are dealing with powerful, insidious undead, she is glad that her particular brand of divinity has been called upon in this time. It is Vax's matron who holds dominion over the boundary between life and death, but Sarenrae, the goddess of compassion, the goddess of redemption, has granted Pike the strength to deal with such perversions of all that is good and right, strength Pike will need if she is to help her friends.

She wishes that the Everlight could show her what exactly the Briarwoods have kidnapped Vilya for, what grand plans they have for the Night of Ascension, but even a goddess has her limits. She is, after all, not the goddess of fate.

Vex explains to the group the power and speed she felt at the hands of Sylas Briarwood. It sounds terrifying, a being who can move with such preternatural speed, whose teeth can be at one's throat in the blink of an eye, and Pike sees Scanlan blanch as the reality of what they're facing sinks in. She never wanted him to accompany her on this journey, never wanted him to know the dangers that lurk out there in the shadows far from courtly life, but she cannot deny that beneath her worry for him, there is relief that he is here, that he is close.

When Vex is done, Keyleth recounts her experience inside the castle. Pike has a difficult time gauging whose reaction to the tale is more horrified: Percy, who is forced to listen to the cruelty Delilah Briarwood showed his sister, or Vax, who must hear his wife's tremulous narration of their daughter's cries for help. Keyleth finishes describing her escape from Delilah Briarwood's magical attacks, and then says, "They know we are here now. They know we are coming for her. However are we meant to free her when they are sure to be increasing their defenses as we speak?"

The basement falls silent, and Pike knows that they are all thinking the same thing: perhaps they can't.

"We have a friend on the inside," Percy offers, and when he receives confused looks in return, he rolls his eyes and elaborates. "Cassandra?"

Every other set of eyes in the room finds each other, and Pike hears what goes unsaid among the group: they have no way of knowing that Cassandra will be an ally in their mission.

Percy must sense their unspoken fear, because he immediately snaps, "What? You do not think she will be a friend to us?"

"Percy," Vex says slowly, carefully, "Cassandra has lived with the Briarwoods for a long time. Yes, Keyleth described some horrible treatment from Lady Briarwood, but...they have been, presumably, the only parents she has ever known. We cannot be certain that she will choose a group of strangers over them, should the choice arise."

Percy's eyes flash as the suggestion, and Pike is quick to diffuse the rising tension. "Let us hope that we can count on her, but let us also not concoct a plan that relies on it. For starters, getting any actionable information to her will likely be difficult. Our focus should be on retrieving Cassandra, not turning her against the Briarwoods, should she need to be turned."

To Keyleth, she says, "I'm sorry, but I do not believe that your sunlight magic is just an option any longer. You will have to use it in order for the rest of the group to stand a chance at defeating Sylas Briarwood."

Keyleth's face is pale, but she nods. "You as well. Your showing against those undead in the center of Whitestone was formidable. We will need such magics against him."

She is right. Together, the two of them will need to weaken Sylas Briarwood enough for the others to be able to strike the blows that will kill him. Then, once they are rid of him, they will need to focus their efforts on Delilah Briarwood, whom Pike suspects will be an even more troublesome foe.

Grog, Percy, and Vex begin discussing the best methods for taking down Lord Briarwood, and Pike uses the cover to sidle up to Vax. "Have you asked your matron for any insight on what we might be facing?"

Vax seems surprised by the question. It took Pike quite a while into her divine studies to feel comfortable calling upon the Everlight for guidance, and she can imagine that for Vax, the prospect still feels foreign and new. "I...I do not know what I would ask."

"I think...you can't go wrong asking for help. I can't speak for you and the Raven Queen, but...my relationship with Sarenrae, it's...mutual, I would say. I serve her, yes, but she also aids me in times of trouble. It feels less like I worship her and more like...we work together toward our common goal of making the world a better place. I think if you approach your goddess with a similar mindset...I don't know. Maybe she could help."

Vax chews on his lip for a moment, then nods. He turns to Keyleth and murmurs, "I'm going to go upstairs for a few minutes."

Her fingers tighten around his, just slightly, before letting go of his hand. "Alright."

Vax kisses the top of her head and stands, walking over to Chancellor Desnay. They exchange a few words before Vax disappears up into the tea shop above.

Pike quickly takes his spot beside Keyleth. "Come. Let us practice the magics we'll need to take on Lord Briarwood."

Pike watches the resolve form in Keyleth's eyes as she nods and lifts her hands in front of her face, summoning the determination to do whatever it takes to bring her daughter home.

.

Vax follows Chancellor Desnay's directions for accessing the roof of this little tea shop. He doesn't know why, but he feels that being outside beneath the winter stars will be conducive to a conversation with his matron. Once he is up there, he stretches out on his back, staring up at the waxing moon overhead. He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and lets himself fall.

He isn't exactly asleep, but he knows he has left the conscious world when he is surrounded entirely by black, not a pinprick of starlight to be found. He stands, or floats, or whatever he does in this strange liminal space, waiting for the Raven Queen to come to him. The porcelain mask appears, giant and imposing, and he does not bother with pleasantries. "I need your help."

"That you do, my chosen," the serene voice replies. "Just as I need yours."

"What do they want?" he begs. She must know. She is the mistress of fate. "What do they hope to accomplish with Vilya's death?"

The mask shifts, ever so slightly, and Vax swears it is sinking in on itself, deflated. "I have already told you what they want, Champion. Their aims have not changed."

Vax is confused. He remembers her warning from just before Vilya's birth—Death comes for your family, my Champion. Death, and undeath.—but this is not a mission, a goal, a defined threat for him to face. "I am but a mortal man, my lady, whose memory is fallible and weak. Please, tell me."

The mask is no longer massive and looming, but right there in front of him, so close he could reach his fingers out, trace along the slope of the nose. A ghostly pale hand stretches from the black to tap him gently on the forehead, and instantly, once-forgotten words echo in his ears.

As my Champion, you will stand against those who seek to escape death and you will challenge those who defy fate. My enemies chase undeath and immortality. My enemies work to wrest control of their destinies from me, the weaver of fate. You will strike down these enemies, and you will maintain the balance between life and death.

He blinks, and the mask is now gone entirely. He can feel her presence, hovering just a few inches behind him. He does not move, does not turn. "They seek immortality."

"Yes." The word is a breath in his ear.

"And they will kill Vilya to achieve it."

There is a sigh, cold and quiet like a winter breeze. "It is the darkest of magics, one I did not even contemplate when achieving my apotheosis. They will use the magic in her blood to wrest control of their deaths from my hands."

The magic in her blood. Keyleth's magic. She told him once of her suspicion that her own undefinable abilities came from her mother, and it seems the Briarwoods, at least, suspect the same of Vilya.

He feels as though he is drowning, as though his lungs have filled with blood and he is choking on it. "They will kill my daughter to cheat death," he repeats, the words feeling like lead on his tongue. Is it possible to vomit in this place? He might be about to find out.

"They are not the only ones who seek to avoid the fate I weave. There is another, one who plucks the threads from my loom, one with whom the Briarwoods have been working for some time. He is my enemy as much as they are, but these Briarwoods must be defeated first."

Vax whips around, shocked, but if the Raven Queen had been just behind him, she is now much farther away, gargantuan, hovering ten, twenty, fifty feet overhead. "Who? Who is your enemy?"

"One crisis at a time, my sweet. I will be with you as you challenge these foes, but challenge them quickly. The anniversary of my ascension approaches, and they will use the inherent magical power of that night to achieve their aims."

Vax opens his mouth to argue, to demand more information, to question the validity of their plan, but he is wrenched from her realm and thrust back into the body sprawled out on the roof. As he gazes upward, breathless and stunned, he feels a tear wend a path down from the corner of his eye into his hair. He lays there, half-frozen in the winter air, and he thinks of his daughter, who mercifully has no idea what grave, unholy danger she is in.

[kidelune]

TW: Mature themes, death, violence, blood, all that jazz. Read at your own discretion.

one | two | three | four | five | six | seven | eight

It is said death with the tongue is useful, but I find words too soft an instrument to smash a man’s skull. And tongues useless.

featuring @chenosias

[August 29, 2023, location: confidential]

The basement is a fleeting nightmare you enter with your conscience and cognition far detached from yourself. And as you ascend to the surface again, everything you've seen and heard below, unless significant in any way above, stays behind on the backdoor's threshold. These were the rules for as long as Kijun could remember, an onslaught of repeated relays to you in the car on the way; and really, of such importance they were that everyone who dared come and go here were adamant on the notion of colouring within the lines of this rule. At least if you wanted to keep your head.

Valuing his sleep and sanity, Kijun never dared bring even a toe overline and nevertheless, he couldn't ever truly get accustomed with the unseeing nor the forgetting. But coming here had sometimes been a necessary part of his job as a mediator, and given how seriously he took mediating, he'd eventually taught himself brute force and found enjoyment within the process of tricking his mind with the pleasure of pulling teeth. Thus forcing himself apart from lesser men that cowered, while mitigating some the guilt that often came with memories and dreams.

This they called bravery or balls, and said that if you did it enough times a numb void would become of your heart, as his did—a silence that he could never return noise to again. It grew like a tumor, held his heart hostage and made his work easy, much like a basement in and of itself, for many years of reflex. But for how long could the heart remain obscured and content in the dark?

Car tires come to a screeching stop in front of a plain-looking duplex residence, unobtrusively sitting between two others alike and in an alley so narrow it can only fit one car at a time. Behind the veil of tinted windows, it appears as some sort of anomalous, jagged figure bled into reality by helter-skelter shadows and the sun. Off it wafts the unease of staring into a void you can sense is bottomless. Yet that's all it takes—one glance as a flicker of the switch inside Kijun's heart. It retreats into the darkness with one final warning from the driver, before the car door unlocks for his emptied ribcage.

Expectedly, Yunho is the first to greet him on the way in through the backdoor, which extends to a naturally lit alcove preceding one of the empty living areas. As it is outside, the abode's pale bowels are cold and barren as a wasteland; made in plain sight that this was, after all, not a home made for living. After all these years, eerily, it hasn't changed.

"Glad you decided to show up, kid, even though you're recovering. Didn't sound like you would over the phone back then."

"Sure. Is it just us?" Asks Kijun blandly, as he tightens his signature leather jacket around himself and discards the memory of his initial hesitance. And drawing the blade tucked against his ribcage that much more within reach.

Yunho, perpetually amused and properly clad in his formal suit, extends an arm within the general direction of the basement's entrance somewhere down the right hall. "Everyone else's downstairs."

Lead by his stare alone, Kijun follows.

Two men are on standby on each side of the doorframe, and the two bow with a fleeting stiffness when they approach, their neat black suits creasing and dimpling through the motion. Used to gang formalities, Kijun keeps his head up and his scowl tightly chained across his features, his guard so high it heats his blood and draws pinpricks up to the back of his neck. Neither of them return the favour on the way in.

Soon to be discoverd below is what Yunho meant by everyone, being just the two of them and the other men that belonged here in the undigestible stiffness of the basement, rendered to inconsequential heaps by lack of light—at least for now. There are precisely two of them as well, suspended upside down on thick ropes and stagnant time by their ankles, tied wrists reaching for the floor. Like slaughter hung up to dry.

When Yunho flickers on the basement lights, irrefutable proof of days spent without a meal or much water lay palpable between concave abdomens and protruding ribs. Bruises and dried blood tell tales of long and painful beatings on either side.

The one on the far left is slightly larger, his fingers seeming to have grown swollen and purple with shatter and then neglect. Kijun, who's completely unphased by the tableau in front of him, wonders if the broken bones were a just punishment administered after an attempt at escaping. Remembers how often it had to be done before—how many times he'd partaken in the beatings himself.

After all, if given the chance, dogs on tight leashes often bite their way to freedom.

Noticing Kijun's fixed stare, Yunho chimes in from the side, "That one on the left'd almost killed you last week," He says, "But this one's your guy. Caught him sneakin' around the club on Sunday and apparently, he knows plenty. Here—"

A bucket of water Kijun knows is ice-cold immediately follows the smooth voice pouring over his shoulder, which is almost caught amidst the sudden deluge were it not for his reflexes. The water splashes as intended onto the target body hanging on the room's right, resurrecting him from a deathly stillness with some seconds of vigorous floundering. He's alive.

This is Kim Woosik, Yunho had informed Kijun on the phone earlier in the week, while extending his invitation to this questioning. Woosik'd been working undercover as a messenger for the Green Gang leader for a while, recovering and buying information from accomplices working in the club. Their job this morning was to find out just how much he knew, and who, exactly, it was that told. If there was one thing Kijun was good at, it was carving out rats with only his tongue. Then his knife.

"Kim Woosik," Kijun calls out as he finally tunes into his other self, merciless and unforgiving if he'd ever seen it. The heavy bass in his tone passes and reverberates across the damp walls and limbs with a commandeering urgency, Woosik immediately stopping his squirming to listen as he no doubt hears nearing footsteps in the echoes, then feels Kijun's presence when he crouches down by his head.

In this moment, everything happening outside the two of them ceases to exist, Yunho's lighthearted warning not to break him too soon falling upon deafened ears. This place was made for breaking, and breaking alone.

Kijun rips the soaked sack off Woosik's head to begin, and—briefly freezes. Met with two eyes he instantly recognizes, all bloodshot and reflecting shock and the vivid memory of mourning staring back up at him, Kijun feels icy blood and dread rushing up to the back of his skull. Has to quickly war confusion off his brows by aggressively ripping the piece of duct tape off Woosik's mouth. The latter screams as his dry lips split red, alive. He should be dead. I saw you die.

"Who the fuck are you?" Demands Kijun from the ghost turned rat, overtaken by a surge fury so profound it tears and shreds through him thoroughly enough to quickly become all he can feel.

But nonetheless, Woosik smiles a dangerous smile, like he knew all along that this day would come. Spits blood and teeth at Kijun and earns himself a square punch in the face—the sheer force of that singular blow so hard it cracks and skews Woosik's nose completely. It also throws him off balance, erratically swaying on the rope as the walls reflect broken moans and convulsions that can't be muffled by hands. Neither should they exist today, to begin with.

Kijun figures he'd question Yunho later in favour of satisfying his current rage instead. Grips onto Woosik's hair hard enough to sting the scalp bloody, too, and spits, "You fuckin' traitor."

"You fuckin' idiots. Yeah, it's me." Woosik chokes on every syllable he can't grind out without hurting himself, tongue too large in his mouth in this position and agony. But his eyes—oh, how the fire never falters. "Y'thought I'd ac'ually go and die for that greedy fuckin' bastard y'call a boss? Fuck 'ou— I'd rather be a traitor than a fuckin' dead on this turf."

A violent silence ensues at this, lasting only a few laboured breaths from the hanging men, but enough for everyone to feel it's onslaught ten times over. Kijun stands with it, shoving the head in his grip away from him with harsh dismissal. Takes a few extra moments thereafter to produce a smoke from his pocket and light it up, then another, for him to gather some manner of composure back into his voice, in spite of the fires that are laying waste to his insides. Blood, fresh from his split lip soaks into the circumference of the cigarette.

He stars over, while effortless, long strides bring him around this Woosik far too quickly for the other to keep up with, "So, that's why you decided to fake your own death to get out? Just so you could go die for another greedy fuckin' bastard? S'that it, Jung Hyungmin?"

The name tastes filthy and bitter on his tongue; not because he cared that much about Hyungmin's loyalty. Until this day, Jung Hyungmin was supposed to be simply a good friend from the past; someone Kijun had known well since they were seventeen and nineteen. And most importantly of all, he was supposed to be dead. Yet no matter how hard Kijun tried and tried again, life then knocked on his door and proved itself a force he could only bend when it came to his own death.

He had wondered what Yunho meant when he'd said on call, nowadays, we can't even trust death to do it's job. Now he knows; the explanation being a bloodied nose, ugly stabbing scars Kijun recalls stitching openly stretching across the length of his spine and abdomen, and a snake tattoo etched into his inner bicep. Green Gang.

"Yes, Kijun. Y'd be surprised t'know how many have done the same shit. People get sick of bein' manipulated to fuckin' hell, from bein' lied to practically all the time and worked literally to death for personal gain. I didn't choose this life t'be someone's fuckin' toy, and neither did you."

Kijun sneers, though he's merely playing along now after having detached himself from the past, "You know nothing about me. And I ain't surprised at all. Found that informant of yours at the club—works as one of my boys. He told me as much." He crouches next to Woosik again, this time bringing with him a confident lie and the blade he had sheathed under his jacket. Before Woosik can find the strength to surge forth, Kijun brings the tip of the knife up to the base of his throat. Smiles the smile of someone who knows.

"That's before I cut his fuckin' tongue out'ta his mouth, 'course. Future proof problem solved."

Maybe it's because he's wet, starved, desperate and upside down, because the lie connects immediately. Woosik is suddenly reduced to an eerie stillness again, his toes so white it must feel like death slowly encroaching into his skull. His mouth becomes a thin line, his eyes a thousand slices through Kijun's flesh. The latter doesn't mind.

"There it is, Yunho hyung. The truth." Lifting off again, this time off the air off success, the blade follows Kijun's generous height all the way up to Woosik's abdomen. Aimed precisely where Kijun knows his vitals are. "He knows it."

"Yes, and we only need a name."

"Fuck—y'selfish fuckin' bastards. Cut out my tongue. 'm not givin' y'all jackshi—" But Yunho shoves the water bucket under his head before he can finish disagreeing, the implication of it becoming all the more horrific when Kijun brings the sharp end of his blade back to the tender flesh at his throat. Tuning his stare downwards, he recalls how Hyungmin had been many things, but a hero had never one of them. "Wait, wait, wait, okay, okay I'll fuckin' tell you! Jus' don't—"

If anything, he was always just another traitorous coward.

"Then spit it out, bitch."

"K—Kim Namseong. He knows everything."

/

[September 2, 2023, location: confidential. / ft @chenosias]

"Now, let us pray."

Two ancient hands raise skyward in avid calling of the holy spirit. Summoned along with them are long, white robes of cotton, suspended properly by gleaming, silver cuffs, and at opposite end, presumably God in the action of thousands of feet stomping upright in the pews, hands joining. Kijun checks his watch and notes that it's been about an hour since the church hall had become fully occupied, with both him and Osias included in the mix, at whichever God's mercy. The prayer drawls on without his own participation, though wholly embraced by his searching gaze.

The pastor remained as he always remembered him; an old, hunch-backed mausoleum of sin and holy nightmares. And perpetually equipped with a frown that always haunted his face, provoking unease at rest. To the others around them, he may be a devout zealot and Messiah, drawing garbs of cotton, modest silver and a large crucifix around his neck, blessed directly by the God they pray so heartfully to. But all Kijun sees is a crook in a suit and tie, well tucked beneath a hard mask like a second skin. He was a cartel knave at heart and he was good at being so. As was Kijun, though.

In the pew next to him sits Osias, dark, brushstroke brows shifting and settling repeatedly to and fro on his face. He carries curiosity on his sleeve; catching details in the crowd ahead no average joe would ever see, then releases them with the occasional stray nudge or remark into Kijun's shoulder. Watching and listening to him quickly becomes half of Kijun's mind, counting freckles like stars whenever the hall erupts into drab musical bumps and leaves him only with long, black coils and a perfectly smooth, tan cheekbones.

The moment Osias finds the truth in backhanded preachings from the pulpit, though, by way those eyes skew dark brown and stare sidelong with did he just fuckin' say what I thought he just said? on the tip of his tongue, Kijun figures he'd done well by rejecting Yunho's company and bringing Osias instead. The growing glint in them susses out philosophy and cartel poetry he's probably heard many times before, both in Korea and America, the realization doing something most glorious to his handsome features that Kijun, satisfied and amused beyond imagination, would never forget.

Never trust the preachings of a gangster priest. Presses his elbow to the one beside him and murmurs blasphemy through repeated worship, all to be occasionally shushed by the grandmas sitting behind them.

But they steadily lose interest as the service itself ultimately has no place in their itinerary tonight. The person they're actually here for stands five pews ahead with his fingers crossed and eyes closed. In worn hoodie and jeans he appeared as benign as it got, far from the clandestine chamber of secrets he actually was. What would a man like that pray for, wonders Kijun.

It's ironic how society has always taught the next about how and when it's important to fear God, rather than fearing the immediate violence of being alive instead. After all, the only hurdle between man and the God they bend the knees at night for are themselves.

A prayer can only save you if you are alive.

"In the name of the father, son and the holy spirit, Amen."

That's their signal and purely by design, as well as everyone else's. Unhurried and careful to keep small and out of sight, Kijun raises from his seat as the crowd surges and begins to drift towards the exit doors, wordlessly nudging Osias behind him for that extra overlay of obscurity. Five pews behind them now, Kim Namseong, none the wiser, claps his bible shut and thinks of his successful attendance as a telltale sign of safety within the same breath he fails to register the head full of luscious coils sprouting ahead of him, as the only sign of yonder bloodshed.

They tail him out, that blissful ignorance lasting him four whole blocks and a brief convenience store trip to home though at his front door, it becomes a carelessness that would be taxed at the cost of a tongue.

A risky operation soon ensues within strict Green Gang turfs, and is executed by just two men and their trusty blades.

It begins and ends in a back alley apartment block just two preceding buildings shy off the main road, the residence itself a narrow and unkempt street-level hall that reminds Kijun of his days spent in Gyeonggi prison. The thought even tickles a bitter chuckle out of him given the recollection that were this to go completely wrong, he would end up either dead or in prison yet again. Osias hears him in the silence, of course, sounds self-assured enough for the both of them as he echoes off a smug grin a sentiment off the side, just his boyish excitement and encouragement pulling Kijun's shoulders back with an immediacy that arrests him into resolution.

So it goes, the Green bastards, grim reaper and pigs all be damned. Blood can only be paid back with blood.

"Go on, then." Speaks Kijun only around the last corner up to their destination, encouragement returned in kind with a firm clap on Osias' rear.

Their plan was a simple one for the sake of avoiding too many complications and potential injuries: After Namseong gets home from his usual church service schedule, Osias will knock on his front door a couple minutes later and make conversation about anything random. Which, if he's not immediately recognized, would in turn allow Kijun just enough time to sneak up to the scene once Osias gives the clear, and pounce on Namseong. Palm muffling the screaming and an arm locked beneath his jaw, they'll have to knock him unconscious as soon as time and the ferocity of Nameseong's squirming will allow. And then that'll be that.

The only thing that manages to slip past them is a stray punch in the jaw behind him, which later in the night at their own hideout, Kijun will spend nursing with a half-frozen can of Terra beer, Osias already drunk and going off about something in English.

For now, they work in silence, speed and efficiency of it's use within their tandem paramount to their success. This was neither of their turfs after all, so a throbbing jaw would have to wait until their fates are once again only theirs to determine. While Kijun strips and ties up the unconscious body by the joints, Osias searches the room for anything that might alert the Greens of their meddling, smashing Namseong's phone and watch for good measure. Then he's hauled into the only armchair in the neglectful goshiwon space and gagged. His head silently hangs as though shame plagues him hushed and visionless, his neck bruising purple from their recent struggle. Kijun almost allows a pang of guilt grip his heart, except he can't seem to find it anywhere himself.

"A'ight, we shouldn't wait." Scarcely speaking, Osias murmurs as he pulls off his hat, then mimics Kijun by sinking into a relaxed crouch. "Gotta get what you need and get the fuck out posthaste. Surely they'll know somethin's wrong after an hour or two."

"Did'ya find anythin' in his stuff? Just to be sure. Still don't think we should kill him, 'least this— ain't the right place for that..."

"Yeah, yeah whatever y'say. Found these, though."

From Osias' jacket pocket to the center of a palm, then the next, appear a pocket knife and a burner phone. Kijun has to refrain from rolling his eyes and laughing too loud, but the approval is there, resonating in thick contorting eyebrows, his snickering and the soft popping of his knees as he stands again and casually cracks a slap across Namseong's right cheek, so unforgiving even the walls reflect the sound.

Kim Namseong jolts violently awake in the chair, his eyes falling wide as the moon upon a living nightmare he's probably had before. Once his gaze at last crosses Kijun, the air in his fury shifts to an alternative avenue; icy and tart with a fear he can't expunge quickly enough off his smooth face. The same reoccurring snake tattoo peeks at him from an inner left bicep, thus defining the other's ultimate stance. And that twists some ugly, raging, swelling thing inside Kijun as it clearly spells a dreaded mistake out for him: a massive oversight on his part, that'd almost costed him his life.

After laying out all the warnings and going through necessary intimidations, the captive emerges with dense pulps all over his body and two deep black eyes, sponsored by Osias' uncontrollable fists and Kijun's unrelenting refusal of wanting his partner to halt the pummeling. Until Namseong is choking on blood and air and begging through tears.

"Tell me what exactly you know now about the Green Gang's intentions with the ring and we'll leave it at this. Simple." Kijun attempts with a firm clap on Namseong's shoulder, "Why did you fuckin' traitors attack us?"

The next few minutes stretch for what feels like eons and naught, every second spent stalling another sentence of death upon the two who didn't at all belong in this space. Kim Namseong was a stubborn opponent, the type of gangster that rarely fought with his fists. He was slightly older and thus a handful wiser; better informed than most, and Kijun could tell. But Kijun has also learned over the years that to win against the odds, you must first take away their greatest asset. And we gotta do it quickly.

The idea emerges through the heat and pleasures of the moment like a fish out of water,and Kijun finds himself impulsively knocking Namseong out cold, for this final stretch. His fist flares bright red and purple with a fresh pair of reaped blotches, when he says, all wide-eyed and feral, "Hold his head back f'r me, O."

"What? The fuck're you doin'?"

"...Makin' sure he'll never snitch again."

Totally contrary to the wild, searing numbness overtaking his hands, the knife feels light and icy in Kijun's fist as he lifts his sweater and unsheathes it. So light it is that he feels he could toss it upwards and it would somersault on and on until it skewers the sun. But he grips it with a surgeon's precision, and sees only red.

"May God bless you."

The tongue is a soft collection of muscles and nerves that yield with mind-boggling ease to the blade. Such is the enormity of the cruelty behind survival.

[bishie-haven]

Asmo Appreciation Week, Day 3: Best Cards, Part 2!

Welcome again, everyone!

I'll cut a bit more to the chase today, since we're in a continuation from yesterday's post. Yesterday I covered #20-11 of the Asmodeus cards that make my heart beat faster, and today I'll show #10-1! These are a lot more potent and have a lot higher potential to melt my soul.

Let us begin~

#10: Guided By Desire

Starting off the top 10 with more nostalgia! While one of two SSR cards people were VERY likely to get in the beginning, it doesn't annoy me seeing him show up...much (I get sooo many ravens now, UGH). BUT, repetitiveness aside, circumstances REALLY put this card high on the list. Even to this DAY it is one of my most powerful cards, even topping a lot of the URs I have on the OG app, so I HAVE to give credit. And even without it...just look at that face, you can't deny its adorableness! (Plus a rare shot where Asmo has pink and neon green nails before they decided on pink and teal!)

#9: Purgatory Hall Sleepover!

Hey look, it's the card that most likely inspired the 2022-23 pajama set! Being the first birthday UR this boy had (and having to wait a full year from its implementation date), I was was EXCITED to see this card art alone. The theming made it even better; sleepovers are another topic that just send me over the moon, and that LITERALLY being the title of the card set in stone that I needed it like water. Thankfully, no money had to be spent, hooray!

#8: Photogenic Asmo

If you thought #16 was colorful, #8 said hold my demonus. This is CUTE in every sense of the word. An overall cafe theme (mixing retro diners and maid cafes without the maids), Asmo in that uniform, and that look on his face getting pics of the sweets?! This was the card that started my completionist journey of getting every card of his, and thankfully, the catalyst was received in a recent revival Nightmare!

#7: Your Personal Venus

This card, this card... The end of February was a wild time for my OM! account. This event plus the Nightmare that was attached were attacking me from both sides in terms of cards I want, and could NOT catch a break (you might be able to guess a card down lower if you think about it ^^). But thankfully, it meant this card was mine within three days of the event start! The initial image is precious (just look at those eyes!), and this one? This was an attack on my soul, how is he able to rock anything and make me love him even more?!

#6: Time for the Main Event!

I grinded in this event when it came out in 2020. Nearly 4 years later, I'm still trying to get him. There's definitely reasons why, considering it's only barely out of the top 5. The Cinderella/fairytale aesthetic is a major reason, bringing to question what Asmo would be like if HE was the titular heroine instead of the fairy godmother in the actual event. In addition, this was the first event where I truly saw him as a gnc icon and ROCKING this dress (I can't unsee the garter belt either, so neither will you now, hehe), and further made me scream whenever future cards indulged this. Now, please hurry up and come home...

#5: Return My Glow

We all know from both the OG and NB that Asmo valued his time as the angel dubbed the "jewel of the heavens", despite slowly forgetting that image of himself. While the event the card was attached to is DEFINITELY controversial amongst the fandom, it still means a lot to me. I grinded my booty off to get it on the last day, and the image (specifically this DF unlock) has the power to make me feel better even on some of my darkest days. It even doubles so when you look at the similar image found in his initial UR in NB (more on that soon!).

#4: The Devildom's Mermaid

Outside of the missed potential to make him an ACTUAL mermaid in one of the arts, this was the first UR+ Asmo ever received, so its iconic status already lends itself to a high placement. Theming is also high here, as WHO can resist the beach episode, tell me, who?! There's also a bit of retroactive mirroring with the anime that happens in my head. I can totally see at one point on that private beach he set up a picture just like this to send to his followers, and that expression sent many (including myself) into an iconic squealing mess.

#3: Demons Catch Colds?!

If you guessed this card at #7, you win a virtual cookie! It is no secret to anyone who knows me well that one of my favorite tropes in fiction is the sick day, one person laying in perceived misery while another tends to their needs. In addition, if you include anything in your work with a medical/dental theme, you will have me eating out of the palm of your hand. This card has both. I was a mess back in April of '21 thanks to this blasted card. Fun fact, this was the first Nightmare card I spent money to get (Solomon decided to block my advances one too many times using the same attribute and I was at my limit 😡)! I only pull out the actual cash when I'm hooked, so you KNOW it was serious. XD Lastly, I said I wasn't taking Devilgrams into account, but I wanted to mention how the one attached to this card is so sweet. If you ever have the chance to read it, DO IT!

#2: Princess Asmo's Escape

They ACTUALLY referenced it!! If you've seen the anime, you know about Episode 5 and the insanity that occurred when Asmo was literally wearing the crown. And the fact that the devs saw it was iconic enough to make a UR+ out of?! I have a lot of gripes with Solmare, but this one of the times they got it RIGHT. He is a Disney princess, you can NOT change my mind, and the composition of this initial image is so pretty I want to make a print of it to hang in my room. It's almost the perfect card! Almost...

Because the top card of all to me is...

#1: A Song From the Heart

This is my absolute dream card, and the closest to the definition of a perfect one you will ever get. So many elements combine to make this both fitting in terms of character and concept. In the initial image we get the cute, goofy side of him (and a shot of him in glasses?!), calmly playing an acoustic. In the DF unlock, that side turns passionate and bombastic, switching to an electric and belting into the mic under the stage lights. It references both the obvious and not-so-obvious of parts of his character. We know that he loves being under the spotlight, but we don't get much in terms of his love for music, specifically rock music as the designs imply. The outfit is also one of my personal favorites, as is many that don't go on the Majolish racks (pleeeeeease let this one be wearable one day!). It even has a bit of a meta connection as well. His VA, Miura Ayme, has PLENTY of musical connections, not just recording OPs for the game but being an active visual kei artist with a HEAVY leaning on rock as a style. So to see a card not only tie back to a character but to the voice actor at the same time? There's nothing I see that's better than that.

And that's my list! What did you think? Any cards I missed in terms of their positives? Let me know if you have any you want to mention, as well!

[alltheshadesofgray]

Numb Little Bug Prologue

Masterlist

DAMIAN AL GHUL HAD been taught from day one positive emotions would be his doom. Well, that, and the several ways to kill or cause severe bodily harm to someone. He knew torture methods and the best way to blackmail someone. He knew he was the heir to the greatest guild of assassins. 

His world turned upside down when he was ten. That was when Deathstroke and his band of traitors attacked the League, forcing his mother to flee with him in tow. Shove him under the care of a father who had no idea he existed. The only thing Damian knew was how to attack, how to make sure he was safe. He didn't know how to care. He didn't know how to love, like his elder adopted brother, Dick, loved unconditionally. 

You cannot let your emotions control you, Damian. His mother had told him one time, while he was sparring with another child of the League. This person's only use is to die for you. You cannot feel anything. 

Damian had learned everything from a to z. Except the art of caring. The League of Shadows had no room for emotions. The League certainly didn't need sentimental and emotional messes. Damian supposed that was why his mother had drugged his father in order to conceive him. 

Talia al Ghul was his mother in biological terms only. Damian al Ghul didn't grow up expecting love, nor did he give it so easily. And neither did Talia. It didn't really matter, because Damian wasn't an expert in love. He didn't need his mother's love to survive. And if Talia in any way wanted Damian to love her like typical mother and sons do, she had no-one to blame but herself. 

Bruce Wayne was his father, but with vastly different backgrounds, Damian and Bruce didn't connect easily. The same could be said for any of his adopted siblings. Though they'd all been through traumatic stuff, nearly none of them understood growing up and being raised by assasins. Except for Cass, who could understand his past better than the rest of his family. 

Damian al Ghul was not Damian Wayne. Though yes, Damian Wayne had the same chararistics, physical features, and overall knowledge, Damian Wayne had one thing Damian al Ghul never had. A family. Though dysfunctional and chaotic, the Waynes were a family nontheless. Damian al Ghul was cold, heartless and ruthless. But Damian Wayne had a chance to live.

 MANON CHAMACK HAD GROWN up knowing that negative emotions would get her killed. From the age six, Manon had grown up with the reality of Hawk Moth and Akumas being completely normal. That was absolute hell. But if she allowed herself to feel angry or annoyed, then she would have no control over what would happen next. She wasn't powerful enough to resist Hawk Moth. Nobody was. Eventually they all succumbed to the power and the promising words, the lies, of Hawk Moth. 

Manon was suffocating. Drowning. She tried to scream but nobody could hear her. Her terror was flooding through her veins. Get me out of here, she thought. Syren laughed maniacally, and Manon was dragged into darkness. 

Most of Paris were able to trauma block Akuma attacks. But Manon? Manon couldn't ever unsee what she did. She could recall any of her deaths perfectly. She could recall the deaths of her friends, when August had jumped in front of a strike aimed at her, when Ella and Etta were too a moment too slow, when Chris had been torn apart, blood spraying on her. 

Manon lived by a code. 1) Do not feel, 2) Should rule one fail, then everyone is fucked.

It was as simple as that. 

But it wasn't. Because humanity did not function without emotion. With Hawk Moth taking away Paris' fundamental link to humanity, it was impossible to survive or thrive. Paris's humanity relied on two teenagers to save them, teenagers who'd been thrust into the position without any forewarning or preperation. Not to say that Ladybug and Chat Noir didn't do a kickass job, but they just weren't meant to fight an emotional terrorist. 

Manon lost any ability to feel during the reign of Hawk Moth, and even after Hawk Moth, some days she just wanted to stay in bed and never get out. Manon Chamack never had any chance to live, but she was a survivor. She fought, and she stood strong at the end. 

But truly living was a foreign idea to her. What did it even mean? How could she live when she was vitally broken? 

~~~~

bruce thomas wayne

son of the late martha and thomas

and

marinette dupain-cheng

daughter of tom dupain and sabine cheng

request the honor of your presence at their wedding

the wedding and reception will be located at wayne manor

this is a black tie event

[owedfavors]

I'm sorry its my dyslexia but I had to share with you that I first read your name as owned flavors and I was intrigued by what flavors you owned

so, this ask is from two months ago, and so whomever sent it to me is unlikely to see this now...

but I could tell you stories about people misreading my urls, because this is not the first time. a dear friend once misread dreadfamed as deadframed. which, honestly, klaus would, but neither of us could unsee it ever again. this same friend also made me a promo for an old multi which had a super creepy accidental face in the background and when she pointed it out to me we also could never unsee that again.

and if I went digging through my friends' blogs, I'd find some very creative spellings of my various elvish- and russian-derived urls...

[rrdcooc]

So, I was watching Disney’s Robin Hood with my sister tonight.

But first, a little back story (just a little). When my sister and I were kids, Robin Hood was one of the movies we had on VHS. Our parents were divorced, and every other weekend, we went to our dad’s. On Friday night, we’d pop in our favorite pirated video tape, which had Robin Hood, Mary Poppins and Sleeping Beauty on it. Then, on Saturday morning (regardless of which house we were at), we’d get up and reenact the entire movie, word for word. To this day, we both have it memorized.

So anyway, I was watching Disney’s Robin Hood with my sister tonight, and there’s something I’ve always been aware of, but I said out loud. And once I said it, my sister became hyper aware of it. Now neither of us can unsee it, so I hope to make you unable to unsee it, too.

Sir Hiss has two tongues.

They never appear in his mouth at the same time, and the forked one only ever appears for the flickering action, but like... why didn’t they even make them the same color? If they were both red, or both that bluish-grey, I could at least tell myself that his tongue had to flex in order to go out that far, or something like that. I’d even be able to excuse the fact that one is rounded and one is forked.

But those are two entirely separate tongues, and now that I’ve put words to it, I can’t unsee it, and now that you’ve read this post, I hope you can’t either.

[thecarnivorousmuffinmeta]

I like your gift-swapping among Cullen post! But what if gifted members of their coven became giftless and Esme, Rosalie and Emmet inherit two gifts each from them?

Anon's referring to this post.

... Why do I feel like I just got asked for the low budget sequel. Alright, anon, let's do this.

Also, per the original list, Carlisle's on it (for reasons why, see @therealvinelle's Nebuchadnezzar's Dream chapter 7).

Emmett

Emmett gets Bella and Renesmee's gifts.

This. Is. The Best. Day Ever.

So, Renesmee doesn't know how to talk to people now and Bella's freaking out that Edward now hears her every thought instead of just when she chooses to. Big woop, they'll get over it.

Emmett, meanwhile, can now hide all the pranks he wants to from Edward and use Renesmee's gift to convey truly awful thoughts to everyone around him with just a touch to surreptitiously make them laugh.

You trying to give a presentation in high school? Not anymore, you're not, Emmett just put Sexy Mr. Burns into your head.

You will never unsee that.

Never.

Emmett's never going back to the way things were. Being gifted is AWESOME.

Esme

Esme gets Carlisle and Jasper's gifts.

She doesn't notice Carlisle's as she never left the house and everyone in her family adores her. (Carlisle, on the other hand, notices he's having a harder time convincing people he's forty. Huh.)

She does notice the sudden onslaught of emotions. And it's terrible.

She has to barricade herself from Edward's moodiness and angst (as he's full angst about losing his own gift, THAT ROSALIE HAS IT, and trying to pretend he's not), barricade herself from Rosalie's angst, and everything's terrible and HER CONTROL IS EVEN WORSE NOW.

She went grocery shopping before? Not anymore, the humans there shop too hungry. She ate the pizza delivery man.

Esme quarantines herself into a closet and cries. This is terrible.

Jasper, on the other hand, feels great. Keep the gift, Esme, you'll get used to it.

Rosalie

By process of elimination, Rosalie gets the unholy duo of Alice and Edward's gifts. And she hates everything. She is constantly barraged with so much information she neither needed nor wanted to know.

On the other hand, it turns out Edward's a monster, Alice is amoral and only cares about Edward, Jacob's a pedophile, Bella's not even a person, and neither is Esme.

Rosalie uses her gift to get rid of Jacob but is an utter mess over Edward who is consistently proving that he's not what she thought he was for years (he tries to hide it, desperately, but under this much pressure and stress he can't keep it up), and has to convince the family that they're all... well, a mess.

Rosalie's not having a fun time and Edward thinks she's purposefully trying to break of the family and Alice accuses her of this as well as well as using Alice's gift negligently YOU CAN'T TELL THEM EVERYTHING, ROSALIE!

She has the worst time, but she's glad this happened and she's glad that this happened to her. Because they could not rely on Edward and Alice.

[amethystpath-writes]

I Will

NOT A PR0MPT- After seeing how many of you wanted to see more fantasy, I decided to give a small sneak peek at something I’ve been working on, featuring the fae. 

******

"I fancy the way you pity me- as if I'm less than I was, as if I couldn't still rip you limb from limb."

“You are human now, Deniekae. You could not rip a squirrel apart if you tried.”

Myrin’s eyes stung at her friend’s words, at the savage tone which they were spoken in, but she wouldn’t shed her tears in this moment. Later, when she was resting, perhaps dreaming, she would allow herself the liberty to feel her own emotions.

On the other end of the wooded room, Niekae was angry. His old friend was underestimating his strength, underestimating his wrath and will- at least according to him and not reality. “Tell me what was so wrong with what I did. I’d like to know.” He feigned interest, making his voice unreasonably light- posh almost.

With a roll of her eyes, Myrin crossed her arms. “You know I am- was- always there for you. You should have told me your plan.” You should have warned me that we’d become enemies. “What happened, Niekae? Why the betrayal?”

Gods, he hated that word. And others: betrayal, treachery, traitor, coward. “I was loyal,” he said, “though not to the same peoples as you. Open your eyes, Myrin.”

“I’m supposed to open mine?” She blinked at Deniekae, and a thought crossed her mind- no, not a thought. An observation. Niekae’s eyes were duller now- also thinner. His lashes were shorter, but appropriately lengthened for the small size of his eyes. “Was it worth it?” she asked, genuinely curious. “Abandoning your own traits and gifts for overly bulky shoulders and unseeing eyes?”

“I can see well, thank you.” Niekae lied. He couldn’t see anything except Myrin’s silhouette every once in a while, if he really focused on trying to see it. He no longer had night-vision, and he could no longer stay awake at night. As he spoke with his friend, he felt his eyes becoming heavier, his eyelids filling with lead and drooping further down. “Do you know what’s best about this body?” Deniekae asked. “About being human instead of fae?”

Myrin shook her head. No, she didn’t know, and she didn’t care to know, either. Whatever he was about to say...it’d be a lie, or it wouldn’t be as great as he preached. Her old friend would be manipulating her, trying to make her think that he knew best. He never did. Niekae never knew what was right.

“I’ll tell you,” he volunteered when Myrin wouldn’t respond. “You feel more in this body. Falling asleep feels like flight- like elevation and hovering. It’s...it’s light and it’s pleasant.”

“You got into Old-Lady-Rybus’ stash, didn’t you? I thought that stuff would kill a human, yet here you are talking as if you walk on clouds.” She was partially joking. Of course, no human could ever reach Rybus’ stash- it was far too well hidden- but she joked about it because the two of them, Myrin and Deniekae, had gotten into the stash once, and neither of them ever wanted to look back. They laughed about it just two days ago, before Niekae decided the fae weren’t good enough for him.

“I’m not high,” Deniekae argued, and rather brutishly at that. His voice may as well have been a whip, whereas Myrin’s had remained as soft as a bird’s undercoat feathers. “You wouldn’t understand- you haven’t ever tried to.”

“I’m trying to understand now,” Myrin said. “I’m asking you why you did it. I’m asking you what was so bad about us”- she corrected herself- “about our kind, that you felt the need to change into one of them.” One of the humans- wretched things.

The way she said ‘us’, though, Deniekae knew she didn’t mean the fae as a whole. She meant what she said- she meant the unity between the two of them as beings, whether that was as a fae loving another fae, or as a fae loving an ex-fae.

“Nothing has changed between us,” Niekae promised. “We can act as we always have. I’ll meet you,” Niekae said, as if to compromise for her broken heart, “in your realm- at sunrise and sunset, and we can talk as we always have.”

“It wouldn’t be the same,” she finally snapped.

Something pulsed in the air- a humidity that made Deniekae’s skin itch. “You’re angry.”

“That wasn’t obvious?” Her tone could have split atoms, could have ripped Niekae apart if he were still fae.

But this was what he wanted- humanism. Being human meant never looking over his shoulder, wondering when the next a spear might land in his shoulder. Being human was freedom.

“You sacrificed your ability to do practically anything for what? To be betrayed by them?” Myrin’s arms finally fell from their crossed position, but her hands fell into fists at her side. “They won’t accept you,” she swore. “If they ever found out that you were fae, they’d string you up by your ears until they tore off. Do you understand me?”

“How would they ever know? I speak their language and I even look like them now,” Niekae reasoned.

“Someone might tell them.”

Deniekae squinted at her. “Like who? Because I sure as hell don’t plan to.”

She blinked, then said, “I will.”