#ashes ashes mcd

[gumbootillustrations]

long time no see tumblr i have returned to wish mcd a (very belated) happy 10 yrs

[gumbootillustrations]

okokok this is gonna be super fucking long bc i have So Many thoughts so uh. ill do a tl;dr n then under the cut more elaboration.

tl;dr ru'aun is very similar to nz. its p temperate, w hot, dry summers and although the winters r reasonably mild temperature-wise theyre wet and miserable. gal'ruk stays p similar to canon, w it being largely inspired by the arctic circle and its tundras w short summers and long, cold winters. tu'la is similar to the mediterranean with the south being similar to north africa and western asia. i've also whacked in another region (tsu'nara) which is basically a bunch of islands to the east of ru'aun and it's p similar to asia, w hot, muggy summers but cold, dry winters.

aight more under the cut

yeah nah this is basically my "aphverse but its nzified" propaganda lol. ru'aun's settlements r largely coastal due to the sacred forest taking up much of the inland, and bc it's super similar to the bush, it's dense as fuck and pretty much impossible to navigate for the uninitiated even without hyria's enchantments. pics below.

so yeah.

o'khasis and nahakra remain to the north of phoenix drop; scaleswind is also a northern city. pikoro is also to the north of pd but its further south than the other northern villages (but its the coldest bc of ivan's curse fuckery). meteli, bright port, and pd remain super close to each other, but meteli is to the south of pd and bright port is to the north. meteli is built at a river mouth/estuary and is by far the hottest and muggiest of all the villages; pd and bright port also get hot during the summer but their summers tend to be drier. falconclaw isnt included here bc its just a set of ruins for most of my rewrite but its to the north as well, between nahakra and o'khasis, but it's further inland due to it largely being a hunting settlement.

ru'aun is the region i've fleshed out most. gal'ruk hasn't rlly changed so i won't rlly go into it.

tu'la is very very roman empire inspired. the heartland (to the north, fairly close to the ru'auni border) is vv much italy-inspired in terms of climate; hot, dry summers, w cooler winters and not much rain, w most of the rainfall occurring in the autumn and spring. to the south, where it becomes more similar to north africa and west asia, it's a lot drier and more similar to a desert, with most of the settlements built on the coast and around waterways (oases, rivers, etc.). like ru'aun, there isn't much inland settlement in southern tu'la bc most of it is like. desert. but there's still a bit. just not as much as the coast. bc turns out that travelling inland thru desert is tough as fuck and u dont rlly do it unless ur ballsy as hell.

tsu'nara i haven't rlly fleshed out yet. the northern islands r similar to japan, and the southern islands r similar to the indian subcontinent, w the islands becoming more similar to southeast asia the further east u travel. tsu'nara is set up as like. a confederation of a bunch of different independent states? if that makes sense? so there's a Bunch of different cultures in there. as i said i haven't rlly fleshed it out yet so i'll probs make a loredump abt it when i figure out more info.

yeah. lmk if u have any questions bc this special interest is Consuming Me lmao <3

i am EMBARRASSINGLY BAD at geography so dear MCD rewriters, i implore you to share your geography set-up/headcanons on this post... in as much or as little detail as you want bc i am both curious to know and in need of dire enlightenment /SILLY

[chaoslynx]

Eiji after Ash's death being told over and over by everyone that Ash died to protect him, but Eiji hoping to god that it isn't true, hoping that Ash finally finally understood that Eiji did love him, that Ash's death would hurt Eiji, and hoping that Ash decided, for once, to be selfish. That he knew it would hurt Eiji, but still decided to die because it was what he wanted. Eiji hoping -- praying -- that Ash didn't die for Eiji, but died for himself.

Eiji telling himself (because he has to believe it, for his own sake) that maybe, just maybe, Ash's last act was his most selfish.

Because God knows Ash deserved to be selfish for once.

[coatree]

I really like Minecraft diaries

[into-my-cringe-era-letsgoo]

Another list of stuff I was thinking of for my rewrite of MCD

- I think I'm going to change Travis's name to Encaris. And then have his brothers name be Kirill. This is so that each brother has a piece of Enki's name. And Travis didnt fit the character that I was trying to make.

- For Tu'la, I'm borrowing from a bunch of Aphmau's RPs to try to conceptualize this area. So like characters from My Inner Demons and Heart Point appear here.

- In Tu'la, there is an emperor that is slowly conquering the world. It's why O'kasis gets invaded at some point.

- The emperor's son, Ashe, and his grandmother are organizing a coup against the emperor. Their involvement is secret.

- I actually have some ideas of where the MVD version of the deamos boys stand:

- Pierce is one of the generals for Rhal. Not one of Ashe's knights

- Noi is still on of Ashe's knights. Noi's kingdom was one of the first kingdoms to be taken over and assimilated into Ashe's kingdom. (Was actually about to be executed before Ash is like no.)

- Rhys is Lady Grandma's pupil and loyal knight to Ashe. He and Ashe have known each other since they were little.

- Leif is... Honestly, he's the only one that I can't find a good starting point at.

- Zoey is actually a banished fairy. The term elf refers to a fairy who's had their wings taken away. Fairies like being hidden away and separated from humans and others. They even have a barrier that hides their settlements away.

- Zoey is actually super tall. Fairies tend to be born as small pixies before having like a giant growth sprout to be around the size or bigger than humans. Really depends.

- So when Levin was a baby, he was like super small (this concerned a lot of people. But it was eventually cleared up by Zoey that it must be from his fae heritage) But after the 15 year skip, he's tall af

- Ms.Momoka (KC), and Aaron are followers of Shad. The reason why Ms.Momoka's magic is illegal is based off the fact that her magic is based in Shad domain. Her magic allows her to manipulate souls of people in some way. Her dolls are animated from dead souls.

- following this, Ms. Momoka is from the same kingdom as Noi. That kingdom has a good mix of Ru'uani and Tu'lan customs. And was one of the last places where Shads followers can worship without scrutiny. Sadly was destroyed 😔

- while travelling to Scaleswind, Aphmau shows up at the dying village of Meteora Valley instead of the Neopolitan Villages. There is a whole subplot with the guardian of the valley.

- this also means that Spirit Menders exist. So there are a couple tribes that exist. But Aph only ever goes to one. For now.

- Aphmau actually gains her obsession with Purple somewhere in season 1. And after that point, tries her best to o my wear purple

- Zenix betrays and stabs PD after aph goes to brightport. But before going to Scaleswind. But he still does kidnapp lord Burt and get Brendon shot.

- He's also a shape-shifter and has lived for many eons. Making him one of the oldest of all the SK cast.

- Castor has more of a role besides comedic relief. And it's mostly him being an accidental dad figure to Laurence. Or something idk

- Jeffory (now named Joffery just because It accidently gaslit myself for all these years thinking it was that.), will appear as a shadow knight. Because I whole heartedly believe that the shadow lord would revive this guy. He meets all the requirements!!

- Shad domain is quite interesting? In Ru'uan, any and all worship of shad is illegal. Though there are two domains of this worship. There are some who worship who he once was. A "deity" of death. One where he would put souls to peace. Then there are the more modern worshippers who believe in Shad the Destroyer. These consist of humans and Shadow Knights. Typically are facilitated by a shadow knight. Both groups hide away from the public and do not get along with each other.

- Shadow Knights are usually reborn back into the body. Since most knights die due to an untimely death, there bodies need to be fixed or reconstructed. Gene's head was sewed back on. Sasha's body was reconstructed using the body of some scaled animal. So she had scales that cover her body.

- in the case that the shadow knights body is destroyed but not the soul, they will wonder until they find another body. Successful posession of another's body leads to the death of the og owner. I imagine Glenda, Hayden's guard, was made into an SK by that method.

- Shamans! Similar to warlocks, in how they get their power. Shamans usually are given powers similar to the spirit. Instead of just access to magic. Shamans typically only function in the spirits domain. These powers also transform the Shamams body, so that they have traits of that spirit

- Castors spirit is Timberly.

- half of Castors people are actually chicken spirits while the other half are chickens Castor "rescued" from Meteli

- Luma, a character from Meteora is also here. She is the apprentice of the guardian ofeteora Valley. She's another shamen that Aph meets. And her spirit is Commander Thancreed Fluffers.

Honestly that's all for now.

[regulusrules]

We're TRENDINGG for no REASONN just like god DECREEDD, so here are 5 fics that would steal your breath away:

1. My breaths are run by your compass by regulusrules. [M] [75K] [post-camlann fix-it] [golden age but merlin stabs arthur in his heart first].

Not because it's my fic and it's genuinely so insane you won't believe it, but honestly, it's the best idea I've ever come up with, even better than the widely beloved my heart is readily yours. For me, it's the perfect continuation of their story, and the most unhinged plot twist you could find in a fic.

2. Half of my soul by @clockwrkpendrxgon. [G] [2K] [MCD] [golden age growing old together]

This fic is half of my soul, or what the poets say. It's so much better as an ending than what they've given us. At least this is filled with such golden love it makes you ache. At least this makes sense.

3. from hearth and ashes, we’re reborn by @remuscariad. [G] [5K] [canon era magic reveal].

This fic is so good you'll be on your knees from it. The prose, the characterization, the tropes used... it will linger in your mind and fester there from how beautiful it all is. And the art in it by @onepeppercorn... stunning.

4. Our broken pieces by @aramblingjay. [T] [10K] [canon era established relationship]

You can pry this fic from my cold dead hands. I will never stop recommending it until it gets the fame it deserves. One of the most beautiful fics ever written about them, and genuinely encompasses their characters so perfectly.

5. gentle as an early spring breeze by @prattery. [G] [2.5K] [canon divergence golden age]

They are alive and in love and we're all living in this fic because it's what they righteously deserved. The way their life was written here and the love between them... I swear this author could write anything and I'd kudos it before even reading it.

[For more recs]

[stinglesswasp]

Content warning: MWIII spoilers, MCD, angst, grief/mourning

Sunset 🌥️

I wish Ghost took off his mask in *that* scene. My man, you're scattering the ashes of your best friend, please… good thing I can draw it myself, I guess 🥲

(Important disclaimer: I don't think he'd actually throw away their masks, I just wanted to make this comic extra sad)

I do respect what the devs and actors managed to pull off despite misguided executive decisions. It's disappointing that they didn't get to tell the story they originally wanted to, but I'm sure they did their best. 🫡

Anyway, now that this is out of my system, I'll just pretend MWZ Soap will hop through a portal and rejoin the MW crew in a retconned future. Anything goes in the multiverse, after all ;)

Okay, back to my (ir)regularly scheduled GhostSoap posting 🧡

[on-a-lucky-tide]

Johnny sings. Simon mourns.

cw: mcd, grief, suicidal ideation.

Price had put the bullet in Shepherd and Ghost had put the bullet in Makarov as they had agreed. That meant the business of the 141 had concluded. Without Johnny, Simon intended to disappear. Properly this time. There would be no crawling out of the grave he’d dig himself. There had been no tears shed, no outpouring of grief. Simon was completely and utterly numb. Like someone had encased him in ice the moment the light had faded out of Johnny’s eyes; any hope for Simon had died with him, leaving only the shell of Ghost to be puppeted by Price’s orders.

When Simon had pulled that trigger and Makarov’s body had hit the floor, he’d felt nothing. No triumph, no closure. Just an emptiness. A great, yawning void where emotions should be. Where Johnny should be. He’d learned long ago that revenge healed fuck all, so he wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting. But it had felt like just another kill. Just another fruitless step towards the inevitable darkness that awaited. Price had watched him in the back of Nikolai’s Black Hawk with a crease in the centre of his brow, but Simon had been lost in his own head.

Simon had little doubt Price had seen the writing on the wall and when he had summoned Simon to his office two nights before Simon was due to depart Hereford, Simon reckoned it would be a last ditch effort to get him to reconsider the plan he knew had been percolating on the inside of Simon’s skull since they had spread Johnny’s ashes over Moray Firth.

Simon knocked twice and waited for Price’s bark from the inside before he turned the handle. “You wan’ed to talk, sir,” Simon murmured through the mesh of his mask when Price continued to scribble on the paperwork in front of him.

”Yeah, Simon. Take a seat.”

Simon watched Price’s hand. Something weren’t right. There was a subtle shake to it, and Simon realised that it had been the thickness of Price’s voice that had drawn his attention there. Looking for reassurance in the strongest, most trusted pair of hands he knew. But, it was almost like he’d been—

Impossible.

The chair groaned under Simon’s weight and he scooted forward to the very edge of it, back straight, curled fingers on top of spread thighs.

“What ‘m abou’ t’ show ya, I need ya to know I had to make a decision to keep it to meself ‘til now,” Price said. “I needed ya focused. If ya never wanna see me again, I’d understand.” When Price looked up, Simon wanted to gag. Not from disgust, but because his body didn’t know how to process the quiver of horror that went through him at the remains of Price’s tears. His eyes were red, still glistening. His breath caught in his lungs and he had to force himself to let it out in a stuttering grunt.

“Whot is it?” Simon managed, finally.

“Ya need t’… we got ‘em, now ya need t’ start healin’. For him. Ya can’t jus’ throw away what he was denied, Simon. You…” Price pinched the bridge of his nose and trailed off, clearing his throat. Whatever this was, it was eating him alive. Price reached for his phone as he stood up to circle his desk, his thumb sweeping across the screen until he found what he was looking for. “Watch this. I’ll send it t’ya after. But I need ya to watch it here, olrigh’? I jus’—just in case, I can—fuck, jus’ watch it, Simon.”

There was that shake again and Simon took the phone quickly. The face he saw on the screen, frozen behind a large black play button, made a knot tighten in his throat. “Johnny…” His thumb hovered, his fingers creaking around the plastic case of the phone. Price reached down, his own thumb brushing over the top of Simon’s nail to help him those final few centimeters.

Johnny came to life before Simon’s eyes. ”D’ye really think he’ll wanna hear me croonin’ like a wee cat?” He asked the man behind the camera. Hearing his voice again lit a tiny pilot light deep in Simon’s chest and it was like feeling warmth again after being buried beneath ten feet of ice. A pressure began to build behind Simon’s eyes, but he swallowed it down so he could focus on the irreverent bastard that had given his life meaning over the last few years.

”Don’t you Caffliks sing ev’ry Sunday, la?” Price. That was Price. He only went a bit Scouse when he’d had a drink, and judging by the flush in Johnny’s cheeks, they both had. Simon glanced up and saw the pain on Price’s written in deep lines around his eyes.

”When…?”

”While you were away,” Price croaked. “Jus’ shut it. Watch.”

Simon looked back to the phone. Johnny was looking over his shoulder, the scruffy back of his mohawk facing the camera. Someone spoke—Garrick. “Weren’t you an altar boy? Bet those old priests helped you hit the high notes.”

”Get tae fuck ye filfy cunt.”

”Oi, oi, lads, now now, c’mon… fer Simon. E’ll love it.”

“Right, an’ ye sure ah can’t jus’ tell him over a tiext, maybe a… ye knoow, a water emoji…”

”Naw, naw, he’s a proper romantic, like. C’mon, look… I’ve got…” Price played a few chords and the camera shook. The picture turned upside down and then righted itself, and suddenly Simon was looking at the both of them as Price set his phone against something on a nearby table. Bloody wankered, the both of ‘em. Despite the pain balling in his chest, Simon’s lips twitched into a faint smile.

”Awrigh’, but if he rips th’ shite outta me, ‘m gonna pish in ye boots next op, sir,” Johnny said, squinting at Price. He lifted his phone from his lap and tapped at the screen. In the next moment, a grainy violin played a few notes and then… and then… and then…

…Johnny started to fuckin’ sing.

“Oh, my love seid tae me ‘will ye meet me by the sea? Ye c’n kiss me underneath the misty mo-o-on’. He is stunnin’, he is pretty, he's as warm as amber whiskey, and as bonny as the heather on the hill.” Price played along beneath Johnny’s voice, smoother than honey, warmer than an August evening. The smile that split over Johnny’s face as Price echoed ‘oh my love’ in his gravelly voice, still perfectly in tune, made something crack at Simon’s core.

Johnny drummed his fist against his thigh. ”When I was a young boy, my mother seid tae me, "find yerself a pretty lad, don't take his love fer free", from fields of Aberfeldy t’ the shores of Loch Maree, I knoow that he's the only one fer me.” His palm opened as he sang through the chorus again, his heel bouncing against the floor, his shoulders relaxing, his voice lifting as he stylised through another ‘oh, my love’ before breaking into the next verse. Larger than life, brighter than the sun. Simon’s next breath burned out of his lungs like it was made out of dragonfire. He—Johnny was singing to him—Johnny was—Johnny—

“He was dancin’ by th’ fire as a pi-per played a tu-u-une, he wrapped his arms around me an’ he asked, ’are ye my groom?’ A dram of amber whiskey an’ a twinkle in his eye, we danced beneath the Caledonia sky—oh my love seid tae me, will ye meet me by the sea, you c’n kiss me underneath th’ misty mo-o-on. He is stunnin’, he is pretty—”

The crack widened. Simon felt his chest quiver, his heart thundered, something weight-bearing gave way, a molten chill coursing through his veins, like glacial ice had melted away and now threatened to drag him under in the current as it searched for an exit. Johnny continued to croon through the chorus, his voice lifting and falling, his blue eyes crinkled at the corners. Simon’s entire world narrowed in on him, his cheeky smile, the handsome cut of his jaw, the stupid fuckin’ ferret fuckin’ haircut the fuckin’—the fuck—the fu—

The song ended and Johnny stopped the backing track on his phone. Price’s hand stilled on the strings, his whiskers twitching. “Well, bloody ‘ell, that weren’t ‘alf bad.”

“Man of many fucking talents! The bastard’s toast, mate.” Garrick called from somewhere off screen.

”Aye,” Johnny said, and then looked directly at the fucking screen with those bright blue eyes full of promise, and life, and love… looked directly at the—he was looking at the—“Be seein’ ye, L.T.”

Simon didn’t remember leaving the chair.

He didn’t remember staggering for the door.

He didn’t remember yanking his mask from his head as the balaclava suddenly felt suffocating rather than protective, stifling him like Ghost was trying to keep a stranglehold.

He didn’t remember when his hands began to shake, his fist threatening to shatter the phone, breaking the white plastic of his mask, or when his knees gave way. Only that Price was there to catch him when he began to fall apart, strong arms wrapping around his chest. Simon’s fingers scrambled into Price’s back, clawing at the firm bulwark of it as the first broken noises wheezed from his chest. “Johnny… Joh—Johnny…”

”I know, son. I know—i’s ok, i’s ok, I gotcha, let it go… s’olrigh’…”

Price held him so fuckin’ tightly, buried his face in Simon’s neck as they ended up on their knees, Simon’s manic scrambling too much even for Price to handle. Every raw emotion, every broken part of himself that he had pushed down to get the job done, poured out in the animalistic, shattered sobs that wracked through his entire body. Ugly, gasping, broken noises, with tears, and snot, each breath rasping from his burning lungs as he fought against the tsunami of agony that pulled him under.

Simon clutched the phone to his chest, like he could absorb the image of Johnny into his heart and use it to glue the shattered pieces together, his face buried in Price’s shoulder, blunt nails biting into the cotton of his shirt, howling like a wounded animal as everything he had lost, everything that he could have had, finally swallowed him whole.

[bitchface24-7]

Hiii! How are you? I hope you had a wonderful day. Now, I'm here with an idea, I was thinking what if Jayce (and maybe Viktor, but I don't know how to make it work) traveled to another reality, like Ekko, but in this reality nothing of what happened happened. I mean, yeah, the explosion happens and blah blah blah, but in this world reader doesn't die (I love angst I'm sorry) and that helps Viktor not turn into the herald and try to kill everyone. I don't know, just a thought, you can use it to inspire yourself or not, that's perfectly fine. If you do write it thank you, and if you do not thank you anyways. Love your blog, keep on like that 😘

THE ONE’S THAT GOT AWAY - JAYVIK X READER

synopsis: Jayce isn’t sure how he got here. Did the older Viktor he met who was a mage cast the spell wrong, was it when he and Viktor accepted fate in the cosmos, or was it his gift from the gods he no longer believes in, bringing him back to the two most important people in his life. One of them he died with. The other died much earlier.

warnings: MCD undeath (you're all alive now, hurrah! But the death with be mentioned), Jayce thinking he’s gone mad, crying, comfort, a world where EVERYONE IS ALIVE, poor Jayce; we’re so mean to him. Plot twist… Grammarly is my beta.

genre: m/f or m/m (with a realization of m/m/f or m/m/m)

p.s. Y'all just like putting my boy through the ringer!! Hopefully, he gets his peace here.

Jayce is scared. He's only in his early thirties and he's going to die. Everything is destroyed, their lab, their dreams, their future. All blowing in the wind like ashes, and the ground is stained with blood.

This was never supposed to happen. Hextech was meant to improve lives not become… what it became. You, Jayce, and Viktor were supposed to live long, happy lives. Maybe move out of the city, find a small town and live in a cozy cottage. Or even find a nice house in Piltover where you're in prime real estate. The markets and transit not too far from us.

But all of that is dead now. You died from a dormant virus in your body, it was waiting to strike when you were most happy. Your family has had it in their bloodline for years; and you didn't tell anyone.

You died in your sleep, painlessly, peacefully. Neither Jayce or Viktor knew until they went to your apartment to check on you, it wasn't like you to not come into the lab, not unless you told them before hand.

It was almost like you were sleeping. Your face was at ease, your body stiff. Jayce could lie to himself and say you were in a deep sleep, but he knew the truth. You were dead. Your chest wasn't moving, you were cold to the touch, and there was no pulse.

Viktor stood there horrified, before trying his best to find some sign of life. The more he looked, the more desperate he became. Jayce was frozen. He had finally asked you out on a date, it happened just a few days ago. You shared a kiss. Now you're dead.

Jayce silently walks to the home-phone attached to your wall and calls an ambulance, explains the situation in the most monotone voice he's ever produced, and quietly hangs the phone up; not even hearing what the phone opperator told him.

But he does hear Viktor crying, his hand over his mouth muffling sobs. Jayce walks over to him on autopilot and hugs him as tightly as he can and Viktor collapses into his arms.

They don't move until the paramedics come.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

After that, everything went downhill. Sky went missing, Hextech was made into weaponry, he and Viktor’s relationship became strained, the council room explodes due to a bomb, Viktor dies, Jayce breaks his promise to destroy the hexcore, he uses it to revive Viktor, turns out Sky died due to the hexcore.

Viktor leaves.

And Jayce is all alone.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Viktor's become a herald of some kind; a messiah. Healing the ill and injured in the Under— Zaun. He talks to Jayce through Salo, mentions all his accomplishments, and wishes he had this power back then to save you.

Jayce winces.

He kills Salo and goes to the commune, he kills Viktor.

Then the Machine Herald is born.

Viktor tries to get Jayce to be his partner again, desperately missing him, and you. It doesn't work.

They fight, they reunite, they die together in a massive glow of white.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Jayce jolts up from his bed, frantically patting his face and his body. What the hell is going on?

He's alive? How is he alive?! He died with Viktor in the cosmos, he shouldn't be here right now! He's panicking until a familiar hum interrupts his thoughts.

“Hi, sweetheart! I know those meetings with the council are exhausting so I brought your coffee to yo— what happened?!” You gasp, and Jayce bursts into tears. You place the mug of coffee onto the dresser and rush over to Jayce to hug him.

You're here too, you're alive. Your hair is the same, your smile is still blindingly bright, and your signature scent washes over Jayce as he sobs even harder; barely breathing.

“Oh Jayce whats wrong? Was it a nightmare? You don't have to tell me, I'm right here. I'll always be here.”

Jayce’s cries become much louder at that and you start to panic. You've never seen Jayce cry like this— ever. This is gut-wrenching to see, and you're gonna need another set of hands to help you.

“Viktor! A little assistance please!”

Jayce's cries stop momentarily but pick up when the other man enters the bedroom. He's here too. He's alive too. And he looks so good, so healthy. He still has prominent cheek bones, and he still has dark circles under his eyes; but he looks like when Jayce first met him, if not even healthier. His posture is much better, his leg brace is gone, but he's still using his cane. His hair is longer too, with the blonde highlights he briefly saw before his chest was caved in due to his hammer.

A look of confusion sits on the mans face before a brief look of understanding flashes by. So quickly that if you blinked, you would've missed it.

“Oh my loves, what’s happened?” Viktor quietly asks as he goes to Jayce's other side, completing the goup hug. Jayce has never felt more safe as he has between you two.

“I don't know,” you state, a worried furrow of your brow gives away how scared you are, “I just came into the room and he broke down. Maybe it was a nightmare?”

Viktor nods before looking imploringly at Jayce, “Maybe it could be he’s been bottling everything up and finally reached his breaking point?”

Jayce squirms under the truthful accusation, and looks anywhere but to the two of you, “Jayce! You're allowed to come to us when you need it! I thought we agreed, no more suffering in silence.”

A light shrug is what you get for your reprimand, “Its a hard habit to break.”

You coo and run you hand through his dark hair, his beard tickles your nose when you kiss his cheek, “I know sweetheart, but we’re here for you. How about this,” you offer, “I make your favourite breakfast, Viktor stays here with you and then we all eat together. Sound good?”

Jayce wants to say no. He just got you back, and he can't handle losing you again, but at Viktors look— one he's well acquainted with when he wants to talk in private. He gives in and agrees to your bargain.

You give both of them a kiss on the forehead and leave the bedroom. Keeping the door open so you can hear them if they need anything from you.

Jayce sniffles and looks at Viktor, Viktor looks back at him in understanding. “You weren't expecting this, huh? Neither was I. Luckily for me I had my panic attack last night. I was able to find journals to read to realize where I was.”

“You’re my Viktor?”

“I’m your Viktor.”

Jayce sighs, “Where the hell are we, Viktor? They're alive. We’re in a room I’ve never seen before. You're the healthiest I've ever seen you, and your hair is different.”

“What did you think about before dying?”

A long silence is held before Jayce demurely responds, “A world where the three of us were happy. In the perfect house with our perfect lives. Nothing major has gone wrong, nobodies died, there was no war, Hextech succeeded. You know… the usual.”

Viktor just looks at the man and hugs him tightly, brushing his nose into the crook of his neck, “I thought along the same line. Now we’re here; I guess this is our happy ending? For all the pain and suffering we went through.”

Jayce sighs, he feels a headache forming, “Isn’t this wrong? We’re not… we’re not their Jayce and Viktor. We could be missing years of memories that we’ll never get to know about.”

Viktor chuckles, “We’re scientists Jayce. We write everything down, besides, I got them to tell us the story of how we all got together.”

“We… all… what? Write down— what are you saying?”

Viktor looks coyly at Jayce, “We wrote everything down, like a journal. And for all of us— you two started dating, but really nothing changed. And the things you two did for one another; you did for me too. You came to the hilarious realization that, you love me too.”

Jayce quirked an eyebrow, a little offended, “Hilarious?”

“You burst into the lab startling the two of us and yelled, “ARE WE ALL DATING?!” In a panicked, frenzied tone. They just looked at you and said, “I thought we were all on the same page, guess not.” And you fainted. I almost pissed myself in laughter.”

Jayce sputters, his face going red. He’s not that oblivious, is he? He thinks back on his interactions with you, with Viktor, and with the two of you together; and comes to a startling conclusion.

“Oh… oh no. I’m an idiot. How come I never realized?!”

Viktor pats his cheek in solidarity, “You’re a very intelligent man, Jayce Talis. But that doesn’t mean you’re smart in other areas of life.”

“Oh geez. Thanks.”

“No problem.”

The two men hear your voice from the kitchen, “C’mon you two, breakfast is ready! We still need to get our formal wear from the tailor for the Distinguished Innovators Competition later tonight. We’re the judges this time, we can’t be late and I want to see what Powder and Ekko invented!

Jayce is gobsmacked and Viktor chuckles at him, “Turns out perfecting Hextech makes us quite famous in the science world. We’re highly sought after guest speakers at the academy, explaining our success in transportation, ventilation, plant-life, and medicine. Our lovely partner is a professor at the academy for all students mandatory English class. Powder and Ekko are their favourite student’s; but they’ll never admit it.”

Jayce feels like crying again, this time in happiness, “This is really real. This is our life now?”

“It’s really real. Now c’mon, I’d rather not get hit with a spatula because I came late to eat.” Viktor gets up, gets his cane and leaves the room. Jayce sits there stunned for a few seconds before following him, getting his mug of coffee of the dresser.

When he sees you standing there, all proud of the food you made for them, Jayce’s heart melts.

He deserves this.

You all deserve this.

And with that, he eats the most delicious breakfast he’s ever had, with two people he adores.

AHHHH!!! This idea was so good! I hope I balanced out the angst and the fluff well. This is so *mwah* love ya ❤️

[starhvney]

@cainxxremains requested: begging for MCD gene,,, leaning towards tea and i don't have a preference for cream or cinnamon. AS FOR PROMPTS i'm thinking pumpkin bread, apple turnover, or roasted marshmallows :0

𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝟏𝟗: 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐮𝐩 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐥𝐲 𝐜𝐮𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐫!!

𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬: romantic tension, hurt/comfort, reader is sick & warm by a fire

𝐚/𝐧: since i completed a order for for pumpkin bread with mcd gene, i went ahead and just did the apple turnover and roasted marshmallows :3 hope you like it! also, i lost your request in my inbox, i’m so sorry??? i’m glad i saved this in my docs drafts omg

𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 ☆ 𝐖𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓

Your head spins as you kneel to the ground, fingers brushing against the rough bark of the logs you’d just dropped in your rather unfortunate trip to the ground. Snow soaks into your clothes where your knees dig into the earth, huffs of vapor leaving your lips as you try to control the black that was threatening to overtake your vision. All you needed was a little firewood, but it seems you were too weak to even do that on your own, whatever sickness you were fighting off more serious than you had initially taken it.

“What are you doing out here?” Gene’s voice startles you, sharp and stern.

With a grimace, you squint up at his towering figure. You hadn’t even heard him coming���not a crunch of a footstep in the snow or an exhale from his lungs from the long journey. Somehow, he always managed to sneak up on you like this, saving you from the trouble you’d gotten yourself into. His arms are crossed, brows furrowed as he looks down at your rather pathetic form shivering in the cold.

“I told you not to go out and exert yourself,” he continues, voice almost blank.

“You were gone for a while after I woke up. I thought you’d left for a few days again.” You cough, black spots taking over and making you hunch over for a moment, leaving Gene’s boots in your vision. They’re a bit dirty, and a few dark red splatters drip down the leather. “…I was cold.”

You don’t have time to question the suspicious substance on his shoes as strong hands hook around your arms, pulling you up onto your feet. You groan as unconsciousness nearly takes you, but before you could tumble over again, he scoops your legs from under you and hoists you up against his chest with a sigh. It feels like cotton has been stuffed in your ears, and you try not to panic as you fight off fainting.

“Why… humans… so weak? I should just…” He mumbles as he walks, and you barely pick up the words over his raspy tone. “But last time… didn’t like it.”

…What?

Your back finds the cot he had practically kept you prisoner on since he’d visited and found you unwell, right by the fireplace where a sad-looking pile of charcoal and ashes lay.

“I said I was getting medicine and took care of the doctor who gave you the wrong herbs.” He says, clicking his tongue in displeasure when he looks around to see that he hadn’t left any wood inside for you when you woke up. He must not have planned to be gone as long as he was.

“…Took care of him?” you wheeze, unable to ignore the small inkling of unease despite your dazed state, already forgetting his previous strange words.

“…I talked with him.” His eyes flick to you, nose wrinkling. “You should be worried more about your own health than that worthless man, anyway.”

You can’t shake off the vision of what so clearly must have been blood on his shoes, but you can’t find any words to confront him, instead staring up at him in your disbelief. He huffs, pointing at you like a disobedient child as he walks back to the door.

“Stay. There.”

You offer a wheezy cough in return, left in silence as he shuts you away from the harsh weather. The ceiling spins, and you curse at your lungs as they punish you for even attempting to stand earlier, let alone do any physical work. You feel miserable, so while that voice in the back of your head tells you something is off about the man you’d let into your life so closely, you’re more focused on the warm feeling in your chest at the fact that he came back to take care of you. So often did he have to leave for “mercenary duties” that you’d see him only for a few days before he’d go for weeks at a time, letting you in close and pulling at your heartstrings before leaving you wanting for his presence. But he’s stayed for a whole week now, and you can’t help but smile deliriously at the fact.

Gene returns with a pile of wood in his arms a minute later—he must’ve gotten dry ones from your stock outside rather than the ones you’d fumbled to the ground just outside the door. He kneels by the fireplace, stoking up the dying embers and glancing back at you. Many times, you’ve seen his eyes go terrifyingly cold towards others, but there’s a spark there that warms the dark blue hue like the fire in the hearth. Sometimes, you swear you could see a twinge of red in the hue, but it would return back to the color of a dazzling night sky before you could question it, and you’d be hypnotized once again.

“Why are you smiling like that?” he turns to you, inching closer to your side and leaning over you on the cot.

You feel a twinge of embarrassment, feeling caught, but it's better to just admit your thoughts from before than suffer his sarcastic teasing in the state you were in.

“Because you came back.”

A moment passes where he observes your face, his lips parting and eyes narrowing, before he shakes his head. 

“I’m not going to leave you like this,” he scoffs.

“So you’ll leave once I’m better.” Despite the uncomfortable cold sweats heading down the back of your neck, you’re slightly grateful that it’s kept him here for this long.

He sighs, looking at the wall. His silence gives your answer.

“I wish you’d stay,” you mutter, feverish delirium overtaking your usual hesitations. “With me.”

His jaw clenches before he looks back down at you, eyes muddled with an indescribable emotion. “Trust me, if you let me in that close, you’d regret it.”

“…Then when I’m better, I want to leave with you. To go where you go.”

“No.” His response is quick, stern. “That can’t happen, either. It’s not safe. And unless...”

He trails off, eyes possessively raking across your form. His calloused fingers brush along the delicate skin of your throat, the stiff, roughness that almost seemed inhuman sending a shiver across your skin. Or maybe it’s the fever getting to you.

“Unless…?” you croak.

He’s quiet for another few beats, and you frustratingly have no clue what his inner monologue could be, no matter how hard you try to decipher it through his face.

“Focus on getting better. Then we can talk about these things.” You have a feeling he’ll come up with more excuses by then, but you have no energy to argue when he stands, walking to your kitchen and ending the conversation with finality. “I’ll make you your favorite soup and prepare your medicine.”

©starhvney 2024. do not plagiarize, feed to any AI, or repost my works to any sites.

taglist: @wasting-away-on-the-internet @angelhyperfixates @valentique @arienic @dazedbydeath @theaquaticplant @starsbrightly @kalegrinch @izzybella1807 @marst4rz @vyladsgirl @allieyaaa @luvsymai @yoom-ss @garrothswiferealnotfake @fartmonster98

[goatgoesmbe]

Worse scenario of this (yes, it's possible) if Simon never met reader

Ghost x Soap

tw : Soap is dead, depression, suicidal ideation, hallucination, MCD, dead dove: do not eat, bad ending 🧍

Simon was so lost after Johnny's death. He became a husk of a man that could only focus on his duty, live another day just to follow orders.

So when he got injured so bad that he got medically discharged-- he would spirall into depression, hard.

Obviously, he would visit that cliff where Johnny's ash was scattered. He had never visited that place after that tim, not wanting to remember how he had lost someone so important to him. Someone who took his heart and left the earth, leaving Simon to live with a gaping hole in his chest.

But.. he needed to be reminded of it right now. Because before Johnny left, he gave Simon happiness. Something he needed to cling onto right now.

And so here he was, standing there without his signature mask. Eyes dark and hollow as he stared at the scenery below.

Thoughts filled his head to the brim, like air that kept pumping into a fully inflated balloon. A second away from popping, just like he was.

He would be so lost in his head, surrounded by faint whispers in his ear. Amalgamation of voices, his young self sniffling as he took his dad's beating, his mum's cries, gunshots, Johnny's disgusting pig-like snort at a stupid joke, and another gunshot that haunted him the most, along with the flash of image behind his eyelids. Of the one he loved falling to the ground before blood started pooling around said beloved's head.

Question after question appeared. What he would do now? how he would go on after this? and why should he keep going?

The last question lingered. Then it repeated, over and over until it was all he could think about.

Why should he keep going?

Yeah.

Eventually, his mind started to quarrel. The argument against it was so strong that it fabricated a justification in a form of a familiar figure in front of him.

"Ye look like shite" His annoying voice teased.

"Johnny-" Simon breathed after a few seconds of silence.

"Enough o' tha', aye? Come here" Johnny cut him off with that grin he loved so much. Arms spread apart, inviting him for a hug.

Entranced, Simon took a step forward.

And another.

Another.

He was so fixated on having Johnny back in his arms that he didn't notice the earth beneath had disappeared.

And it was too late to realize it until gravity pulled him down.

[gumbootillustrations]

ashes, ashes but its postcanon cos i need the comfort after all the hurt i put these fuckers thru

[aratribow]

What would happen if yanqing died.

I need more angst about Yanqing and jing yuan pls

AHHHHH I ACTUALLY HAVE SO MANY YQ MCD WIPS? That my lazy ass never completed..

But I present you ONE polished thingy. (Don't mind me adding in a ship as well ^^)

An au where Kafka was a bit too late with the spirit whisper, where Jing Yuan was a bit too late to save Yanqing from the shard sword aimed for his chest.

Ps: Yanqing is a bio renjing child here, but Ren didn't know about his existence because he left to get milk and never came back. ^^

Warning: Yanqing MCD

The sun sets, the bird ceases its song, and the lion mourns: (title suggested by @itsredpaint )

He distantly watched as the window curtains flew with the breeze, a chill so familiar. Lying motionless in the assigned bed at the alchemy commission, Jing Yuan felt numb; if the scratchy material of the sheets felt mildly prickly – then he couldn't tell. His barely taken breaths, the only sign of his survival.

There's nothing left.

The momentary fragile trust that took everything, for just a fraction, was broken on a whim.

Another loved one lost to the winds, too young and tender for the graves, too young and tender to wonder if even the ashes will remain.

Jing Yuan was supposed to die there, die at the hands of the Lord Ravager, he had everything prepared beforehand, so why. He was not supposed to be stranded on the mortal world with nothing left of his own, he had already lost plenty, what more was there to lose anymore.

For the moment, he couldn't even recognize if the dull throbbing pain from his chest was entirely the work of Cloud Piercer or not. The lingering remains of Destruction still pulsing through his chi didn't help either.

In the quiet solitude of the night, Jing Yuan's harsh breaths kept him up, the ragged pathetic sound so bitterly familiar.

If he was just a little bit faster…just a little bit faster to save the only sun left in his life.

(The other sun had already been lost to the stars, with nothing left of her other than the telltale bravery of her ill fated luck sewed into the few remaining strands of her lilac hair.)

With a bated breath, he realised that he would never see his retainer again. He would never get to see his dust blonde hair, which, despite being deftly tied up in a high ponytail, always ended up covered in dirt from the spars. The way it gleamed with a gentle sheen of gold whenever Jing Yuan combed through the knotted strands of his freshly dried hair after a long day of work, the action soothing his nerves into a pleasant buzz of tranquillity with Yanqing nodding off on his shoulder. He would never get to see the vivid shade of molten gold in his eyes either, which would crinkle at the edges with a beaming smile at the mention of a favoured sword.

People around General Jing Yuan always remarked as to how his retainer's eyes completely resembled his own, he wondered why, for he always thought that if there was someone who could rival the Sun, it would be Yanqing. not anymore, though

Confined in the cage of his short-sighted immortality, the Divine Foresight mourned. Could he have saved his disciple, his lieutenant, his retainer, his son if only he hadn't undermined the play orchestrated by fate itself? If only he hadn't trusted his life with the phantom of a man once loved and cherished.

Seeing nothing but the blurry lines of the ceiling, he dared not to blink as he let the tears cascade down by themselves, framing his face in a warmth he could only ever dream of now.

Despite being consumed by the guilt of failing yet another, he did not fail to discern the presence that breached the privacy of the room. If not for the silent footfalls, then for the tenseness permeating from the body.

He blinked once, twice.

"He was your son, too." Jing Yuan said, voice barely audible, barely held together against the lump in his throat, threatening to choke him. If not for the dead of the night, void of any activity around, the words would have been lost, blown away by the chilled breeze coming in through the windows.

With eyes still focused on the ceiling, he noticed the body wince in his periphery.

Jing Yuan never thought that it would come to this, but now? Now he wanted this person to mourn alongside him, to share the pain that tore his barely beating heart out and reduced it to shreds. But perhaps it was even more foolish of him to think that Ren would care.

If he had, he wouldn't had left, not when Jing Yuan needed him the most, not when Jing Yuan missed him so bad it hurt, a tender wound damaged again and again with no respite, with no chance to heal, to the point where Jing Yuan felt the kindling fire die within him…and he let it.

The only time he dared to show face was to kill their son, to take away the only light left in Jng Yuan's dying world.

Because what would it matter to Ren when it was Jing Yuan who had to raise Yanqing all by himself. It would be Jing Yuan, who would ever know about Yanqing's child-like antics despite the act he proudly put up for his role as a lieutenant.

It would be Jing Yuan who would remember his pleading eyes at barely the end of the month, and despite the visible disapproval he would still fulfil the wishes, just to see a triumphant smile grace his son's face for winning a war that didn't exist in the first place.

It would be Jing Yuan who would cherish his joy at the agreement of eating outside at a favourite restaurant, relishing in the simplicity of it. It would be Jing Yuan who would know of his boundless determination, his passion, his courage to overcome obstacles at such an early age, his dream of becoming the sword champion...that would remain a dream in itself.

Perhaps…if he had kept him away from the ruthless reality, and if he had just provided the comfort of a father and not the sternness of a mentor, a General, then…perhaps-

Despite being surged by the bitter feelings, he could hardly feel it in himself to move, it seemed to further drown him within the sheets instead. Perhaps it was for the best because he couldn't tell what he wanted to do with his limbs or his body anymore. His grip on reality, failing him.

Before he could choke even further on his misery, he felt a rough bandaged hand coming to rest on his forehead – just then, he finally found his body moving as he violently recoiled against the hand. If it was the tender hand of a lover before, now, it was just the hand of a murderer that dripped with the blood of his child.

Something must have been written on his face besides the silent stream of tears, for he saw the body retreat back quicker than it came to be. He wondered if he would retreat back through the door, never to show face again, just like last time.

But Jing Yuan could care less. If Ren wished to stay for some sick godforsaken reason, just to haunt him in his last moments, then he probably should. Jing Yuan didn't have it in himself to stop him, he'd rather have that same blade plunge through his heart and seal the final deal for him.

He knew the mara wouldn't be long after this, he had lived enough already, and his son was the last straw.

"Baba.... it hurts.." Yanqing said as he had coughed out a string of viscous red that shouldn't be there, not at this age, not now.

Jing Yuan remembered the feeling of pure rage dissipating only to be replaced by unadulterated anguish instead as he collapsed to his knees beside his child. There was a gaping wound that shouldn't have been there-

No, it shouldn't have been there, and yet it was.

Yanqing had laid there, in his arms, seeping precious blood into the ruined tiles of the Dragonvista Hall. Jing Yuan recalled feeling helpless as he watched the blood gurgle from Yanqing's mouth, making it hard for him to breathe. The strength in his tender face long gone as he watched the colour receding rapidly, leaving nothing but pure fear in its wake. His son was scared, scared and he could do nothing to soothe the pain.

He used to pull his son close into his arms, secure him there and read him stories or recount tales from the past at nights Yanqing couldn't sleep. He wonders if he should have paid more attention to the beating heart against him, comforting in the constant rhythm of alive, alive, alive-

His grip on Yanqing faltered as slick blood sluggishly gushed out of the wound on his tiny body. How could someone this small lose this much blood?

Before he could’ve tried to bring his son a false sense of security, the least he could've done for his frightened child, he saw his breath even out and his eyelids flutter shut against the remaining tears streaming down his face. The tears that washed away the grime on his young face only to leave tracks of evident pain behind.

Jing Yuan couldn't do anything when yanqing slowly nudged his face into his neck, with his last remaining strength, to breathe out a final…apology.

"Baba, I'm sorry....I...failed you."

Before he could retort back to dispel the thought, (How had he failed to notice this brewing insecurity? What kind of father-) he felt the body completely slump into his arms, warmth dissipating from his body already.

Oh how he wished for the cold to be from Yanqing's frost, and not from his dying body.

He couldn't remember how long he sat there, but it must have been enough for Dan Heng to approach him and rest a (reassuring?) hand on his shoulder. He might've spoken something but Jingyuan could hear nothing over the blood boiling in his veins, over the unresponsive body in his arms, pulled close to his own to at least share a portion of his own body heat in desperate hopes of convincing himself that his son was still alive. He clutched him tightly enough to probably hurt, but hurting would have been good, it would've meant that he was still breathing.

The haze eventually cleared when he felt the dam finally break in its wake.

Jing Yuan swayed forward into his lap with his hands covering his face, hiding himself from the world, from himself, and from him. He heard a loud whimper before registering an inhumane cry of pure agony, not realising that the sound was torn out from himself.

He wanted to slam his fist into the mattress, feel the wooden frame of the bed break underneath his hands. He needed to let out the pain somehow, but he could find no purchase when he felt a pair of hands firmly, yet gently, remove his tightly clenched fingers clutching the bunched up sheets. He felt bitterly vulnerable as he struggled against the firm hold, pushing him back down onto the bed, the rough material of the bandage grating against his wrists. He cried out at the cruelty that denied him the simple notion of curling in on himself, the need in his body to clutch something, someone close against him growing stronger by the second. What more could Ren want from him?

"LEAVE!” He lashed out, sobbing with broken hiccups. He hated how exposed he felt, having nowhere to hide his face.

"Leave like you always did! Leave like you were always meant to, because leaving is the only thing you are good at-"

The words promptly got stuck in his throat though, as he distinctly felt a drop of tear hitting his face. The following whimper made Jingyuan finally turn back to gaze into Ren's contorted face, his lips pulled into a wobbling snarl with his brows tightly knit together. Ren hovered over him as gold met red and more tears struck his skin as they emerged from eyes barely kept open.

Despite a faint voice in his head urging him to wipe away tears if his past lover, Jing Yuan couldn't find it in himself to be merciful for this once. He has shown enough mercy in this lifetime, he wanted to be selfish for once.

"You killed our son, Ren. It was me who had raised him, and now it again has to be me....to see through his funeral." Jing Yuan weeped, still reeling from the onslaught of guilt. “How many more Ren? How many more?”

If Jing Yuan went overboard with his demands, then he did. The patience meticulously crafted over the years shattering in mere seconds.

He saw Ren violently wince, and it…shouldn't have been as satisfactory as it was, but he couldn't deny the cruel satisfaction of watching the murderer collapse under the realisation of his own crimes. Perhaps this is what Ren wanted to feel as well when he chased Dan Heng across the universe.

Ren finally left the hold around his wrists as he sank onto the ground to his knees, his face dejectedly pushed into the mattress, going completely still despite a hand still faintly holding onto Jing Yuan's own. If it was an apology, then Jing Yuan couldn't tell.

[chaoslynx]

hey so i have a question??? do you think that when eiji finds out that ash bled out in nypl, he hated ash just a little bc he thought ash might come with him to japan and kinda got his hopes up?? or do u think that eiji hated himself bc he thinks that ash dying was his fault bc of his letter??

OOF loaded question for sure. This is all going to be just my personal opinion!

I don't think Eiji hated Ash for dying. He hated that Ash died, but he didn't hate Ash for it, if that makes sense. He might even be angry with Ash, but I don't think Eiji would ever hate him, even in death. This is a really complicated topic for a lot of reasons, and if you've read my novel I Don't Like Blue, it's actually something I discuss thematically a lot there.

Ash's death is, at its heart, a suicide. There's really no way around that -- he didn't have to die, and he chose to. It was not a fatal wound.

By the nature of it being a suicide, a lot of people are going to blame themselves, because no one wants to "blame" the person who died. I think that Eiji may have blamed himself in a lot of ways. In Garden of Light, Sing finds out that Eiji knew the whole time that it was his letter that allowed Ash's death, despite the fact that Sing tried to keep this fact from him.

However, I don't think that the letter is the only way that Eiji might blame himself. Ash survived so much worse than this stabbing, so many times, both medically and emotionally. So what made this time so different? Why did Ash choose this time to let himself die?

Eiji's conclusion, naturally, would be: him. It's because of him.

This is not to say that Eiji is correct in that conclusion. Again, its' a complicated situation, and I don't think that it's as simple as "it's Lao's fault" or "it's Eiji's fault" or "it's Ash's fault." If anything, it's the fault of a world that taught Ash to have so little value for his own life.

But I do think that these thoughts were likely something that Eiji fought with for a long time, trying to find some sort of meaning to it, trying to figure out what he might have done differently to truly save Ash, like he had always been trying to.

A part of Eiji will always wonder where he went wrong.

[galacticgraffiti]

A Borrowing of Bones (4)

This work is a collaboration with my most beloved artist and friend of all time Blumi. All text was written by me, all illustrations were designed and painted by them ♡ A sidenote for this chapter: Soap's diary pages were actually drawn by me!

Simon "Ghost" Riley x John "Soap" MacTavish Rating: Mature (for heavy themes) Chapter Wordcount: 2.6k

MCD, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat// Heed also the Masterlist for general warnings. CW: death, grief, unhealthy coping mechanisms, postmortem invasion of privacy, confessions of love (postmortem), selfharm, blood, passive suicidal ideation.

A/N: The Chapter titles are taken from different poems. The poems will be hyperlinked for those interested! Blumi's artworks will be added to the end of each chapter.

Read on AO3 ✧ Taglist Signup for this fic ✧ Fic Masterlist

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Four: Nobody Heard Him, the Dead Man

Simon’s hand touches the page softly, like it will turn the ash the second anyone but Soap looks at it. Who knows? It just might.

Ghost doesn't even feel conflicted about opening Johnny’s diaries. Not as much as he probably should, anyways.

Just gathering information, is what he tells himself. Being thorough.

Simon hates it. Hates that this is all he has left, hates every word on the page for the fact that it won’t be enough. Won’t bring Soap back in the ways that matter. Will only be enough to crush his heart into sand and flood him with pain anew.

“Oh, Johnny,” he whispers, eyes barely making out the words on the page. All he knows it’s that it’s Soap’s familiar scrawl, letters tilted a little too much to the left, entangled with each other, too inconsistent to be pretty. Coffee stains and smudged ink and dried out scribbles entwined around the letters. And from between it all – there is Ghost. Over and over again, his body, his scars, his hands, his eyes, his mask. All of it Ghost. Ghost staring up at himself from between Johnny’s letters.

Ghost’s fingers shake when they touch the page.

“Johnny, what have you done?”

He let me call him Simon today. I don't know if he noticed- maybe he didn't realise. But I did, and he didn't correct me. Simon. I think maybe he didn't hear me. Helo’s loud as fuck, barely got the name from my lips either. Was scared he’d clock me in the face right then and there.  Simon. Caught a glimpse of his neck, too. Forbidden, that felt. How do you love someone like that? Never touched him, either. Never felt his skin on mine.

I hear him say my name and the whole world goes quiet. His voice in my ear and I know I’ll make it back alive. LT always got my six. Always watches out for me. Always makes sure I come back. He likes me alive, he says. I like him alive, too. Love him alive. Don't think death would stop that. Don’t think I could ever stop.

...

I shouldn't be saying this. Shouldn't be writing this down, for fuck’s sake. But I have to tell someone, and I can't tell anyone. Least of all him.  Simon. I never get to say his name the way he says mine. Can’t do it. Would break me clean in half.

...

Price says they found Makarov. We’re leaving today. I’ve been dreaming about Simon. Don’t know how to look him in the face. Don’t know how to stop. Barely function when he’s right there, and his hands his fucking hands. His finger on the trigger making sure I’m safe. How do I love him? It’s easy. Easier than breathing, even if it kills me. ________

With trembling fingers, Simon turns the page, goes backwards in Johnny’s life. Takes it all in, tries not to hate himself for it. Tries not to let his tears stain the yellowed paper. Stares and stares, and lets his heart go still and quiet.

He looks at what Johnny’s hands, his too large, too rough hands, have created. Each glimpse Johnny ever got of Simon’s bare skin banned onto paper. He stares at the words next to it, like the art is not enough to know what Johnny was feeling.

“Johnny,” he says, like it doesn’t kill me every time to hear him say it. “Johnny,” he says, and I feel like a fucking person again. I haven’t in so long. It was always the job, and that was fine. But when he calls me Johnny, I want to be more. I want to have more. Have a life, so I can have him in it. Fuck’s sake, is that stupid? It’s so stupid. _______

Back another page and another, and another. To the very first page. Simon is trembling all over, choking on air. Trying to hold in the sobs that make his chest shake. Ghost takes a steadying breath. Clenches his fist, digs his fingernails into the fresh wounds in his palm. Wants to light a fag and is glad he hasn’t any with him. He won’t stain the air in Johnny’s home with stale cigarette smoke. It has to stay as it is. Exactly as it is. An altar to lost love.

Johnny’s letters are rushed, even less legible than usual. The first entry. Ghost wonders distantly if this is the first notebook. If it’s the only one, or if there are others. Older ones. When did it start?

Did it start here?

I shouldn’t say this. Shouldn’t even be thinking this to be honest. If anyone finds this christ knows i’m fucked.

I can’t stop it though. Cannae stop thinking about him, and if I don’t write it out, if I don’t say it, don’t put it down somewhere I’ll go insane.

When he lets me touch him I don’t know how I could possibly be okay without more. How I’m ever supposed to stop. It’s never… it’s never anything. Not really. It’s a bump to the shoulder, a sliver of exposed wrist when we spar. His neck, one time, when someone put a knife to him. Killed that bastard. Took care of him. Dress the wound, Johnny. I nearly kissed him then. Over the mask, right then. Wouldn’t have cared for the fabric or that we were still under fire. Keep it tactical, Johnny. 

His bare skin- he’s so pale. Pale like a ghost. My own personal one. Scarred as shit. He’s perfect. I know I shouldn’t be feeling this. Not about anyone, least of all him. He would never- could never feel the same. Could never act on it even if he did. Which he doesn’t. But fucking Christ if I don’t want to.

Dress the wound. Keep it tactical. 

I think I’ll explode if I don’t tell him. Think I’ll die if I do. When did I get so soft? Fuckin hell. So sweet for him.

My Simon. My Ghost. ___________

Something wet drips onto the page, red and heavy. Ghost hisses when all of a sudden, feeling rushes back into his body.

He was floating, pleasantly detached from the world, floating in a world of Johnny’s making. One where he was so close to him he could fucking taste it. Pain brings him back, and he feels all of it: The softly pounding pain of his broken skin, the splinters of his heart slicing into his chest, ripping him apart from the inside out with every beat. The aching of his clenched jaw, biting down so hard he can taste blood.

“What the fuck, Johnny.” Ghost’s – Simon’s – chest shakes with heavy sobs. He can’t breathe, and the world blurs. “WHAT THE FUCK, JOHNNY?”

Told ye.

Simon’s voice breaks. The floor is sudden and hard beneath his knees.

“You didn’t tell me shit, Johnny. Didn’t open your fucking mouth even once, did ya? Fucking bastard, you are. Fuck you. Fuck you.”

Are ye mad at me?

“You are not real.”

Aye, suddenly I’m not real, is it? Keep tellin’ yerself tha’.

Ghost pulls his knees to his chest. Lets his head rest on them. Tries to catch his breath even if there is no air in the room at all.

“You’re not real,” he mumbles to himself. “You’re not real, Johnny. You’re not. Not here, not real. Dead in the ground, you are. Buried. Fuckin’ rotting. ‘s why I came here in the first place, innit? Should never have come, should never have come…”

Ye missed me.

“Not enough to bear this.” The words are heavy and metallic on Ghost’s tongue. “Too much to bear this. Don’t you get it?”

Ye’ll never be alright withou’ me. Ye know tha’, Simon. You had tae come get me. Isn’t this what ye wanted? What ye needed? Thought ye were askin’ for mah permission.

“Not like this.” Simon is rocking back and forth, trying to calm himself, trying to catch his breath, because the room is still oddly fuzzy around the edges and he can’t seem to stop the sobs in his chest long enough to catch his breath. “Not like this, Johnny, not like this. I can’t- I can’t do it, not like this, why did you have to do that? Why did you have to go write it down? Had to go and compromise it all, didn’t you? Stupid cunt. Fuckin’- you bloody bastard. Did you hope they would find this? Tell me about it? Did Price know, that why he sent me here? Did you know back then? Did you know you wouldn’t be coming back from Makarov? Why else would you leave it out in the open like that, why else would you-”

Had mah reasons. Guess ye’ll never know, will ye?

“Fuckin’ hell, Johnny.” Ghost presses his thumbs into his eyeballs until it hurts so much he can finally breathe again. “Just- fuckin’ hell.”

Soap’s voice is soft, is impossibly close. Like Ghost could feel his hand on his shoulder if he focused hard enough. Could remember how Johnny’s fingers touched his neck, way back when, on that stupid, fucked-to-hell mission he wrote about. Because of course he remembers. He remembers everything.

Remembers the glittering handle of his own knife  in Johnny’s hand, leaving a trail of red in its wake as Johnny stabs the man that tried to kill Ghost. Again. And again. And again.

Violence, that’s something they both know. Something they’ve always known. Ghost had thought, way back then, that maybe Soap had gotten lost in the blood frenzy of battle. It happens. Had happened to him before. But that wasn't all, apparently. It was for love. 

“What the fuck, Johnny- what the fuck- why did you never-”

Soap’s voice is gentle, like a parent calming their child. It buries itself deep, embeds itself in Ghost’s entire being, as if he hadn't been there before. Impossible to let go of. 

And why didn't ye tell me, then? Does it matter? Now ye know. Now ye can do what ye came here tae do, aye?

Simon stays quiet. Hates himself for it. Already knows what he is going to answer. Simon is weak. And because, when it comes to Johnny, Ghost is just as weak, Ghost says,

“Aye, Johnny. I’ll come get you.”

_________________

Simon dreams of Johnny that night, when he lays on the kitschy couch in his dusty living room, and buries himself in a blanket that still smells vaguely of Soap’s aftershave and sweat. He doesn't dare sleep in Johnny’s bed; is afraid he’ll wake up to a corpse rotting next to him, watching him sleep with Johnny’s dead eyes.

In Simon’s dream, Johnny is everything, is the sun itself. Is alive. He looks so happy out of gear, his nose speckled with faint freckles, his scars pale against his tan skin. Johnny smiles and Simon’s heart implodes.

“Ye goin’ soft on me now, Simon?”

“I think I deserve it,” Simon says, a light smile in his voice. “If anyone gets to see me soft, it should be you.”

“Ach, away an’ bile yer heid.”

Johnny is laughing, teeth shining white.

“English, Johnny.”

“Yer a smart lad, LT. Sure ye’ll figure it out.”

Simon hums and pulls Johnny closer. Soft lips meet his own, warm hands wrapping around him, caressing the scar tissue of his face, kissing the scars of his smile especially. Healing him one soft touch at a time, tearing at his heart until it’s fluttering in shreds. Simon doesn't care. Doesn't need it anymore. He’s got Johnny’s heart, that’ll keep him breathing. Keep him alive.

Johnny’s lips move against Simon’s when he speaks in ways that feel as familiar as the pain of a blade.

“I love ye, ye daft cunt.”

Simon smiles into the kiss, melts beneath Johnny’s hands.

Words rise up his own throat. Simon tries to push them down, tries to stay like this just a little longer, but it’s no use. Ghost takes his tongue, and all the light drains from Johnny’s eyes. Flesh pulls back to reveal bone, teeth knocking against Ghost’s flesh, blood running from Johnny’s empty eye sockets.

Ghost’s voice is thick with it, coppery salt on his tongue when he speaks.

“Why did you never tell me that when you were alive, Johnny?”

_________

It’s Ghost who wakes up from Simon’s dream, with cold fingers and sharp nails digging into old wounds. Ghost who breathes until the sobs in his chest calm down, who presses the heels of his palms into his eyeballs until he thinks his brain might explode. Ghost who tells himself that it’ll all be better once it’s done.

That he won’t feel so empty anymore. So alone.

It’ll all be better once he has Soap with him again. It’ll all be better once Johnny is warm again.

A familiar voice seeps through the ringing in Ghost’s ears. He can’t help it- looks up, sees Johnny sitting across from him, in the old, worn-out armchair, almost as pretty as he was in Simon’s dream. Almost. Soap’s eyes are hazy with decay, but Ghost can’t look away from him anyways.

Johnny’s voice is laced with fear, terrified and small when he speaks, so different from Simon’s dream that Ghost has to remind himself that this isn't real either. None of it is.

Will ye take something of mine with ye, Ghost?

"I will take you."

What if tha' ain't enough? Once they burn the flat, there'll be nothin' left. No' mah books, mah art, mah coffee, not even mah dirty fuckin' underwear.

Ghost pauses, hand pressed against his stomach. He feels sick. 

There’ll be nothing left.

Like a sleepwalker, he gets up, stalks the few steps down the dark corridor to Johnny’s bedroom. The wood of the doorframe  is warm beneath his palm, like it's been sitting in the sun all day, even though it's been nothing but rain since Ghost got here. Even though it’s the dead of night, and there is nothing here but ghosts and the agony of lost love.

Ghost closes his eyes for a moment, and when he opens them again, Johnny's reflection stares back at him from the glass pane of the door, not bloody, not rotting, but pristine and cleaner than he ever was in life, with eyes so blue that Ghost's red ocean of pain turns cerulean for a moment.

Take somethin' of mine, Simon. The urgency in Soap's voice is palpable, thick and sweet. If yer takin' me for mah own sake, then take somethin' of mine fer yers. Ye know I wouldae wanted it like tha'.

"Do I know?" Ghost's hand shakes when he pulls away from the doorway, stuffs his useless fingers into his pocket to keep still. "How do I know?"

Ye knew me, LT. Ye've read mah bloody diary, haven't ya? Go on then. Take somethin'. A memento, a keepsake, a token of love, whatever makes ye feel good. Please. Do nae leave all these parts of me behind.

And Ghost gives in. Because it's Johnny asking, with his perfect bloody eyes, and his raspy brogue, and his dark brows drawn together and a strand of hair in his eyes because he hasn't cut his stupid mohawk in way too long.

Come on, LT. Fer me.

A sign of weakness, maybe. A sign of love. Same thing if you wait long enough. Always leads to misery and destruction.

Simon gathers Soap's diaries: Finds more of them in the desk. Three total. Wraps them in a shirt that still smells like him, and walks out the door without looking back, just leaves the house behind.

If he didn’t, his own blood would join Johnny's on the floor, where it's dripping from his head into a small puddle at the edge of the bed. If he didn't, his own blood would soak Johnny’s dusty sheets until nothing ties Ghost to this miserable life anymore and he can finally go.

Johnny never asks for it, but Simon can still hear the quiet whispers of the dead. He always has, even before the end of the world and the death of his sun, has always heard them whisper:

Come join us.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───── Previous Chapter ← ⋆ → Next Chapter ───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Yeah Johnny. Why'd you never tell him when you were alive?

@ulchabhangorm @purgetrooperfox @captav @kimiheartblade @gibsalotdoodles @staygoldnimoy @blinca

[pumpkinprincess22]

Was driving past a cemetery earlier and it got me thinking about death customs in MCD (as one does).

Followers of the Matron are traditionally buried, the graves are marked with headstones bearing crosses or the matrons symbol (for more about the use of a cross in the matron’s religion see a post I haven’t made yet but will link when I do)

Followers of the Wanderer are not buried as the worshippers are often travellers. Death customs vary. In Meteli which is a static Wanderer worshipping community the dead are given to the swamp as a ‘return to nature’ (credit to @kurithedweeb for that one among others on the MCDBB discord server). For travellers who have access to water the dead are given ship burials. If not they are burned on a pyre and the ashes scattered around the oldest tree in the area.

Followers of the Keeper are generally cremated, as they are primarily concentrated in Gal’Ruk where the ground is frozen and can’t be used for burial. Each person keeps a diary or journal throughout their lives which are added to the community archive upon their death as a record of their life.

Followers of the Fury are given grand funeral processions, culminating in a pyre where they are cremated. The ashes are collected and forged into a ceremonial weapon which is gifted to the next of kin. These family heirlooms are often then presented to the next child on their thirteenth birthday to symbolise coming of age.

Followers of the Protector are cremated and their ashes are interred in family tombs. Many will have their armour and/or shield reforged into an urn to hold their ashes.

Followers of the Destroyer are rare but not unheard of. Their dead are treated with the utmost care. Wounds are treated, bodies preserved, everything that can be done to ready the body should Shad choose them for his army. The bodies are then placed in an elaborate mass tomb.

Guards have their own rituals and traditions, these are something that young guard trainees learn among their many lessons at the guard academy or else are taught by their head guard. When a guard dies, regardless of whether they fell in battle or died of other causes, the cape they wore in life (part of standard guard uniforms in most villages in Ru’aun) is stitched into a burial shroud. It is traditional for the head guard to conduct a short ceremony where they ask for a volunteer to present the body with the shroud, usually the guard’s apprentice or next of kin, the head guard will then perform a short blessing of the Protector. After these rituals are performed the body will be treated according to the rights of whichever religion the guard followed.