#even with all of the knives taken out there are some that you just Cannot Display Safely. At All.

[waffliesinyoface]

current status: having lots of very normal thoughts about Sasori, everyone's favorite fucked up puppet man

[wispstalk]

Some writing advice for hunting, bc I see a lot of hunting scenes in fantasy that make me itch. More under the cut. Don't read if you're sensitive to blood-and-guts discussion or animal death.

Finding game:

- I don't hunt much these days bc I don't feel like getting my ass out of bed at shitfuck o'clock every weekend during the season. Which you have to do, because much of the time you come home empty-handed. Successful hunts come about when you're out there often.

- You don't really have to be a good tracker to hunt, but you do have to know the basics of your prey and you have to be able to interpret the landscape even if it's unfamiliar. It's less likely a tracker is looking for "bent blades of grass" or whatever and more likely they are noticing game trails, sheltered areas where nests and burrows are, a spot of thick vegetation which would indicate a water source.

- Scat and footprints are useful too ofc but to varying degrees. If I'm hunting deer it's just confirmation that they're in the area; more often I use knowledge of their habits to actually find them. If I were hunting something elusive and solitary like a cougar I would pay more attention to the tracks but that's also a reason people hunt with dogs!

Actually hunting:

- Bows are not the only hunting weapons, though would be most common in ur typical medieval fantasy type setting. Spears and lances, slings with stones, and clubs would also be used. And knives and swords but in this hunter's opinion, FUUUUCK that.

- Lung shot is a quick death. Heart shot and head shot too but that is much harder. Other shots might mean tracking a wounded animal as it runs away. This is where things like broken twigs/bent grass are especially telling, and ofc blood. Small game bleed out faster and won't get as far but you might spend quite a while running after an elk shot in the flank.

- This highly depends on the prey but hunting often involves more sitting around than people realize. I bring a small pad for my booty ass bc sometimes you'll spend hours in a strategic spot waiting for the game to pass by. Also hides (the shelter, not the skins) are a thing and most hunters would consider shelter-building an essential skill.

- Hunting seasons are not entirely a modern convention -- there are better times of year to find different animals. But there would be less concern, historically, about killing animals during the breeding season than we have today.

- Even when I was hunting regularly and more confident, I got a huge adrenaline spike EVERY time I had an animal in my sights.

Big game:

- A deer has a lot of meat on it and though it's not a bad thing to leave a carcass for scavengers, your party of two or three adventurers probably will not go to the trouble of hunting deer unless they have some nearby place to cache, preserve, or trade what they can't eat before it spoils. Are they leaving it behind or do they have some way to take full advantage of such a large kill?

- If your character gets a large game animal they're probably going to field dress it: deal with all the blood and guts on site, then quarter it so it can be packed back to the campsite or whatever. My dad is a big burly mutant man and he cannot carry a deer by himself. You can carry game on poles or horseback too but field dressing is pretty typical in a situation where u can't just fling it in the back of the truck and hang it at home.

- I grew up eating bear and when it comes up I'm often surprised how many people don't know that people hunt bear for meat. It's tasty imo, especially makes a good sausage

- I can hunt deer alone, though company is nice. I wouldn't attempt hunting something more dangerous by myself. Large animals especially are better taken down as a group effort. In the TES context for example it would be kind of insane to hunt horker alone. Not that some folks wouldn't try.

Small game:

- A character who subsists mostly on hunting is going to be eating a lot of small game. They are probably going to use traps and snares in addition to actually going out on hunts.

- Look up "rabbit starvation." Small game is often (but not always) lean and going without fat for a long time can cause serious health issues.

- I joke that you don't hunt turkey, you just go get one. Game birds are kind of stupid. I plan a deer hunt, but I have gone out and shot grouse on a whim.

Processing:

- Draining blood, skinning, plucking, butchering, dealing with all the bones and guts, storage and preservation: pretty time consuming and involved. It's a good excuse for social activity.

- The moneyed classes likely would not process their kills themselves, unless they're doing some kinda randyll tarly masculinity flex for the symbolism. Kitchen staff or a local butcher would handle it.

- A good skinning knife is kinda wide and short. Some game knives have a rounded tip which keeps it from puncturing the skin in case of accidental slippage.

- Skinning is done with a light hand bc puncturing the digestive system means you've poisoned the meat. I will say it is less difficult than I expected it to be the first time I tried it.

- We don't eat a lot of offal in the US but a deer liver, for example, would be considered prime meat by many and eaten first. Bear, walrus, and seal liver contain toxic amounts of vitamin A and would be thrown away.

- I've been told every animal has enough brains to tan its own hide, but I think there are some exceptions. It's definitely true of deer and elk. With small animals like rabbits it's hardly worth the effort of getting the brains out and other things can be used but brain tanned leather is soooo soft and nice.

- Hides and pelts are useful and valuable and would be kept or traded if circumstances allowed. You can tightly roll a hide to keep it from drying out before tanning, or you can freeze it, basically indefinitely. You can also air dry it once scraped clean and soften it later, which is what fur hunters would most likely do for efficiency's sake. Tanning is also so so so fucking gross imo. Really slimy process, and tanneries REEK.

That's all I can think of for now and this is already hella long but the takeaway is that it is generally a pretty involved activity and more impactful on lifestyle than I usually see depicted. So there ya have it

[ataraxiaspainting]

Yan Phantom Troupe + Hisoka + Illumi / Darling Asking “What Am I To You?”.

Warnings: Yandere themes, stalking, kidnapping, implied violence, not SFW implications for Hisoka because he’s a creep (and a mention of M*lluki in Illumi’s section I’m sorry for your loss) and also for Nobunaga because he’s bleh, Nobunaga threatens to take out your teeth for biting him it's up to you whether or not to believe him, and manipulation.

Word Count: 4.5k. (literally how lmao)

*~*~*~*

Chrollo

“Hm…” The sound goes on for much longer than what you would have liked or at the very most could handle without sneering, the crescendo in his voice rising and rising like tulips sprouting from soil. “Hm…”

His tone was barely a whisper at first, but it soon evolved like some hideous, god-forsaken species outcasted to a deserted island or planet. If you did not have your forks and knives taken away for trying to pick and cut off the cuff and chain attached to your ankle, a consequence from last week’s horribly executed escape attempt, you would threaten to stab your eardrums if he didn’t actually answer your question. But part of you thinks that he would only find it funny, and simply hum for twice as long as he has already planned to. Or would he be petty about it, and a second cuff and chain will appear on your ankle along with having your only friend, a silver spoon, taken away? With Chrollo, you do not think you will ever be able to fully tell.

“Please answer me,” You decide on responding with a musical note of your own, a drone. It seems to be the safest option, all things considered. You stare at the soup in front of you instead of at him, playing with the idea of counting the precisely cut vegetables and small rings of pasta. You would have entertained the thought of throwing the boiling bowl at him, but you now know that his speed is beyond what you could ever hope to achieve. 

You would never get that far, would you?

You would have to wait until he is gone for the time being to even be able to step on the welcome rug by the door. You managed to convince him to finally buy you hairpins yesterday, and they are safely tucked away in the corner of the table next to your side of the bed, hidden underneath a pile of neatly folded silk pajamas until further notice. 

“Well, what do you think you are to me?” He asks, brushing his foot against yours underneath the dining table. It takes everything in you not to move your chair away. That would only make things worse, wouldn’t it? Or would this just further make him see you as an adorable little thing because he knows you would not get that far, not with the cuff and chain on your ankle and the several locks on the door and him here right in front of you? 

Again, you cannot tell. When can you ever? Could anyone ever read him, you wonder?

His porcelain dish is already empty, with but a few drops of red broth and a few herbs swirling about. He moves his chair forward and gently grabs your hand, his thumb massaging circles into your palm. You don’t know whether or not to answer his question.

This life is like a torturous game of chess, and you aren’t a player at all. It is up to Chrollo to decide whether or not you are worthy of being a pawn or queen or king, and where you go.

Is this all you will ever be?

His fingers rise to your cheek as he stands up, the touch so light it is hard to decipher the intentions of it. Comfort? Ownership? A statement?

Without thinking, you shut your eyes and lean into it. You coo. You coo like a dove, a baby bird, something so small and fragile in the face of a predator that wants nothing more than to take off its wings so it can never fly away. Perhaps the predator in question is the parent of the chick, never wanting it to leave the nest and explore the big, scary world.

Is this all you ever will be? A helpless, silly little thing stuck way up high with no way down, something cute and small that needs to be protected and cared for because they cannot take care of themselves? 

You finally look up at him and he leans in then. He coos back at you, and you want to go back to closing your eyes and trying to stop hearing whatever he will say as a response to your refusal to answer. But you can’t.

So, you think of an answer, something that would make him happy but also not have you speak too long because you don’t want to speak at all. You just want this to be over with, you just want Chrollo to for once respond to your question instead of rebutting with one of his own.

You don’t have a choice, as always.

“Something to possess,” Your voice is soft and hoarse because you never use it aside from when you cry. “Something… someone to keep for your pleasure and your pleasure alone.” He coos again. It is sweet and sticky and latching onto you like thick honey or candy. 

“You’re halfway there.” There is an unspoken praise in the air, one so nectarous it’s suffocating and you almost can't breathe. It is like Chrollo’s hands are on your throat, squeezing and squeezing until you pop like a balloon. There is no escape.

He turns and gets his fingers off your face, but the feeling of freedom is quickly taken away by the sound of Chrollo’s footsteps approaching you. 

“I suppose I see you as both above and below me at the same time.” He says. You want to run but he’ll catch you in no time before you could even execute the idea.

He is behind you now, grabbing your arms and tugging as your chair squeals and squeaks like a lamb cornered by one who will soon sell its tender meat. You want to scream like one because you too are cornered by someone who will never let you out of here alive.

One of his hands smoothly moves up like you are a violin, lightly pinching your chin and forcing you to look up at him. You just hope there is no encore after this. You hope that in the future there are no such things and that he will just answer your questions and be done with it, but that is so foolish of you, isn’t it?

“You are human and have humanity,” He murmurs, his eyes wider and more intense than you ever had seen them before. “And I would love nothing more than to steal that away.”

Nobunaga

“You’re so silly, you know that?” You recognize the rhetorical nature of the question and choose not to answer. This causes Nobunaga to toy with the thigh-high socks he insisted you wear after returning from another day of thievery.

Every time you tried to express yourself verbally, you were met with a laugh, a gentle touch, an embrace, a peck, or... something far more dreadful than any of those gestures. You preferred to steer clear of that type of affectionate act for as long as you could, even if it meant just a few days. It would be a noteworthy achievement. Of course, Nobunaga's libido would never wane, as he shows no mercy unintentionally to you and intentionally to anyone else in his life.

The way your food is placed on pink plastic plates with little sections of where to put vegetables and where to put a small dessert for a job well done of eating all the food, which is always raw or burnt to a crisp. The pastel frilly clothes you’re forced to wear always show too much skin. The threat to remove most of your teeth if you bite him again. The way he keeps touching your thighs, pinching and groaning and-

Nobunaga never answers your question, resuming to hand-feed you some severely undercooked cookies he baked himself. Well, you scooped the dough at least, and that’s the most you’ll ever do in the kitchen while you are held captive.

Still, raw cookie dough is better than burnt in your opinion.

Just like delusional Nobunaga is much, much better than angry, heartbroken Nobunaga.

Your broken pointer and middle fingers are proof of that.

Feitan

“...”

He blinks; once, twice, thrice… and then you stop counting. It’s pointless anyhow, he is most likely not going to answer your question yet again.

As anticipated, Feitan walks away wordlessly, descending to his basement without a single step on the stairs being audible.

Just as you believe he has vanished, he creeps up from behind, clutching an object in his palms, causing you to nearly shriek. He would find amusement in that if you did. Whenever you engage in any action he deems foolish, he chuckles. It is the closest semblance of happiness you have witnessed from him, his snickering. 

“...Here.”

With trembling hands, you accept the concealed object from his grasp.

“...Well?” Feitan asks, raising his eyebrow, his coat hiding what is most likely a smirk of some kind. “Like it?”

Huh? It's... a ring, from a fancy jewelry shop that you had been setting aside money for. This shop happened to be the priciest in the city you grew up in, with all of its items being highly sought after.

“I do.”

Happiness is like the rarest star in the universe to you now, and you will never let it go, now that you have it once again.

“...Glad.”

After a few moments of silence, Feitan is the one who speaks again as you stare at the jewel’s beauty.

“Do you want the finger that came with it?”

(machi, hisoka, phinks, shalnark, franklin, shizuku, pakunoda, bonolenov, uvogin, kortopi, and illumi under cut!)

Machi

Somehow, Machi’s posture becomes even more tense. But it does not stop her from still pouring the pot of instant ramen into your plate, though hers remains empty.

In silence, she puts some edamame, still cold from the fridge, on top, along with some spinach and carrots.

With her bare hand, she pulls out one of the soft-boiled eggs from the bowl of ice water, rolling it on the table until its shell cracks and she takes it off. She then, along with the egg and vegetables, puts some seaweed on top.

When you lean in closer to the utensil drawer, Machi opens it before you can.

She doesn’t ask you which chopsticks you want. She already knows your favorite one by now. The wooden ones with purple handles with white rabbits on them. Hers are plain.

She puts yours in one hand and your food in the other, walking to the kitchen table and putting both down. It’s winter now, and so she makes you drink tea nonstop and thus has a cup of it in front of your chair too.

“…Do you think I hate you?” Her voice, while still cold, has an emotion in it this time; worry. “I don’t, I really don’t. I promise you.” With that, she cracks the other boiled egg and puts it into her empty bowl. “I promise.”

You feel horrible for asking. You just wanted to know. You never know what she is thinking, that is why. But you feel horrible. Now she does too. Both of you, here, in silence, pondering whether or not the other despises you.

“I know, I just… wanted to make sure.” You don’t know if you are lying, and neither does she.

She takes good care of you. But she also ties you up when she has to leave, and one time she had to take out the syringes when you got too aggressive.

So what exactly are you to her?

Hisoka

Hisoka, still standing over your sitting form, puts his right hand on you, squeezing it just barely enough for it to sting.

“Aw, come on [First], lighten up.” If it were possible, with his words Hisoka grows twice as large as he was before he said anything. “I still have lots to teach you.” He chuckles as his long nails, sharp enough to be daggers or a ferocious beast’s teeth you think, dig further into your shoulder. The message is clear. You’ll never be rid of him, as much as you try to.

Even now, when you move to a secluded village on the other side of the country, for just the slightest chance he would leave you alone.

Your basket of berries and herbs is still next to you, a reward for all the foraging you did just before Hisoka showed up again.

“I did your leaf-in-water test already for you.” Just before you ran for the hills, you finally gave into Hisoka essentially begging you to test what kind of Nen user you are, claiming that you were now his pupil. “The water tasted sweet. I’m a Transmuter. That’s what you wanted to know. There is nothing else you can do for me, you know I am no fighter.”

Hisoka nods, and you think that this is it. Maybe he will finally leave you alone and you can go about your life without knowing anything else about Nen. But instead, Hisoka sits next to you on the grass.

He takes a berry from your basket and squeezes it between his fingers before it turns into a sticky mush.

It’s red.

“I know, but there are other things I can indeed teach you, can’t I?”

You don’t want to know what he means, you don’t want to know what he wants to do to you, but before you can stop him he is already on top of you, pushing you behind the bush you were picking rose petals from. You kick and scream at him to let go and cry, but he, as always, is so much stronger than you’ll ever be. 

“This will hurt for a bit, but I promise you’ll feel very good, and you’ll want more.”

Phinks

Phinks stops pressing the buttons on the remote and stops reading the little synopsis on each of the shows he was thinking about watching with you, or each of the movies. You were not paying attention, instead looking at your fingers and playing with the dry skin by each nail.

He sets it aside, placing a hand on the back of his head and gently scratching. His gaze falls to the floor, and you follow suit.

He exudes nervousness. This comes as no surprise, as Phinks has always been one to shy away from openly displaying his romantic desires, as odd as it were to you when you were first brought here.

“Uh. Why do you ask? Isn’t… it kinda obvious? Um… you know I’m not exactly cut out for all this sappy bullshit… I… I… Um. Just… just forget it, okay? Just know that I see you as my partner… Wait, oh God, that sounds so bad…”

He keeps stuttering as he tries to explain everything. But, as funny as it would have been if you had known him outside of being your stalker and now current captor, his words only make you feel more hopeless.

Shalnark

He puts down his phone and stands up from his armchair. You’re in your pajamas, the fluffy pastel pink ones, standing in the doorway to Shalnark’s office area, where there are many computers and such on the walls and his large desk.

“Aw!” He murmurs, then gently pinches your cheeks upon approaching. He playfully rubs his nose against yours. Trying to distance yourself, instantly regretting seeking an answer of any sort from him, yet as always, his overpowering strength prevents any escape.

“C-Come on, Shal…” The nickname sometimes works when you ask for some dessert or a game of some kind, so maybe it will work in a situation like this too. “I wanna go to bed.” You nearly whine as he stretches your cheeks out further. 

“But I still haven’t answered your question, sweetie!” He exclaims.

“F-Forget it.” You mutter, looking to the side. “It’s fine. Really. Get back to work.”

But he does not let go.

“Let me answer! Hmm… you’re so cute, like a kitten. You sure snuggle against me in bed like one!” Shalnark chuckles, and you can smell a mix of coffee and oranges in his breath. “So maybe… that’s the best analogy for it?” Some mint too. “Something to cuddle with? Something to keep safe.” He boops your nose. “Something too silly and adorable and airheaded to live on their own.”

You’re not sure if his words are supposed to hurt you or cheer you up.

“Yeah, I think something like that works!” After what seems like an endless amount of time, Shalnark releases his grasp on your face. “Just look at you.”

“O-Okay.” You murmur, turning away and attempting to make a beeline for the bedroom, regretting ever opening your mouth. “Sorry for asking. Good night-” Shalnark grabs your arm, making you stop moving before you even start. 

“Come on, cutie! Spend some time with me. We can even play Wild World together again!”

He points to your 3DS, a rose gold color, and then to his, which is dark violet and covered in stickers referencing popular memes he saw on the internet. At least he has never made you see some particularly gruesome scene in the horror games he plays late at night out of impulse.

Franklin

As your words hang in the air, a silence so profound that you begin to question if he even registered your message, you find yourself fixating on your unfinished meal. Contemplating the merits and drawbacks of broaching the topic once more versus letting it go, you suddenly hear him put his cup of coffee down with a clatter as he almost slams it by accident.

“Where did this come from?” He asks. His tone almost seems concerned, you think, concerned for how you think of him when he is always so quiet or concerned for how you think he thinks of you, that one day he will simply not come back and find someone else more willing.

Franklin does not seem angry, not that he ever was. He is trying to appear neutral, to not scare you, like you were some sort of stray cat who he has yet to earn the trust of.

Though you don’t bite or scratch, you do hide from him.

“I… just want to know why you did all… this.”

Your eyes go everywhere, from the pots of plants he brought you recently by the barred windows to the blinking light above the stairs he promised to fix soon to Frank Herbert’s Dune laid across the couch next to your blanket. 

“Franklin, since you claim to care about me… why can’t I go outside and be free?”

After a few more moments of silence, you look up at Franklin. He looks remorseful almost, from his visible frown to his eyes almost being closed to the way he does not look at you. Something akin to pity blooms in your chest.

“...Because unfortunately for both of us, I am… selfish, and you are too much for me to lose.”

Just like that, the pity dies similarly to the vase of flowers in the middle of the table.

Shizuku

You don’t know whether or not she will respond while knowing what you are and what she is. A captive. A captor. But you doubt it because every time she comes back she thinks you are here of your own volition and that you love her just as much as you know her.

Sometimes, you wish that you did, because whenever she sees you she looks at you like you were a gift that she had wanted for years.

Sometimes you wish that you did because that would make things oh so much easier for you. She sometimes forgets you are here, sometimes still goes to your actual home, and panics when she sees you are not there.

Shizuku merely chuckles, hugging you tighter. Perhaps she even forgot the slap she inflicted upon you earlier today for daring to say that you hate her, making you fly across the room.

“My love of course, silly!” Sometimes you hope that one day you will forget everything too because you envy Shizuku for never being cautious.

Pakunoda

“[First]...” Pakunoda’s eyes meet your own, one of her hands holding onto a chocolate-covered strawberry from the box she just got. Her other has a presence above one of your own, a presence so light you hardly recognize it is there.

She looks regretful and concerned.

The look fills you with so much guilt you immediately apologize and put the back of your head on her lap once again. It always works.

“You do know I care about you deeply, right, beloved?” Her long nails glide over your hair, making you close your eyes to calm yourself. You hope that look is gone because you aren’t sure how much longer you can take it before you break under its pressure fully. “I really do.”

You know she does, but it does not make the first days of your capture, which feels like an eternity ago, feel any less real, as much as Pakunoda denies the more horrifying parts of it all.

“I know, Paku.”

She smiles at the nickname.

The strawberry approaches your mouth, and you bite into it. Dark chocolate, you think this one is. Pakunoda loves her strawberries, but she loves parfaits just a little bit more. Maybe, to get her to forget your question, you can ask her to get some and feed them to her. 

Soon, you fall asleep. Pakunoda opens her book back up after closing the box of sweets. 

With one hand she caresses your hair, and in the other, she turns the pages of her novel. She loves evenings like this.

“I love you…” She murmurs, brushing some of your hair out of your face. “One day… you’ll love me too, fully, right?”

Half asleep, you agree without thinking. Once again, she smiles.

Bonolenov

With a sigh, he turns his head, momentarily interrupting your question. However, he quickly resumes dancing before you, delighting in your observation of his favorite pastime. Although you are unsure of the specific style of dance he is performing, you are confident that Bonolenov will soon enlighten you, taking the opportunity to boast about his expertise in this particular art form.

Listening to his animated explanations is always entertaining. His frequent rants make you feel as though he is a close friend rather than your captor if only that were true. Despite the circumstances, he treats you with kindness and respect. He believes that housing you in his home is an honor and privilege, a sentiment for which you hold some gratitude.

“A lover, because I do love you. You are simply wonderful to be around, after all.” In an alternate existence, were he not involved in criminal activities such as theft, kidnapping, stalking, and multiple murders, you might have developed an affection for him. This is due to your awareness of his deep affection for you and the kindness he exhibits towards you.

So you say such.

Bonolenov stays silent for a little while after that, along with the dancing that he often enjoys doing. Instead, he gazes through the windows, adorned with steel bars, and tenderly places small tokens that he knows bring you joy upon the table in the kitchen.

Uvogin

“Huh?”

Uvogin stops punching the claw machine, turning to you. It’s a mess, all because you said you wanted a corgi plush from it. But is it your fault, when you wanted to win it fair and square?

Maybe it’s not. Maybe it is. You know Uvogin is never one to have coins in his pockets. But, then again, he always seemed to have money when he was placing bets with Troupe members, especially with that Nobunaga person.

He seems confused, albeit he is hiding it behind a smirk. In one of his hands, covered in little shards of glass, is the stuffed animal you wanted.

“Come on, [First]!” He laughs, delusionally proud of himself. “I’m your boyfriend!” He wasn’t, but you would never voice that.

“...I-I know. But still… Do you like me?” You make an effort to convey your thoughts in the most diplomatic manner possible, being cautious not to provoke Uvogin's anger. Despite never having witnessed Uvogin's wrath, you remain steadfast in your desire to avoid it at all costs.

His smile widens.

“Of course I do!”

He presents you with the cuddly toy, having meticulously removed all the splinters of glass embedded within it.

“Do you really?” You ask, thinking of the time he threatened to break your legs if you ever attempted to run away from him again. He wasn’t even angry as he said the threat. 

At another one of your questions, Uvogin says yes. But does he really? Or are you just something to hoard?

Do you really want to find out, you wonder? 

Your heart tells you you don’t.

Kortopi

He turns his head, confused. It is one of the few expressions you can decipher from Kortopi because of the many strands of hair covering him. At the sight, you bow your head down.

He steps forward, and you step back.

He stops moving. So do you.

He retreats. You don’t speak for the rest of the day. You were used to it though. Kortopi hardly ever talks to you, but you don’t think he means it to be rude.

“Everything.” He mutters, standing above your bed. You sleep so peacefully, something you never were when you were awake. “You are everything.”

Illumi

Gently, he puts his teacup down with a little clatter of the saucer as he does so.

“Do you think I see you in a bad light, [First]?”

You simply look down at your teacup, smelling the lavender and chamomile to try to calm down a bit before answering Illumi.

The query has plagued your mind for an extended period. The exact duration remains elusive, as the days have merged into an indistinguishable blur. No matter your actions, pain will be inflicted upon you by someone, regardless of your conduct. Perhaps it will be Illumi's mother, administering a slightly sublethal, tasteless toxin with a syringe. Or it could be Illumi himself, subjecting you to days of confinement in a food and water-deprived closet. Regardless of your behavior, the inevitability of suffering looms. 

With the intent of prolonging your exposure to the morning birdsong and granting yourself additional time in the garden, you opt to respond.

“N-No.” You lie. “You… keep me around to be molded into your perfect spouse, I know that, it is just… just…”

His smile sends chills down your spine, surpassing even the terror of Illumi's younger brother once launching into a lewd tirade about you in your presence.

“That is all there is to it; nothing more, nothing less.”

You sip the tea finally, and the burning sensation in your throat does not bother you anymore.

[wizzdot]

The Patron Saint of One Way Trips

Ch8

Description: More progress. Laika is trying her best, bless her - Johnny is tasked to look after a pre-rut Ghost. Laswell is a queen, I will not be told otherwise. Anyway, enjoy more slow burn with sweet gorgeous Kyle, and a bit with Cap too. Thanks for all the comments and kudos. They are so very much appreciated. Wizzdot xx

*Laika's (Y/N's) POV*

The helicopter ride back to the base was.. nice. I'd sat with Gaz and Soap, who both had talked the entire time. I really did try and listen but found myself zoning in and out, worrying over what I had actually signed myself up for. I also couldn't shake the unwelcome vibes I'd been feeling from the Lieutenant. This was his pack. His mates. And I'd just turned up and gotten in the way. I felt like I should tell the two younger Alphas to back off, for Ghost's sake. I wasn't welcome. And I totally understand why.

We arrive at the base. I'd been told it was called Credenhill , in Herefordshire. Turns out Hereford was pretty dull during winter. Everything had died back and was totally devoid of life. I hope I wasn't headed the same way. The base seems to stretch on for miles. I watch from the windows as we lower toward the big red 'H' landing spot. Several uniform red brick barrack buildings and one larger HQ looking building - the one we were landing on top of. It looked as if there were running track and shooting ranges, along with an array of assault course type obstacles. Jesus - what had I signed myself up for by agreeing to Laswell's idea.

I am not a talented, or naturally gifted soldier. Hell, I hadn't even been properly trained by the Russians. I'd been taken and molded into an obedient weapon as a teenager - but I'd just been stupidly lucky so far. I had learnt to survive. I stood no chance up against the physicality of these trained war machines. Why did I agree to this?!

My fast track 'training' with the Russians consisted of being told to run until I collapsed, climbing things with no safety harnesses, target practice with knives and guns. If I didn't improve, I didn't get the privilege of eating or sleeping - this was the punishment for being useless. It took nine months of this - day in, day out - until they deemed me to be of a suitable standard to leave the facility. This was when they started upping the dosage of the drugs. I don't think they truly expected me to return from that first mission. I still remember how their eyes widened as I practically crawled back to the exfil point, shot twice but still standing, somehow. Objective completed. The wounds got infected because they refused to treat them properly. That was my lesson. It was simple. If I didn't get shot, I wouldn't have gotten the infection. Don't let it happen again. Stupid mutt. I licked my own wounds from there on in.

My mind is snapped back to the present as the ramp of the helicopter lowers with a creak and thud. Ghost stands and makes a beeline to where ever it was he was headed. I await instruction. I am the 141's puppet now. Hopefully they are kinder puppet masters. I didn't belong in this world. I was cruelly dropped into it and, like a bug in a bathtub, I couldn't escape. I guess I had to stop looking for an escape. I cannot run away from my life for the rest of time. It was time to stop running and face the music.

I am escorted from the helicopter. I follow Gaz closely. He leads the way to a meeting room. Laswell is already there. Her scent is calming, she smelled like honey, or the smell of a kitchen after a cake had been baked. Warm. She is Beta. There is no sharpness to her scent like there would be if she was an Alpha. She looks my way as we step into the room.

"Laika, we have been keeping an eye on the facility in Siberia since we departed. The good news is that they haven't sent search teams out for you yet. The bad news is that they know you are still alive. I managed to get some of my CIA tech specialists to override the facility's CCTV system and listen in. They know you've been taken by another group - they are not sure who is responsible, yet" - I nod along with furrowed brows, worried that she is about to deliver the final blow - "But.. they seem to believe that if you are still alive, you'll return to the facility. Why do they think this, Laika.. Is this a risk we need to be aware of..?" She asks with suspicion in her voice.

"Lass, why the fuck would you ever want to go back?" soap asks, not quite believing that this was even an option I'd consider. "Yeah, surely not.. you're here now.. you wouldn't go back, would you?" Gaz asks with big eyes and a slight pout. "I - I don't think I'd go back.." I stutter, unsure.

"What d'ya mean ya don't THINK you'd go back, Lass?!" Soaps says, totally perplexed.

"I - I don't know.. what if Dr-Dr Dimitrov gave me a command.. what if -"

"That willnae happen, you've got us now.. and he willnae find you anyway. No point in thinking that" he now turns to Kate "She willnae run away to go back to them bastarts, Kate. Not after what they've done to her.."

"Thank you, Johnny.. but I need Laika to speak for herself".

"I- I don't *want* to go back.. I *want* to stay..." - "That's good enough for me, Kate" the Captain cuts in, effectively ending the conversation. I don't know why I couldn't just say no. But at the end of the day, a caged bird is hesitant to leave when the door opens. There was a morbid safety in the facility. I always returned. Even when they thought I was dead, I'd show back up eventually, accepting my punishment for being behind schedule.

"In that case, the Captain will ensure you settle in. I have requested your quarters be in the same barracks as the 141 pack. I don't want you left unsupervised around the base. I would like you to attend the medical wing within the next couple of days and find out if we can get the drugs flushed from your system. If we can, we can then assess your designation and if you wish to medicate, that'll be your call. It'd just be far easier if we knew for certain - I understand you believe that you are Beta, but full confirmation won't do anyone any harm. I trust this is all under control, John?" - "Affirmative, Kate" he rumbles. "Good. I will check in within the week. I have more pressing matters to attend to back in the US. Something about missiles."

I take in all of the information, trying to push down the feeling of dread. I'd really rather not see another Doctor in a white coat for the rest of my life. I'd seen enough to last me a lifetime. And it wasn't pleasant. Kate turns to me and grabs my hand. "Y/N - it's been nice to meet you. I look forward to seeing you in a few weeks time - I hope you'll have settled in and found a home here by then. I understand how intimidating this can all be - as a woman and a non-Alpha. But these men - I trust them entirely. Even ghost.. Goodbye, Laika".

She squeezes my hand and strides towards the door, rushing back to the helicopter. "Bye" I whisper after her, not sure if she'd heard. I turn to meet the Captain's eyes. "Right, lets show you to our quarters,then. We all have our own spaces and individual nests for privacy, as well as our pack room. Luckily, we do have a spare room. You're more than welcome to do what you like with it. I know that Beta's don't nest much, but you can redecorate to your taste. I will take you shopping tomorrow, buy you some proper.. girl.. clothes and - cleaning products" he says with that raspy voice of his. "Just make a list of things you need and Gaz and I will drive off base with you first thing tomorrow. Does that sound ok?" he does that damn youthful smile again. Before I can answer Soap protests "Naw! Aht's not even fair.. why can't I come shopping with yous too??" - "Ghost wants you to himself for a while, Johnny. He's been touchy for the past week. Think his rut is coming but you know how stubborn he is.." I feel bad. It was my fault he had been angry. I'd been effecting his behavior within his own pack just by being needy and useless. Soap sighs and heads off to find Ghost.

"I-I can wait to go shopping if the Lieutenant needs his pack.. I understand. I don't mind just managing until he is better.. I don't want to get in the way.." - "Nonsense, Simon is a big boy, he always gets grumpy before his rut. This has nothing to do with you. Johnny usually helps him the most anyway. He was the first one to break through his walls, before we formed the pack.." Gaz explains, gently squeezing my hand. "C'mon, I'll show you your room. It's right next to mine! Cap's is right across the hall too!" He says excitedly, leading me so we are walking down the long hallways hand in hand.

I use my free hand to quickly feel for my hanky, it's still there safe in my pocket. Gaz stops at a closed door, opening it wide. I almost step inside, thinking it was my room, until I'm knocked back by the scent of Alpha. Gaz. "This is my room.. " I scan the room quickly, noting the blankets and pillows organised on his bed. That must be his den… he shuts the door and moves to the next one. "And.. this is yours! Taadaa!!" the room had clearly been sprayed with de-scenting spray. It had a totally neutral scent. I step in and look around the room. The bed has standard military sheets, there was a small walk in cupboard and an en-suite bathroom. There were a couple of bedside tables and a chest of drawers. This was going to be my room. My space. I was happy. I look up and meet Gaz's eyes. He looks so hopeful..

"I love it.. thank you.."

He squeezes my hand gently, twice. "Remember, if you need anything.. I'm just next door, and Cap is there.." he points directly across the hall. I nod.

"I'll leave you to it..remember to make a shopping list for tomorrow.." I nod again.

"Goodnight, love"

That damn word, stop it. So casually giving a name to something I can never have. He says it so easily, too. I try to smile but only manage an inverted, upside down smile.

"Goodnight, Gaz"

"Call me Kyle, yeah?" I nod again before I can stop myself. For gods sake, use your damn words, my brain shouts at me. You're allowed to now! I keep nodding with the stupid upside down smile.

"Goodnight.. Kyle"

He steps back and gently closes the door. The last thing I see of him before the door clicks closed, is that blindingly bright, genuine smile.

[under-lore]

Toby Fox once made a post saying that he didn't want to sell merch of Chara because it would trivialize what they meant in game and the message they carry, do you have any idea what he could have meant by this?

Well, obviously this topic is inherently speculative so take it with a grain of salt, but there still exists some room to try and analyse it nonetheless.

Here is the post in question :

First, he uses "i" in the first sentence, and then "Because".

This immediately tells us that Toby Fox personally is the one that is opposing merchandise of Chara being made, and that all the things which will come afterwards are about what he was intending to do with them as a character in Undertale and why that makes the idea of Chara merch bothersome to him.

This isn't the only time Toby has shown to be picky about Chara-related content. For example, he has only openly promoted fan content containing Chara once since the game was released (and they were not the main focus of it) whilst the rest of the cast is seen quite often.

In general, Toby is quite dodgy when it comes to the first fallen human as a character. Sometimes even acting as if they didn't exist.

But as the mail also repeats, that isn't because Toby doesn't care about Chara, but rather because he does care about their character. Like how Toby actually went ahead and personally intervened to change Chara's Tarot card (Along with removing the Gaster one entirely), even if those weren't even official merch anyways. He does care about how they're being portrayed at least.

Okay, so next is our main puzzle piece.

The reason why he doesn't want Chara merch is because Toby considers that merchandise of Chara would have to portray them in a way that does not allow to properly represent what Chara stands for in-game, and thus fail to convey the message that they were intended to carry.

To rephrase this, he considers that if he were to make Chara merch, then "merch Chara" would be incapable of portraying correctly what he actually intended "in-game Chara" to be, and thus miss out on a significant portion of their character & what could be taken from it.

So he would rather not have merch at all rather than to have merch that misses the point of who "in-game" Chara was intended to be.

Since the only direct hint we have about this is that what Toby meant couldn't have been portrayed with merch properly, then the only way to obtain more insight into what he meant exactly is to go about it the other way and to ask which pieces of Chara's character merch could have portrayed and work backwards.

A prime example of what could have been done for Chara merch would be content similar to the Tarot card mentioned earlier.

As that card shows, it is far from difficult to make designs that capture most of the concepts and themes that are explicit-genocide-route-dialogue-specific & are said by or associated to the character.

To cite only a few that can be seen from this card, life & death & killing, power, demonic parallels, the number 9, the absolute, statistics, consequences, souls, knives, nothingness,...

(Side note : The person who made the Tarot card actually did not even know about the name "Chara" at the time, they weren't really a fan of the game and mostly went along with their first impression of the genocide route & the fanon of the time.)

Aside from perhaps their relationship with the player, there is frankly nothing about the direct Chara appearance at the end of genocide & the heavily Chara influenced flavor text of the end of the route that cannot be easily shown through merch. (Just look at all the fan content over the years)

And considering the way Toby acts merch-wise with Frisk and with Kris respectively, we can be pretty confident that their relationship with the player is not the reason that Chara merch is being blocked either.

So with that, we can be pretty much sure that what he meant wasn't about the explicit-genocide-route-only parts of in-game Chara.

Aside from the genocide route, the only other direct appearances of Chara are that of pre-death Chara. Between their fall into the underground and their death after the failure of the plan.

While we don't have clear cut examples like the Tarot card here, we do still run into the same problems.

The game implies a lot of things about pre-death Chara in many different ways. But all of those details or personality traits are either not much of a problem to portray or are also shared with other characters who do have merch made of them, meaning they can't be it either. (Its usually Undyne)

Not to mention that, when it comes to pre-death Chara, the game itself does show us some sepia artworks of Chara & The Dreemurrs. Like this one for example :

If properly representing those character traits of pre-death Chara was truly what this was all about, then why not simply make merch out of a colored version of that image if nothing else ?

It's in the game, right ? So surely it can't possibly be misrepresenting the game...

A trivialisation means to downplay something or to reduce it to something simpler.

If both pre-death Chara and genocide route-Chara & what the game shows about them could be represented with merch like any other character, but that Toby considers that doing so would still be missing out on an important part of Chara's character & their message, then the only conclusion would seem to be that Toby is not refering to any of the direct appearances of Chara in the game at all, but rather to another seemingly very important side of Chara that isn't shown directly in-game, and couldn't be through merch either.

While those could still be accurate in theory by themselves, making merch of Chara like this sepia art or the Tarot card would still be trivializing them in Toby's mind in the sense that it would be limiting Chara to only those things, and thus exclude that core part of their character from "merch Chara". Something that Toby refuses to do.

So our situation would seem to be : There is more to Chara than just what we are told about pre-death Chara and genocide route Chara. However, this part of Chara's character cannot be properly shown with merch yet is too important to ignore in Toby's mind.

There is one last thing we can say about what this part might be, though.

Toby seems quite insistant on the fact that this particular part of them was absolutely key to understanding what was Chara's role as a character in the game, and to understanding the message that he was trying to convey through this character.

A character's role & message can be conveyed through their story, through their actions, and through their mentality.

As we've seen earlier that this part of Chara was not an explicit appearance, the "actions" part is either minor enough to miss, or absent.

So it would seem we can be somewhat confident that this piece of Chara's character that Toby is worried about also either adds more implicit parts to Chara's story or gives important insight on their mentality (or both).

That would make Toby's core reason for not wanting to make merch of Chara be less about Chara's character itself and more about what the player is to understand from the way he constructed their character, which would match up with his words about it being "something that cannot be bought in a store", too.

Anddd... As far as purely impartial analysis goes, i think that's pretty much all that you can deduce, unless i've forgotten about something.

If you want my personal opinion on it, though, i would have to say that using NarraChara theory would be a really elegant way to fill up all those blanks.

Considering that the theory, if true, would constitute 90% of Chara's character & be absolutely crucial to understanding the character's mentality and the way they think or behave in different situations or routes, that would certainly make it key to understanding Toby's intent with the character relative to their message or what they would stand for.

I can also hardly see plausible alternatives. Considering that pre-fall Chara and post-game Chara are pretty dry wells in that regard and genocide Chara's words about when they were "brought back to life", the only moments left timeline-wise for this key part of Chara's character to happen would be during neutral/pacifist routes or during the part of the genocide route that weren't already brought up earlier. That would make it seem like a pretty natural answer.

But more importantly, anything to do with the NarraChara part of their character (if the theory was intended) literally couldn't be properly represented through merch.

Because, unlike the common fanon portrayal of it which exists for that same reason, NarraChara according to in-game flavor text wouldn't be a ghostly figure floating around Frisk, but rather a foreign entity sharing their body and their mind. Which is a crucial part to both how NarraChara would work in-world and to the morality-wise implications of it.

Of course, that didn't prevent some fans from sweeping that under the rug anyways, even though it misses one of the most important points of the character they're trying to represent.

That might just be why Toby would rather just not.

How would you make merch of that ? You would just be making merch of Frisk instead... Let alone portraying correctly such a complex character. It just wouldn't work. This is a pretty common problem for media with bodysharing characters, those mechanics and all the implications that follow genuinely just cannot be "sold in stores."

They are a purely psychological experience.

[inoreuct]

What if, in some circumstances which I cannot even think of, Sanji cannot cook himself and has to tell Zoro what to do.

And Zoro's sword skills are NOT equal to his knife skills 😭

Sanji also would use fancy chef vocabulary to give commands like "now sauté those onions until they're godlen-brown" or something and Zoro's like da fuck's a co-lander. why would you need like 5 different pans.

BADABING BADABOOM HERE YOU GO REG MY DEAR technically pre-rs but they act like they’ve been married decades. ANYWAYS enjoy 🤭🤭

Zoro swore as the knife slipped again, skidding flat against the chopping board with a dull scrape that made him wince. 

In hindsight, this was all the stupid cook’s fault. Bastard just had to go and break his arm; Sanji had tried to do things one-handed for a while before he’d evidently gotten fed up and stuck his head out the galley door to scream for Zoro to help with lunch at top volume, apparently under the assumption that since Zoro was a master swordsman he’d be able to handle knives.

And by all rights, he should. He was the demon pirate hunter. He carried his best friend’s dream like a talisman in his pocket. He wasn’t going to let himself be bested by a fucking vegetables and a knife.

But Zoro was quite certain that barring his sense of direction, he had never been quite this bad at anything in his entire existence. 

The garlic had been miniscule, the celery had been too fucking slippery, the onions had made his eyes burn, and now this stupid carrot kept trying to run away from him. He could handle rough chops, sure; but when Sanji was being all picky about— 

“I said medium dice, marimo, not mutilate.”

“I don’t know what that fucking means, shithead,” Zoro gritted, not even bothering to turn around where Sanji was sitting at the dining table. He re-aligned the knife and felt inexplicably betrayed when it slipped again, slicing diagonally into the carrot. It was a miracle he hadn’t taken off a finger yet. 

He felt stupid. Awkward and useless and out of his element, it was just cooking, for fuck’s sake—

“Marimo.” 

“What,” he snapped, fingers tightening around a wooden handle. Sanji’s tone had gone soft around the edges and it rankled him, made him feel irrationally angry like a tiger pacing around in its cage, trapped and seething—

“This one’s on me,” Sanji murmured, coming around to hover by his side, something Zoro couldn’t identify in the set of his face. “Shouldn’t have assumed that you’d be good with knives just because you’re good with swords.”

The words sent a wave of panic through Zoro, stomach dropping fast enough that he ran his mouth. A need to please he hadn’t felt since he was a child. Desperation not to disappoint. “Shut the fuck up, I am, I just—” He snapped his jaw shut, pressing his teeth together hard. “Just… Give me a minute to figure it out.”

“You’re already doing better than I was, when I started,” Sanji said lightly, hair falling across his face as he tipped his head. 

“You were a child,” he ground out. The knife clattered as he put it down to shake out his hands. “S’not saying much.” 

The cook hummed, strangely gentle. “Still. It’s alright—”

“I don’t want your pity.”

And, oh. That’s what it was, wasn’t it? Pity. Zoro felt like a dumb kid again, and it was so much worse because it was Sanji. And he didn’t want to think about the implications of that, so he sneered, “Don’t look down on me, shitty cook. You and your fancy-ass cooking terms and your hundred and one pans and—”

Sanji cut him off with a bark of a laugh, tossing his head back. His left arm was immobilised in a sling, tucked close to his body as he moved behind Zoro and reached around him to pick the knife up again. “Your brains must really be full of moss if you think I’m looking down on you. Come on.” He offered Zoro the handle, and the swordsman didn’t need to look to know that Sanji was smiling over his shoulder. “One last try.”

He worked his jaw for a second, and huffed through his nose. “I fucking swear, curly, if I get cut—”

“You won’t,” Sanji replied, resolute as he watched Zoro take the knife. 

“How do you know?”

“Because you’re not stupid and I’m not careless, especially not with you.” 

The last part had been a little quieter, riding on a rushed breath, and Zoro eyed the cook pensively as slender fingers wrapped around his hand.

“Here. Like this.” 

With Sanji’s help, he cut the carrot into lengthwise sticks and then neat cubes, chopping up a few more before dumping the whole lot into a bowl with most of what he’d already cut. Sanji shifted away, poking a chopstick into the oil he’d left to heat.

“See the bubbles?” he murmured, peering down into the pot. “That’s how you check if it’s hot enough.” He twisted one of the knobs down before grabbing the vegetables and dumping them in, shifting the pieces around with a wooden spatula as they sizzled gently. “This is a mirepoix,” he said, pronouncing it meer-pwah. “It forms the flavour base of a lot of dishes. The aim is to use low heat, cook it down really slow— so that it doesn’t burn and you bring out the sweetness.” 

He was speaking softly enough that it could have been to himself, but the commentary was obviously for Zoro’s benefit, and Zoro. Did not like how that was making him feel at all. 

They were quiet for a while as Sanji did his thing, and the swordsman crossed his arms as he leaned his hip against the counter. The sun filtering in through the window was lighting Sanji’s hair up gold, washing his features in a subtle glow that emphasised the softness of his expression, relaxed and so entirely in his element that it made Zoro’s chest ache. Made something press up beneath his lungs, made it hard to breathe, and it ached.

Impervious to his inner turmoil, Sanji continued, stirring frequently as the galley started to smell really good. “When the onion turns translucent, that’s the sweet spot—” The chopped (more mushed, if Zoro was inclined to be honest) garlic from earlier went in with a vicious sizzle, then a few dashes of different sauces and a good pour of chicken stock. “Could you get the black pepper?” 

Zoro grunted, grabbing the grinder from the corner and putting a few good cracks into the pot as Sanji added salt, stirred one last time, and propped the lid on partway. “That’s it?” 

“That’s it,” Sanji confirmed, smirking, but not unkindly. “Once that simmers down it’ll be our soup, and I’ll just have to cook some noodles. I was planning for mussels in a garlic butter white wine reduction and seared scallops with this delicious spiced pomegranate and herb glaze, but— I think that might have killed you.” Something must have shown on Zoro’s face, because the cook laughed, bright and easy. “You did good, marimo, all things considered. I’d probably be horrid at sword fighting. We’re even.”

Zoro scowled, fighting back against the spark that flared in the depths of his chest at that thought. Sparring with Sanji, in his element, giving the cook shit for it but also helping. Teaching. “Hurry up and get better, and we’ll see.” 

Sanji groaned, rolling his eyes even as he chuckled. “You’re gonna kick my ass, aren’t you.”

Maybe. But even more than that… He thought about how Sanji had held his hand over the knife, patient but not condescending even though he could have been, the skin of his wrist cool against Zoro’s forearm. The look on his he face as he did what he loved and the way it had made something warm bloom behind Zoro’s sternum. The swordsman let his teeth peek in a lazy grin as his chin tipped up; an entire challenge. Half of the bite. “We’ll see.”

fin.

[songonthewind]

Big Glass Onion Knives Out spoilers below, do not read if you haven't seen the movie!

Analyzing *that scene* at the end of Glass Onion

Someone has probably already talked about this, but the glass smashing scene! I cannot stop thinking about that scene because of how it DIRECTLY parallels Miles's speech about being a disruptor.

"If you want to shake things up, you start with something small. You break a norm, or an idea, or a convention, some little business model. But you go with things that people are kind of tired of anyway."

Miles has a giant room full of glass statues. Hell, his big fancy dome is called the Glass Onion, so easly breakable with all of its glass panes. He has a lot of it and it would all be so easy to knock over and destroy with one wrong step, and we see Peg almost do just that very early on.

And when Helen starts grabbing them and smashing them? Miles laughs. To him, she is a small, insignificant person who thinks she can get back at him by smashing some (probably very expensive) sculptures. But they don't actually matter - he can always buy more. They will always be replaceable. But she doesn't stop.

"Everybody gets excited because you're busting up something that everyone wanted broken in the first place. That's the infraction point."

The others start to cheer her on. They want these broken too. They wanna do something that makes them feel a little better, like they've gotten back at Miles a little bit. So they cheer her on and then they join in. They smash glass and cheer and you can tell that they're having a lot of fun with it.

Does it help anything? No. Does it change the fact that they've turned their back on Andi and Helen? No. Does it actually do anything to screw over Miles or reject the conditions of his monetary support? Nope.

It's just a bit of fun for them to take the edge off.

"That's the place where you have to look within yourself and ask, 'Am I the kind of person who will keep going?' Will you break more things? Break bigger things?"

They've had their fun, hell, even Miles partook and smashed the cup he was holding because none of it fucking matters.

But Helen keeps going. She doesn't stop at the statues. She pushes.

"Are you willing to break the thing that nobody wants you to break? Because at that point, people are not gonna be on your side. They're gonna call you crazy. They're gonna say you're a bully. They're gonna tell you to stop."

They tell Helen to go easy, to calm down.

She smashes the piano and you can see they're all concerned. Birdie comments that she thinks the piano belonged to Liberace. The glass statues were fun, but this piano is important and how dare you break it.

She smashes the bar cart and everyone is getting more worried. Miles is getting mad. He tries to bargain with her, asks her what she wants because now he's upset, Helen has taken things farther than she was supposed to.

And then she takes the lighter and sets it ablaze.

They tell Helen to stop, to wait. They tell her enough, that she needs to be done now because they're uncomfortable. They had their fun and didn't sign up for anything meaningful to actually happen.

Even your partner will say, 'You need to stop.'

The line about your partner is the only one that doesn't hold true.

Blanc was Helen's partner in all of this and he was the one who told her to keep going, he was the one who handed her the solid hydrogen, who told her to remember why her sister walked away, and by doing so gave her the green light (even though she didn't need his permission) to burn it all down.

"Because as it turns out, nobody wants you to break the system itself. But that is what true disruption is. And that is what unites all of us. We all got to that line and crossed it."

Helen finds the line - she throws the Klean fuel and everything explodes in their faces.

And then the ultimate crossing of the line, their horrified faces as they realize what she is about to do as she lunges for the Mona Lisa and it goes up in flames. Nobody wants you to break the system and everyone is terrified when you do.

Helen crosses the line, burns Miles's whole empire down in the process.

All of Andi's friends just reshaped the systems to serve themselves.

Helen is the only one of them who ever crossed a meaningful line.

[papaver-decervicatus]

Cat/Mouse/Den: Pt. 2, Mus Rusticus

After months of tense flirting and teasing with the mountain of a man she only knows an König, Mouse finds herself in a life-or-death situation while on patrol in the Alps. Maybe her new admiration isn't as one-sided as she thinks…

CW: Obsession, stalking, canon typical violence, intrusive thoughts, unsanitary wound care

Authors Note: Wow! The response to this fic has been incredible, heartwarming, and just baffling to me! I cannot express how happy I am to share this with you all!

Being completely objective, this chapter requires some suspension of disbelief, the circumstance is not totally likely but alas, I am here for fun.

My college classes are starting up soon, so expect slower updates moving forward. As always, please feel free to leave a comment/reblog with a message saying you want to be added to the taglist or just interact in general!

Cura ut Veleas❣️~ Caedis

PREV | Pt. 2, Mus Rusticus | 4.1k words | Mouse POV | NEXT

He’s a vision, he’s hard to miss on the horizon, he stands out like a mountain lion against his fellow men. He sways his hips wide, the trusty Glock Field knife he keeps on his belt shines like a beacon. It’s such an outrageously cocky move, to keep glinting metal on his person when she’s sure he’s supposed to be stealthy. He’s tall as a tree and broad as a train and always has some hood covering his face. He’s sniper candy, he’s so obviously right there it makes her dig blunt nails into her arm in frustration. He’s hard to miss, should be her straight shot. 

But he never is. 

She never gets the barked orders, the confirmation. She’s asked a hundred times. When it’s in the forest, it’s less warfare and more stakeout. She’s not paid enough to know what she’s looking for, but she always sees him. And she’s always been told not to shoot. She stops asking at some point, but like everything else with this man, she doesn’t quite remember when. Her life is a blur of missions and off time and him and nothing else.

It’s been months since the ravine and she’s seen him just about everywhere she’s been. When SpecGru was gathering intel on KorTacs drug affiliations, she saw him in the haunted deserts of Sonora, Mexico where she lies in the dirt redder than blood and coyotes sing her to sleep. She gazes down at him atop crumbling 16th-century Byzantine marble when she picks off the guards of a weapons supplier in Belgrade, Serbia. In the ancient and verdant bamboo forest of Yibin, China, hunting down spy affiliations, she camps across a creek from him for a night. 

It’s a small world, but not quite small enough for her to believe just how they keep running into each other. No matter where she ends up, their eyes always meet. 

The eyes of the apparition with bloody tears on top of an executioner's hood always flick right towards her, even when she’s under a ghillie or some camo or nothing particularly obtrusive at all. She’s even taken off her scope once or twice to reduce glare, to see if the monster still turns her way then. To see if the cat is following a laser pointer she’s unwittingly putting out. 

He does.

Always finds her.

No matter what. 

He would’ve been a good sniper, in another life. If he wasn’t built like the trees she climbs for her shots. 

Very few things are constant in her work. Very few people stay, very few people know. It’s awful, but she starts to hope to see him on the fields. Like he’s some coworker she’s been flirting with in the coffee lounge. 

But he’s not her coworker. Quite the opposite, he’s a soldier on the other side. The enemy. He breaks men’s spines on his knee like toothpicks. He hums with visceral energy, like mud, blood, and guts. He disembowels men like fish. He walks like a monster with three legs (and at some point about three months into their little game, she touches herself thinking about that third leg.) He swings wide, he keeps his knives sharper than cat eyes. 

His stare is constant, glacial, beautiful. 

She wonders what the rest of him looks like, with such a beautiful set of eyes. Beautiful thighs. Beautiful shoulders. He must have some reason for the mask, but she can’t help but think (or hope) he’s a good kisser under there. That his hands must be larger than life, that his skin must be warm. That his teeth must feel good if used in particular places with caution and moderation. 

She’s sure if he ever caught her, the cat would sink his teeth right in. 

She finds she wouldn’t quite mind getting chewed on by him when they accidentally pick up each other’s radio frequencies in the field. They should be encrypted. They shouldn’t be able to, but the cruel stars align and they make their pacts. 

It’s a game of cat and mouse.  They’ve got their own little rules, too. 

They don’t talk about work or positioning, he always knows where she is but never tells anyone on his team. Once she reaches out, he never gets any closer. Like it’s a game. Like they’re playing hide and seek and he knows he opened his eyes too early so he’s closing them again and pinky swearing not to tell. 

He must not tell, because SpecGru has yet to fall into an ambush. So has KorTac, though. If anyone knew they’d have their heads, but no one else does. The secret stays between them and their radios become the divining rods of close encounters. 

Mostly it’s just breathing on each line, mostly it’s just- 

“König?”

“Maus?” 

“Mhm.”

“Hmm.”

And that’s it. And they breathe at the same time, and he looks up at her in the trees or in her towers or wherever she is. And she hopes he’s thinking the same terrible things that she is, and she hopes that he keeps striking out at base camp and bars and wherever just like she has, and she hopes that he’s lonely like she is. That he has nothing else to focus on so she takes all the space in his head like he does hers. 

She knows she should get a shrink or a good fuck to stop fucking thinking about him like this, but sometimes he whispers a joke into his radio and she laughs, and sometimes she tells him about the book she’s been reading, and sometimes he shows her his favorite knife tricks, and sometimes she tells him stories of before she was in the military and he always laughs and asks questions to show he’s actually engaged and he cares and- 

She doesn’t know when she started missing shots. When she started covering his ass the three or so times he didn’t recognize some hostile getting a bit too close for comfort. 

When the fire is heavy and the mission is condensed into a 100th the size of their usual open field rendezvous, she’s seen him in action. He can handle himself, he can more than handle himself.  Some terrible part of her hopes, though, that he is thankful for her. Cover fire from a traitorous Angel in the trees, makes for a good romance novel but a terrible dynamic in war. And that’s what this is, right? It’s war? But what for? 

She doesn’t know. She’s not sure she wants to. So she keeps their little secret and she prays that he stays safe when she really can’t risk covering for him. To that point, though, he does himself no favors. He fights like he can’t get hit. 

When they’re alone he’s the perfect gentleman, he gets no closer than when she reaches out to contact him first. When they’re not, it's a whole different story. He runs into the middle field like if he can just reach her, he can keep her. If he can carry back his conquest, well… kings get their war spoils, don’t they? It’s a terrible secret she keeps alive only in her heart, but she hopes one day he finally will. 

She’d never shoot one of her own, to save his hide. But when it’s one of his own going after his neck, or when one of hers needs cover too, or one of some other guys on him, it’s easy. 

The Mouse saves the King. 

But a game is no fun with only one player. 

The King also saves the Mouse. 

It’s November, it’s somewhere in the Alps. She’s had quite the pleasure of seeing him so in his element, so proud, broad-chested, and covered in the swagger of a mountain as it walks with its own. The snowfall constricts her view but not his movement. He’s practically prancing around like a snow leopard and despite the temperature it’s warming her up a little to think about how happy he looks down there. 

“Are you gonna get me, kitty?” She hums into her radio, lips curling into a saccharine smile, when it’s just them alone in the cold. His eyes find her immediately after she’s made contact. Like always, they breathe in and out at exactly the same time once those terribly fantastic eyes of his meet hers. 

“Haha!” His whole body shakes like an earthquake when he laughs. “No. Just…” he stops for a moment like he’s catching his breath or remembering the right word, “-watching.” He says, hand reaching to his mask, lifting it up just enough so she can see a red, red, mouth and sharp, sharp teeth turning in a cruel, Cheshire Cat smile. He languishes on a stump, playing with his signature knife, downright admiring her from far away. He pulls his mask back down, but the outline of his exhales still turn into clouds in the snow. 

They breathe in tandem. Their hearts must sync. 

Today is unusual because he is actually working at something in his grasp. Usually, his beloved knife is his dancing partner, his muse of movement, the loyal companion of his oversized hands. 

Many times she’s been lost in the beautiful dance of his hands and his knife, as he flicks it up and catches it with ease. Every time he does so, her heart clenches in her all of a sudden seemingly too-small chest as she fears it’ll come down and slice him. She knows how sharp he keeps his many knives, she knows how terribly it would go for him should it ever fall out of its practiced battle dance. The knife, of course, never does. When he gets bored of tossing it, he starts doing little tricks. He balances it on his index finger, he spins it between the fingers on his massive hand, he can even juggle it between his hands without a moment's hesitation. What’s worse, is the whole time he does it, he is watching her with a relaxed posture. Like he’s showing off like he’s saying “Don’t you see how good I can be with my hands? Don’t you want to invite me over? Don’t you ache to know just what I’ll make them do for you?”

This surgical precision never ceases to amaze her because she’s seen him around his comrades. The steady hands she so admires (and yearns to touch her) disappear and shake like leaves the second he has to talk strategy or cover for others outside of immediate battle. He’s a capable soldier, he’s a great commander, he’s an excellent strategist, sure. But he’s never at ease enough to make his knife dance like this, never like he is with her. His hands shake without adrenaline and with the company. 

His hands never shake when the two exist like this, though. No, the shy soldier boy who won’t look anyone in the eye doesn’t exist to her. Like a fairytale, the second the two see each other, he disappears and instead, a man of ferocious devotion finds himself in her sights. He waits for her. He never once gets closer to her than the moment she reaches out to him first. 

It would almost be romantic. If it wasn’t war and she wasn’t herself and he wasn’t himself. 

Her comm line lights up, ripping her away from her inattentive, lovelorn adorations. Apparently, there’s an enemy scout that’s inching treacherously close to her position and slipped past someone further ahead of her. If he gets beneath her, she’s D.O.A in her tree. 

She sees König’s body tense a second after hers, the way she’s come to recognize he’s received a transmission. He stops his idle patrol and puts down the something he was working on in his hands. Quickly, he tucks it into his pocket. He’s ready to hunt all of a sudden, the relaxed air of his body falls away with all the quickness and ferocity of an avalanche. She knows to pity the poor soul on the receiving end of that look in his eyes and-

Is it her this time? Her heart stutters to a stop. 

The snow is picking up, she can’t see much of anything but she sees him blur into motion. Towards her spot. 

“Keep moving and I shoot,” she says to him. In warning. Begging him not to. She’d miss his comfort if he does make her. 

“It’s right under you, Liebling.” His voice rasps through static colder than the snow on the ground. 

She realizes she’s stranded on her branch, there’s a widow’s maker close enough to her perch to mean she’s screwed if she moves too quickly. She doesn’t have enough time to maneuver out of the tree safely and she’s a sitting duck for someone else’s shot, so long as all they’ve got is short range. If it were longer range she’d be dead already. She’s going to fall to her death or get shot at from below. It’s a shame, but she’s a little happy that it’ll be König, her cat, that’ll catch her corpse. 

She sees the would-be assailant on the horizon and she brings her gun to her cheek. He darts frantically between trees, careful to only go far enough that she’ll have to re-aim as he darts out again. He’s gaining a substantial amount of ground as she finally has a good enough line of sight to execute and-

Her gun jams. 

With all the futility of a mouse in a glue trap, she begins to shake and replace everything she can afford to in such little time to make her rifle usable. The man on the forest floor uses all of the seconds she cannot afford to waste as it becomes clear that he will reach her before she can either get down or get her gun unjammed. 

But by the time she’s gone to pray and say her goodbyes in her head while frantically looking around, she hears the footfalls of a desperate man crunching snow and she sees red spill out. 

König’s massive hands cradle one of his very own, dead. She sees the outline of hardwired explosive packs on the corpse’s chest, apparently a suicide bomber? Alone in the Alps? 

For his part, the giant doesn’t seem the least bit displeased with his kill. He wipes his bloody knife on his pant thigh and sheaths it like it’s nothing. He’s got another man’s blood all over his lower half, he sliced that poor bastard clean between his third and fourth ribs.

“Threat eliminated. My position is compromised, I’m moving.” She says to her comm. 

“Rog, Mouse.” Someone in command responds. 

She, very slowly, makes her way down to the carnage near the base of her tree, sniper rifle at her hip like a mother huddles an unruly toddler. When she’s only 12 feet in the air instead of 40, König spreads his arms out to her. It’s snowing. Hard. He doesn’t move, arms outstretched like a tree.

“Maus, I‘ll help you!” He says. 

It’s the first thing he says to her outside of the buzz of the radio. 

It’s her name. Or, the only one he knows her by. 

And the first thing he says is a promise. A promise of help. A promise of aid. 

She shouldn’t trust him. 

She tosses her gun to the pillowy snow, against all safety protocols and everything she’s ever known. He doesn’t move for it. He’s got a rifle of his own, well- not a sniper's rifle, on his back. Maybe he doesn’t need two?

She unhooks her cabling. 

It’s snowing hard. 

She kicks off the tree and into the air. 

It’s snowing really hard and dawn is breaking. 

He does, indeed, catch her. 

He audibly gasps when she lands in his arms. He doesn’t move, she’s much too small and light to move the man. He just holds her. For a moment- in the air. 

“… klein,” he all but whispers and puts her on the ground. His hands don’t start trembling as she expects them to.

She doesn’t know what that means and goes to pick up her gun and makes a quiet mental note to find a German Dictionary or self-teacher or something if this weird romance is gonna keep up. 

“What’s this guy's story?” She motions to the left. Where there’s the stump of a man who should’ve been her death. 

“Traitor, against both sides. Al Qatala. Made off with classified files.” He rolls his shoulders, completely unconcerned. 

It could be a lie. It could’ve been that this man just has a weird obsession with her and couldn’t stand to see her get taken out by someone that wasn’t him. 

Well, if that were the case, why’s she still around? He could just kill her. But then again, couldn’t she have killed him multiple times over? 

She doesn’t think he's lying. He’s affected by some things, not by others. He’s much too jittery and anxious of a man to lie so easily to her. She recognizes she’s putting a terrible amount of trust in the enemy, but if it’s gotta be anyone, she’d rather it be the man who sometimes radios her terrible jokes instead of some stranger. 

But now they’re as face to face as over a foot and a half of height difference will let them be. There’s still the hood on his face which is haunting, but this monster-  he’s scarcely made a move to her that hasn’t been some perverse version of love or care. 

She realizes she’s thankful for him. 

Stockholm syndrome, she decides. Even though this is the first time they’ve been within 80 yards of each other. 

“Thank you.” Is what she says instead, breathless and quiet, almost like she’s sorry she has to say the words out loud. Almost like they’re bad news like she’s telling the kids they have to put the family cat down. 

“Bitte schön,” he says, gentle and warm like a wool blanket. His hands are drumming on his thighs with nervous kinetic energy and he looks intently at where he grabbed her, maybe he’s worried he hurt her? But he’s not trembling. She tries not to think about it, that he’s not trembling. Her face is red and her heart is fast but for all the wrong reasons.

Before they part ways and go back to their little lives on opposite sides of some silly war she’s sure is not worth the human toll, he reaches into his pocket. 

He brings the little thing to his hood and places it right where she reckons his lips are. 

Their breaths puff into billows of smoke. 

They breathe in time. 

It’s bloody from his pant legs when he presents it to her, holding the tiny object in two forefingers and thumbs. She cups her hands in front of her like a child begging the family pet to drop an injured bird it found in the backyard. He drops it just like that pet, a few inches above her hands to avoid bloodying her hands directly. Like it would be a shame. Like he cares about tainting her. 

It’s a piece of light wood, whittled into the shape of a mouse. 

She holds the thing in the palms of her hands and they ache. It is so small, so hard for even her to hold. His field knife, the one he loves so much, is massive but she knows it was the one that he used to make it. She did research one day, trying to discover what sort of blade it was. It's a custom Glock Field Knife, with a near mirror-perfect patina and two whole inches larger than the standard issue. She also thinks he wrapped the handle himself because she cannot find that stark red chord on any seller’s website. It's a monster of a knife, for a monster of a man. It’s not made for woodworking, for whittling, for creation– it's a thing of utter annihilation and destruction. Yet, he changed its nature. He utilized his most favored possession to carve intricately into fallen birch wood. He’s given a second life in the shape of her name to what would rot without his attention. He has created, against all odds, something beautiful and delicate out of a brutal tool and doomed material. For her.

She is dumbstruck by this man. She has no words for him, for herself, she wouldn’t have any for anyone who asked either. Suddenly, the Alps aren’t so cold even though it is verifiably snowing. 

When he turns to go she thinks how much his hands must’ve hurt to make this little thing and she can’t just let him go, not empty-handed. 

“Wait!” She calls to him. 

He stops and looks back at her. She fishes around in her pockets and curses her nearly-frostbitten fingers until she finds it. 

She tosses it to him. 

He opens the little leather pouch and she sees his smile through his eyes as he recognizes what it is. It’s her pocket whetstone, with the crown she doodled onto the leather holder with charcoal. 

Her lucky charm. 

She shouldn’t trust him, she’s really got no reason to. But this man, he’s saved her life. He likes knives more than she does, hell, uses them more than she does. There’s really no reason for her to have it (just like there was no reason for her to put his symbol into the leather.) His glacial eyes melt while looking down at the object and she’s never known the winter wilderness to be so warm. She tries not to think about the way her heart speeds up when his eyes soften looking at the object. 

“I will only use this from now on, Maus.” He says, voice quiet and reverent. Like he holds the keys to his kingdom when he holds the cheap piece of rock. 

“Don’t. It’s- it’s not a great one. Just. My charm.” She shrugs. She wants to say ‘It’s a piece of shit and useless, just like I am. It’ll fuck up your knives. I know you love them. Don’t ruin useful things on my account.’ 

“All the more reason to treasure it.” He replies, simple and unburdened.

God. She wishes he wasn’t so charming. There’s no going back. 

She feels like she’s in his jaws already, totally caught. He seems not to realize that he could march off with her and go anywhere and she’d just let him. He walks away and it genuinely hurts when his form disappears into snow and trees and leaves no trace like he’s a fairy tale. Like he’s not real and never was and cannot be. 

And with that, the King had saved the Mouse. He turned and left and she moved her position before returning to base camp. 

The next time she sees him, about a week later, she sees him sharpening his massive field knife with the tiny whetstone on his comically large thigh, and in response, she thumbs at the wooden effigy in her pocket. They laughed into their radios to each other. Her cheeks flush red. Her thighs clench around nothing. She dreams about those big, big, hands, the ones that cradled her in the air, pinning her down and leaving black and blue bruises all over her hips and thighs. She thinks about that red, red mouth tracing said bruises with a gentle tongue. She thinks about the hands caressing her neck, the mouth kissing the top of her head. The hands, holding her at the hip snug to his massive frame throughout the night. The mouth, hushing her to sleep and promising to be there in the morning. 

She’s got nothing for him, though. Other than her body and the vain, ridiculous, impossible dream that’s enough for him. He doesn’t seem the romantic type. She doesn’t think he’d settle down. She doesn’t know him at all, not really.

But, she does have something for him. The answer to a question from what feels like lifetimes ago. 

“It’s because I’m quiet.” She whispers into her radio, half hoping he won’t pick up. 

“What?” He hums back. 

“Mouse. Because I’m short and quiet in the field.” 

“Really?” He asks back. “That’s it?”

“Yep.” A heartbeat too long of silence passes between them. She chews the inside of her lip to bits, waiting for a response. “Your turn,” she prods gently. 

“Because I am not.” Is his response. 

“Really, that’s it?” She chuckles into her radio. 

He just laughs on the other end. And now she’s really got nothing else to give him, save a rare book recommendation, a laugh in return for his bad jokes, and her sharp eyes always trained on his form in her scope. She’s got nothing to give him that she hasn’t already given him, and nothing he couldn’t just find elsewhere. 

But God, she wants him all the same. 

It’s dangerous to be at war. 

It’s dangerous to play cat and mouse. 

Even more dangerous to fall in love on top of those two. 

taglist!

@kneelingshadowsalomee @sprout-fics @bucca2 @dead-cipher @gallowsjoker @lostagoodcigar 

[chris-continues]

Maybe another idea if u would like :P

What if Vash or Nai get into a big fight and is loosing a dangerous amount blood, maybe the reader could offer help?

What if Nai turned feral because he hasn't been drinking enough blood because of how much he hates wolfwoods blood?

OH HO HO FERAL NAI HHEEHEHEEH U KNOW ME SO WELLLL LUNE MWAHAHAHAHAH

ahem.

*straightens out papers* shall we begin?

Suggestive?? But not really- Nai is hot and cold (when is he not tbh) pining (do we know if it’s mutual? OOoOo) (the header is lowk satire but also not)

TW: blood, biting (although that’s expected so)

TAGS: @lune010 @vashfantasy @coffinbeananteiku

“You, with your kind words and wonderful laugh, and Nai hates, loathes you even. Do you taste as sweet as you act?”

Nai hated having no sense of control.

Control was what he craved, every second of the day. The hedges in front of the manor were to be trimmed in this exact manner, the books organized in their usual fashion, and his collar straightened out just the way he liked.

His urges, feeding- that was one thing he could not control.

While Vash found it plenty fine to feed from an undertaker such as the human he’d welcomed into their home once a week to feed, Nai turned up his nose plenty times at said offering. It wasn’t like anyone was clamoring for him anyway- all of said visitors only came for Vash’s company, bright smiles and joyous laughs. He was so pathetic in that way, pleasing them as if his company wasn’t enough.

Hmph.

Well, aside from their usual visits, now he had you. You resided in the castle amongst them, entertaining Vash with your feeble presence and conversation- tending and assisting wherever and looking into the library whenever.

How did you plan to pay them back? You couldn’t just live here for free. You cleaning up every now and then didn’t mean much in the grand scheme of things, as servants tended to such matters all the time, clamoring to his feet as head of household.

The minute Vash had offered some of Nicholas’ blood to him, he adamantly refused. The man reeked of cigarette smoke and musk from outside, and the scowl he’d been giving him was returned in full.

His hunger continued to grow.

Vash could tell- the chew of his lip constantly, his slight jumpiness to his straight dazed state on occasion- he was losing control.

Slipping.

Vash truly believes his cravat being tucked slightly to his dislike would drive Nai wild, minuscule irks seeming to irritate him to no end, even more so than before.

And that’s where you come in.

Sweet and attentive, truly just wanting to help- he hopes Nai has taken more of a liking to you than Nico. Would you be preferable to him? He truly doesn’t know, but he’s hoping for the best. Seeing his brother starve before him isn’t something he finds enjoyable, worrying him greatly into the hours of day and night.

When Vash proposes the idea, a hand gesturing to you in a flourish (as if marketing a new product), Knives’ eyebrows furrow further in rejection of the idea.

“Absolutely not.”

Depending on you? A human? Knives’ supply of blood began to run low awhile ago, the dwindling amount that had gone to 0 fluid ounces a known fact that he had tried to lock away in the recesses of his mind- as he did with every other issue.

“They just want to help, and you do need the blood.. it’s either them or Nico, Nai.” Vash’s voice is patient, as it always is, but he can detect a hint of pleading.

And he supposes you’re a bit less insufferable than Nicholas, and your neck is exposed revealing any moles or freckles or-

No. No. He cannot accept. No.

The smell of you is intoxicating. The way you saunter from one room to the next, cheeky comments and, god.

Vash doesn’t comment on his refusal over the next few days. But by god does he note the antsy habits of Nai starting to kick in. Drumming his fingers against the hard cover of a book or his mahogany desk in the study, his study, where you sat now with one of his books.

“I apologize- Vash handed it to me as a recommendation.” Which you’d found strange, considering he wasn’t one for literature, unlike Nai, who found comfort in the world of reading often.

His face was unreadable. Eyes set on the book in your hands, forearms resting on it as it lay on your lap, silence thick and swimming in the room.

“Uh, here you go..?” You stood up, chair moving back as you rested the book onto his desk. Your wrist was so close, he could grab it and take a bite if he really wanted to. Your outstretched wrist was practically dangling before him, and before you knew it a large hand clasped around your wrist and tugged you closer, your hip bumping into the front of his desk as he brought your pulse point to his lips.

The thrumming of it was routine, he noted silently, flow of blood felt against his lips as he takes it in, snowy eyelashes fluttering closed in temporary relief. From your point of view? He was absolutely ethereal, comparable to a seraph with his angelic appearance. He’d always been painstakingly beautiful, and unbelievably cold, but for some reason his touch felt.. warm. Well, as warm as he could be.

“…May I?” His eyes open in questioning up at you, and despite the fact you’re towering over him as of currently (as he’s still seated in his plush armchair), he still exudes some sort of power.

At least he’s trying to.

“May you what? Hold my wrist?” A breathy chuckle escapes you, a huff leaving his lips. You can feel it on your skin.

He speaks as if he’s exposing some inside joke you should’ve gotten by now, “Feed from you.” His voice is uncharacteristically small to its usual commanding tone- it’s quite the change of pace, adding onto the surprise striking you. He doesn’t miss how you swallow thickly, he can hear it. Doesn’t miss how your heart picks up, he can feel it,

He doesn’t miss how you nod, hesitance evident in your mannerisms yet he pauses once more, “Pull up your chair. It’s better when you sit.” He instructs curtly.

Had he fed from many people before? Vash never disclosed such details with you, but the thought still crosses your mind as you sit back in your chair, scooting it closed until your knees bump into the wood and your elbows rest comfortably on the surface of his desk. His fingers clasp around your wrist again, lips meeting with an unexpected tenderness as he.. kissed your pulse point.

The rhythm of it is almost soothing, the motion almost too sweet. Maybe he’s being considerate for once and preparing you for the pain, you think, as he checks for your reaction once more. Pecks meet your wrist once more, your palm grazing his cheek as he wonders what you’d taste like.

And he was just beginning to satiate that need as his fangs dug into your skin, the initial bruising soreness nothing as painful as you’d imagined. In fact, you’d studied from the books in the castle’s library that high class vampires had the ability to calm who they fed from, injecting some sort of substance to momentarily comfort their prey.

Although strangely, you didn’t feel like prey. Rather, he worshipped you in some strange way, even with him continuing to suck greedily on your arm, you could feel the blood leaving you but the needy grip on your wrist was telling.

He needed this.

His other hand came up to grip your arm, holding you still. As if you’d pull away. It didn’t truly hurt besides the starting sting of the bite, which had faded into a dull ache by now. His thumb was against the back of your hand, stroking the skin. Perhaps it was in hopes to coax more blood out of you? Or maybe do you wouldn’t attempt to struggle, to writhe in pain and try to hide away? There was the idea he was being loving, but that most definitely wasn’t true. Not with him. He clearly held a distinct bitterness for most, and that included you. Sadly.

But as he pulled away, slight daze in his gaze as he looked up before you… with his lips stained cherry, tongue laving at the wound in hopes to get one last taste- the sight alone caused your breath to hitch in your throat. An understandable reaction, you’d say.

He forced himself away, curling back into himself and laying in his armchair. “..you’re free to go now.”

“Ah. Yeah.” You respond curtly, having no true idea on what to say.

The minute the door to his study closed shut behind your person, his eyes closed as his hand covered his brow bone, tongue running against his teeth and lips to taste the remnants of you.

You were a nuisance, remaining in his study and conscience even when you weren’t truly present.

The next time hunger strikes him, it’s around a week later.

Vampires are supposed to feed multiple times per week to sustain themselves- how Nai had managed to curve that hunger for so long was either through status or sheer willpower and determination.

Hunger hides for nobody though, as one night you find neat stationary underneath your chamber door. A black wax seal is pressed into the parchment, the initials, K.M. , in rich lettering engraved into what must be a seal stamp in one of his fine desk drawers. The parchment is thick and rich beneath your fingers- even his letters were extravagant, his neat handwriting detailing:

Arrive at my study tonight, 6:45 o’clock.

-Knives

How informative of him. No hi, hello, or perhaps even a basic explanation as to why, but Knives was above the formality of a simple greeting, pfft. With a roll of your eyes, you focus on the letter once more. Hm. His signature was rather elegant, swooping K ending with a sleek S.

It suited him.

Being punctual was something Knives appreciated, your timid form knocking at the double doors of his study, knuckles hesitantly knocking.

“Come in.” He sounded almost.. bored, (although that was far from the truth), fang prickling his tongue in preparation for what was to come. His trenchcoat and outerwear had been hung neatly on the coat rack beside his desk, cravat a bit looser around his neck as if he had been trying to destress.

You seated yourself before him like last time.

“..any reason why you requested my presence?”

It had occurred to you a long time ago Knives loathed explaining himself or his behaviors, believing he could go about as he pleased. To an extent? That was true. But he couldn’t just summon you and not have any sound reason.

His eyes darted to the side before settling onto you once more, eyeing you wearily. “..your blood.” He muttered, hand crossing over his chest and sighing.

…you waited for further elaboration, but clearly none was to come.

“You.. you need to feed again?”

“Yes, I need to feed again.” He exhaled in exasperation, “Is your offer still on the table?” It was amusing how depraved he must be, and it entertained you until at the end of his retort you caught a glimpse of his fangs peeking from his lips once more. He was clearly annoyed with you, but something else seemed to irk him moreso than his usual pissy self.

It was probably just the hunger talking.

Scooting your chair forward, you allowed your knees to bump the front of his desk once more, extending a hand silently in waiting.

“Close your eyes,” he muttered, moving his lips to your skin. His breath cascaded upon you, leaving you to quietly savor and relish in each ministration. Do vampires have the ability to do such magic? To entrance whoever they feed upon? If they do, Knives’ surely must be strong.

He’s a high class vampire, one of his kind, so it truly only makes sense.

Your eyes flutter closed at his command, awaiting a bite that doesn’t come. Instead, he continues to kiss your wrist once again.

But he doesn’t stop.

Plush lips laying chaste kiss upon kiss up your forearm, hand holding your wrist before moving to encapsulate your smaller fingers in his as he twirls..

Closer to you now. His footsteps are practically silent, as terrifying as that may be it only thrills you. His palm on your shoulder is the first solid touch you feel aside from his hand holding yours, breath shaky as he takes you in.

His nose nudges your jaw, free hand laid upon your collarbone. Each sensation astounds you, coalescing and building upon one another and leaving your mind in a heavy fog alike to the smog surrounding the manor.

Hands cool against your quickening heartbeat, he barely has the patience to feel it with his hands, then lips, then his fangs.

His proximity is intoxicating. Almost pressed against you, he can hear and feel your chest below his hands as your breath hitches from his teeth digging into you. You flood his senses like no other, it’s a nuisance, truly, and this is the only way he can subdue it.

With his fangs hitched into your neck and him relishing in the slight gasp you give, pulse quickening with a silent hum of his lips.

A depraved, guttural groan leaves him as he holds you by the junction between your shoulders and clavicle. Thoughts of you have been running rampant in his mind for what feels like an eternity, painstakingly on loop in his mind constantly- with you holding him closer, as if you.. enjoy this.

That thought alone twists something within him as he forces himself to pull away, a few stray drops of blood dripping down his chin and dirtying his cravat.

“You.. you are dismissed.” He cooly disgregards you-

You and the split crack in his composure you cause in your wake, as he loosens his cravat around his neck once more, desire thickening. It’s soon to become palpable, as your presence in the castle is more apparent.

[dragonofeternal]

Hot take/unpopular opinion time?

While I understand the urge to give Legato something nice by having him be rescued by Vash instead of Knives and think there's some very cute art and thoughts out there...

That would not fix him and it would not make him happy.

Knives's "salvation" for Legato wasn't just an end to Legato's present suffering, it was the fact that he completed the work Legato could not, even left a sliver of life enough for Legato to take some vengeance of his own. He would NOT be content or happy just to be taken away from his suffering in a nonviolent way. Vash would saunter in, shoot to disable the people actively raping Legato, and whisk Legato away, forcing him to watch those bastards as they pick themselves up to keep living their lives. Their survival would needle at the back of his brain, bristle any time he saw something that reminded him of that time in his life.

And for all that I love Vash the Stampede, I don't think he could give Legato the kind of help he needed to survive and thrive again. Vash is kind of like a wildlife rehabilitator- he takes people out of crisis situations, helps the to soothe the hurt, but he doesn't try to get attached and he tends to quietly slip out once he feels like they've reached a space where they're stable and the danger is gone.

Vash doesn't give people answers, he asks people to look within and find them for themselves.

Except Legato had reached a point where he felt he *had* nothing left within. We see his eyes go dull, watch all hope leave them. And when he and Vash fight at the end of TriMax, we see Legato recognize that dull flatness in Vash's eyes too.

Vash cannot give Legato something he doesn't have.

Knives, on the other hand is FULL of GLORIOUS PURPOSE. Is it good purpose? Is it smart purpose? Is he doing anything other than flailing around like a muppet made of sharp objects and fear and anger most days? No! But it's a purpose and it MATTERS.

And it's a purpose he can share with Legato, who needs something to believe in, something to fill himself with again because he feels so fucking empty. With Knives, there's a ready answer for the yawning emptiness in Legato's soul.

I'm not sitting here going "becoming the number one Kool-aide drinker in the Cult of Knives was a good life choice for Legato Bluesummers" or anything like that, but I WILL say it's a choice that gave him the ability to keep going. It's a choice that makes him Legato Bluesummers and not someone else.

Because my other concern with Vash's attempts to impress morality on Legato is what I said at the very top: Legato is never going to forget or forgive the people who wronged him. He's not going to let go of wanting to kill and destroy and hurt. There is a trolley problem of one thousand three hundred and one lives versus Legato's singular personhood, and if he is monstrous to want vengeance, if he cannot be allowed to take vengeance, then the only answer is to flip the track from his persecutors to himself. It's a rather simple solution, when you don't feel like there's a reason to be alive.

(all manga caps are taken from @trigun-manga-overhaul)

[rachelsshowerthoughts]

Not Aware AU exactly but kinda tangential. I always toyed with this idea of "Kagami was transferred into Adrien's class when she joined the school."

This could be in S2, or be because Tomoe saw Adrien was attending school and she's got those later season machinations & sends Kagami to make sure he's not snagged by a gold digger.

(In the former case its just in S2, while in the latter it starts after Princess Fragrance.)

This was fine and fun at first, but Kagami is more willing to start shit with Chloe & much less patient with Adrien's continued softness.

Plus, Adrien can't really explain why he's fond of Chloe cos its a mixture between he can't imagine his life without her (Sibling coded) & stuff like, "She was there for me when mom disappeared & got me into school".

This leads to her at some point losing her patience and dragging both off to a classroom and basically saying "Either she needs to improve or you need to drop her, because this cannot go on."

You'd expect it to be a two on one but Adrien's efforts to play peacemaker lead to Kagami arguing with him as well.

Then when one of Chloe's major blows lands hard against Adrien, "Our parents harm more people every day than I do in a year and you still love them, hypocrites!"

It does nothing to Kagami, because she doesn't love her mother, she respects her, obeys her and fears her wrath but she doesn't love her even a little and she assumed Adrien was the same.

He is not the same & is in fact kind of defensive of his father at such a blatant rejection of one's own family and how uncomfortable it makes him.

It basically descends from there, cos I love slow burns but sometimes its just like, "Hmm what if they all started screaming their issues that they do not realize are issues at the top of their lungs?"

None of these kids know therapy talk so their languages on it is already going to be shit even before we remember literally not a one of them has much in the way of healthy communication or good social skills outside of formal events so:

So you have Chloe defending stuff like destroying Roses' letter because "That's how Mama handles it when I give her bad gifts, she's telling me to do better and one day I'll get it right!" As well as "Why would Papa want to see me when he doesn't need me for something? He's not a lunatic control freak like your parents."

Then you have Adrien defending stuff like, "I know my dads cold and has impossible standards and barely lets me do anything I want but he is protective and just wants what's best for me!" & "My mom was always kind to me, she was perfect even if she never let me go out or have a birthday either!"

& Kagami defending Tomoe with, "It doesn't matter how I feel about Adrien, or my instructions, I act as I do because it is for the good of my family. My emotions, my life don't matter at all before that duty!"

So its just three incredibly fucked up abused kids steadily airing each others and their own families laundry list of abusive traits and experiences under the pretext of saying "No my family is normal & OK yours is the bad one" and "How dare you call 'that' bad, when your parent does this!"

(Also Chloe may think Gabriel killed Emilie or otherwise would rather have Adrien sealed in amber forever than as an actual living boy,)

With this continuing until it either gets physical or they basically collapse.

Meanwhile the class is just watching in mounting horror and disgust and discomfort. (Nino is likely especially pissed) Like even with Chloe it may not justify her behavior but it puts so much of it in a new deeply messed up context where it kind of makes sense she doesn't even know how to be nice.

To quote a friend of mine:

The rich kids have taken knives to each other. They've cut open their festering wounds. The rot is exposed, scrubbed raw. While they lie angry, bleeding, crying, and dying [inside], they have the opportunity to look upon themselves once more and apply new dressings.

I can see it, but unless Gabriel is ACTUALLY out of the country, all three get Akumatized. My thoughts are a weird mix Grimm Brothers Fairytales - Cinderella, Snow White, Hansel & Gretel, etc. Not in specific, but like. More fairytale tropes?

Adrien is the "Cinderella"-style. Rapunzel, Snow White-style, "One Day My Prince Will Come"-style. The type of character that has to sacrifice and sacrifice, and will eventually be rewarded. If he does one more photo shoot, one more public appearance, *scrubs one more floor*, his father will finally love him. He'll finally have the happy ending he wants. He just has to stick it out - cause his dad DOES love him, right? (As a possession, if at all.)

Chloé is more of the "Trials"-style. Complete this mission-style. Knit twelve sweaters from nettles, and your brothers will become human again. Find the right goose, and get set free. Defeat the evil witch, and the spell is broken. If Chloé tries hard enough, does and says the right things, her parents will love her, show her affection. She'll finally be worth something. (All of it performative and shallow, until they raise the bar to another impossible height. Always keeping her dependant on them.)

Kagami, weirdly, I see as more endurance, or contract style - like a flipped version of Adrien. She isn’t really trying to "change" her situation the way Chloé or Adrien are, (for value of "trying to change it", ie, playing along with their parents games because that’s all they know to do) she's accepted this is the way it is, and is simply trying to endure it. Go through the motions. Hold up your end of the bargain. Work within the bonds of your deal, to do as little harm as you can, while still fulfilling your end. One day, you'll be out. You'll be free. (As if her mother will ever set her free.)

[karl-raccoon-in-a-teacup]

gently wiping tears from the other's face + fukufuku

sharing a blanket. snuggled up together. + lemon futon

“Stop it. Can’t you see that staying away from you is torture for me too?” + oscargide

“That was but a moment of weakness. Think nothing of it.” + tachiaku

:)

Why did you do this to me. Oh my god why did you do this to me.

gently wiping tears from the other's face + fukufuku

It's all been too much, lately, too hard with the constant news of misery and despair from the warfront. Fukuzawa has grown numb to it, almost, but he was too isolated. Not like Gen'ichiro. Not like Gen'ichiro who comes to him, the letter of his friend's demise still clutched tightly in his hands, and the mask of strength he's worn for days now starts to wear thin the moment Fukuzawa says his name, approaches him. There are tears spilling down, now, and Fukuzawa's numb heart turns to nothing but aches immediately- brushing the tears from Gen'ichiro's face, leaning his forehead against him. "I'm sorry," he says, for the grief that's not his own but weighs upon his shoulders all the same. Gen'ichiro leans into his touch, breathe shuddering. "It'll keep happening, Fukuzawa. I can't keep recieving news like this." "I know. I know." But he can't stop it, either. So all Fukuzawa can do is hold his friend close to him, and try his best to offer some semblance of comfort.

(The rest will be under a readmore because hm many words!)

sharing a blanket. snuggled up together. + lemon futon

"I'm... surprised you agreed to this, really," Katai mumbles, not really meaning to say it at all. They're both curled up beneath a blanket- or rather, Katai's curled up in Yoshiko and Kajii's taken a blanket flopped over him and Yoshiko, snuggling them both up together while Katai flickers through the TV for something to watch. "Surprised? Why would that be?" Kajii asks, head tilting to the side in that natural, curious way." "You just seem a bit- I don't know, excitable?" Katai says. "For something like... this." "And you seem a bit too much of a homebody to accompany me on my excursions-" Kajii says, reaching out to boop his nose- "but you do that anyways, don't you?" "Well, yes." Katai mutters. "I just... this is fine, right?" Kajii laughs, throwing an arm around Katai even as he squeaks. "It's great! You're here, after all!"

“Stop it. Can’t you see that staying away from you is torture for me too?” + oscargide (Probably an AU/canon divergent since I doubt this happened in canon)

"Stop it." And that makes Andre Gide pause. Because even in all the years he's known Oscar, he's so rarely heard him waver- he knows where each of his hidden knives are, of the poison he has hidden in false teeth and in unseen pockets, of the portrait his very essence is tied to. Yet now, he wavers- now, his hands are trembling, now the careful mask of his face has crumbled. "Can't you see that staying away from you is torture for me, too?" his whispers, hands clenching into fists. "You cannot continue this, Andre- this constant sacrifice. Even for your men." Andre opens his mouth- he pauses, he hovers, he's always been good with words but now each one dies in his throat. How can it not, when the man he cherishes so deeply looks at him with such a broken face?

“That was but a moment of weakness. Think nothing of it.” + tachiaku

Michizo Tachihara has woken up to a lot of things, really. But waking up in the bed of a Port Mafia hospital, and seeing the Akutagawa he does not have the pleasure of working with daily be the one standing by his bedside... "Huh," seems like a pretty good word for it. Akutagawa, of course, glares at him. "You made my sister concerned for you. Try not to do that again." And that's all the Mafia's hellhound says, standing up, and about to leave. "Wait-" Michizo tries to sit up, ignoring the dull pain in his chest- "wait, Akutagawa- if that's all you had to say, why come at all-?" And then his eyes wander to his bedside table, and his eyes widen. "...Did you bring me fucking flowers?" Akutagawa shoots back a hellish glare, Rashomon flaring- Michizo briefly wonders if his hospital stay is going to get even longer, especially once he realizes the usually pale face is slowly turning red. "That was but a moment of weakness," he spits with venom that would kill even an executive dead. "Think nothing of it." And yet, the flowers still stand there, right in his line of vision. And Michizo is... just kinda confused.

[bookishfeylin]

What do you think about the whole “Tamlin was in love with the idea of Feyre” ?

I don’t really understand it tbh and I’d like to hear your thoughts.

Also here’s a kiss 😽 I hope you’re having a fantastic day.

Thank you love!

So I feel like I have to explain what that means first before fully debunking it. In short, THAT SIDE of the fandom feels that Tamlin loves a version of Feyre that wants to be coddled and taken care of and protected and provided for--aka a version of Feyre who no longer exists in ACOMAF--hence why he cannot stand and adjust to her change post-UTM when she suddenly wants a more adventurous life. Feyre herself thinks this in ACOMAF, mentioning that Tamlin being a provider+protector suited "who she was before" but not who she is now, which according to her is (one of the many reasons) why they were incompatible:

“I’m thinking that I was a lonely, hopeless person, and I might have fallen in love with the first thing that showed me a hint of kindness and safety. And I’m thinking maybe he knew that—maybe not actively, but maybe he wanted to be that person for someone. And maybe that worked for who I was before. Maybe it doesn’t work for who—what I am now.” (ACOMAF Chapter 15)

This idea, that Feyre just wants a soft life essentially where she can relax and not be burdened with being the caregiver and even be taken care of herself, where she can be given kindness and safety, is also alluded to in book one:

Sometimes I would even indulge in envisioning a day when my sisters were married and it was only me and Father, with enough food to go around, enough money to buy some paint, and enough time to put those colors and shapes down on paper or canvas or the cottage walls. (ACOTAR Chapter 1)

[Tamlin] came a step closer, as if forcibly leaving behind the dark, sad stain of what had happened to Lucien, and the starlight danced in his eyes as he said, “What would be enough to make you happy?” I blushed from my neck to the top of my head. “I—I don’t know.” It was true—I’d never given that sort of thing any thought beyond getting my sisters safely married off and having enough food for me and my father, and time to learn to paint. (ACOTAR Chapter 18)

[Tamlin] was quiet as we turned down another sun-drenched marble hallway, and I dared to look at him. I found him carefully studying me, his lips in a thin line. “Has anyone ever taken care of you?” he asked quietly. “No.” I’d long since stopped feeling sorry for myself about it. (ACOTAR Chapter 12)

So Feyre does want a quieter life where she can focus on herself rather than being busy caring for other people, and Tamlin feels pity for her that she can't get that life, indicating there is some basis for the fandom's idea. But there are several problems with this per canon itself, the first being that no, Feyre did not fall in love for the "first creature" who was kind to her. If that were true, then she would've fallen in love with Isaac Hale first, not Tamlin. The second reason is that this is not why Tamlin fell in love with Feyre? Like he explicitly did not fall for her because he saw a dainty feminine object he could protect and provide for. Aside from Feyre spending 90% of their romance wearing pants and plotting, scheming, and running around planting snares, stealing knives and shit... That's not why Tamlin falls for Feyre.

“I wonder if your family realizes it,” he murmured. “That everything you’ve done wasn’t about that promise to your mother, or for your sake, but for theirs.” I said nothing, not trusting my voice to keep my shame hidden. “I know—I know that when I said it earlier, it didn’t come out well, but I could help you write—” “Leave me alone,” I said. I was almost through the door when I ran into someone—into him. I stumbled back a step. I’d forgotten how fast he was. “I’m not insulting you.” His quiet voice made it all the worse. “I don’t need your help.” “Clearly not,” he said with a half smile. But the smile faded. “A human who can take down a faerie in a wolf’s skin, who ensnared the Suriel and killed two naga on her own…” He choked on a laugh, and shook his head. The firelight danced along his mask. “They’re fools. Fools for not seeing it." (ACOTAR Chapter 16)

“I never knew,” Tamlin said from behind me, “that humans were capable of …” He trailed off as I turned, the hand I’d put on my throat sliding down to my chest, where my heart roared with a fierce sort of joy and grief and overwhelming humility—humility before that magnificent art. (ACOTAR Chapter 19)

Tamlin is impressed by her overall badassery and her willingness to self-sacrifice per quote 1 and per quote 2 he loved her artistic soul. And most importantly:

He picked up the small painting of the frozen forest and examined it again. “I’ve had many lovers,” he admitted. “Females of noble birth, warriors, princesses …” Rage hit me, low and deep in the gut at the thought of them—rage at their titles, their undoubtedly good looks, at their closeness to him. “But they never understood. What it was like, what it is like, for me to care for my people, my lands. What scars are still there, what the bad days feel like.” That wrathful jealousy faded away like morning dew as he smiled at my painting. “This reminds me of it.” "Of what?" I breathed. He lowered the painting, looking right at me, right into me. "That I'm not alone." (ACOTAR Chapter 22)

He loves her because she also understands the burden of responsibility in a way few others do, that he's not alone in that feeling.

And we get this quote:

Faintly, echoing into my world of slumber, he spoke again, his breath caressing my ear. “You’re exactly as I dreamed you’d be, too.” Darkness swallowed everything. (ACOTAR Chapter 23)

I also have a lot of feelings about what that quote means because WE NEVER GET AN EXPLANATION FOR TAMLIN DREAMING ABOUT FEYRE. So apparently Feyre's aforementioned snare planting and knife stealing and scheming to escape and constantly disobeying things he asks her to do to stay safe and whatnot does not manage to dissuade Tamlin from finding her attractive! Not at all, actually, in fact she's ~the girl of his dreams~ And:

“I love you,” he whispered, and kissed my brow. “Thorns and all.” (ACOTAR Chapter 27)

Idk y'all I don't think "I love you thorns and all" means "I only love you if you fulfill my fantasies of being a perfect obedient housewife despite there being 0 evidence of you displaying any remotely housewife-like tendencies, least of all being obedient" but that's just me. That quote is... incredibly significant but I've seen the larger fandom mostly ignore it like they ignore the rest of book one.

I guess what I'm trying to say is: book 1 Feyre is cool and does some wild shit and Tamlin sees her doing wild shit and is like "yep. That's the one for me. My dream gal <3" and ignoring this to push forward a "Tamlin never loved the real Feyre" narrative ignores what Feyre was actually like when Tamlin fell in love with her in the first place and what they actually bonded over.

[randomingoftherandomness]

Fic: Forget Me Not

Tag: Amnesia, Angst

Pairing: Gong Shangjue x Gong Yuanzhi

--

Shangjue rides through the night just to arrive as the sun rises. He barely registers jumping off his horse, racing up the steps to the clinic where he is greeted by Ziyu and Elder Yue.

"Sword Wielder," He greets, a little winded. "Elder Yue."

He makes to walk past them, only for Ziyu to grip him by the forearm. "You should prepare yourself."

"Prepare?"

"He's..." Ziyu hesitates. "There were some complications."

Pulling away, he stalks to where the treatment rooms are, mind racing at what he may find there. Crossing around the treatment screen, he stops at the sight of Yuanzhi sitting up in his bed, calmly eating a bowl of porridge.

But before relief can soothe his nerves, Yuanzhi turns his face to him. Smiling, he tilts his head in acknowledgement. "Hello. May I know who you are?"

A fluke accident, Elder Yue tells him awhile later when they'd wrangled him out of his dusty boots and cloak, and by sheer willpower alone (Yun Weishan and Gong Zishang are tenacious when they put their minds to it), they get half a pot of tea in him before laying out the timeline of events.

Yuanzhi had been experimenting with a new sort of herb that Elder Yue had been cultivating in the back hill. While its medicinal properties have been somewhat ascertained, its more venomous applications have not been explored. This was what Yuanzhi and Elder Yue were doing when they'd mixed it with a concoction of snake venom, and it had, for lack of a better word, blown up in their faces.

Elder Yue was across the room at the time, so Yuanzhi had taken the brunt of it.

"And that's how he lost his memories?"

Elder Yue pauses. Delicately, he pours Shangjue a fresh cup of tea. "I suspect that the fumes of that concoction must have interfered with how he is processing information. He seems to remember how to do things just fine. Muscle memory, we reckon, but as to who he is, and who we all are, where we are, none of that has been retained."

Shangjue shakes his head, hand gripping the cup of tea tightly.

"Will they ever come back? His memories?"

Elder Yue's eyes flicker with sympathy. "I don't know."

And that was all they had to offer him.

Part of Shangjue blames himself for not taking Yuanzhi with him for his visit into the martial world when he had asked. Maybe they could have avoided this whole mess if he hadn't left Yuanzhi in the valley. The other part is just relieved it wasn't something worse.

Even if it hurts him like the cuts of a thousand knives every single time Yuanzhi smiles, polite and distant when he visits him in the clinic.

"I don't understand why you visit me so often," Yuanzhi says as they take one of their morning walks in the garden. "I don't understand why any of you care for me."

Elder Yue and the doctors in the clinic will be discharging him soon, and Shangjue will be taking his didi with him to the Jue residence no matter what the others may think. Not that he expects any resistance.

Shangjue looks at Yuanzhi and forces a smile. "Because you're important."

He gently takes him by the elbow and guides him down a path. This close to Yuanzhi, Shangjue can feel the exhaustion that clings to his body. He has been sleeping a lot, recuperating even if no one has told him much beyond how he has to heal and get better.

Shangjue aches for him. Aches for them. Aches for the possibility that the Yuanzhi he knows will never return, and is anguished at the thought that this stranger who is not a stranger shares none of the love he and Yuanzhi have built together.

There have been many times in the last few days that have left him crippled with grief at the thought that he has lost his Yuanzhi. He mourns the loss of a life and all the facets and beauty that that entails.

But at the same time...

But at the same time, he cannot help but wonder. He sees how Yuanzhi looks at him. Like a puzzle he cannot quite fit the pieces to. He catches the way his eyes follow him in a crowded room, how he stands close to him when they're taking a light stroll. Shangjue sees and hopes. Hopes that it's not all lost.

Yuanzhi's grip on his arm turns his attention back to him, meeting his dark-eyed gaze.

"This might sound strange," Yuanzhi starts. "But I look at you and I feel like there is something in the back of my mind trying to break through. I see you and I feel my heart race. When you aren't with me, I feel restless but when you are, I feel unsettled. Like, there should be more to us. Why is that?"

Shangjue swallows tightly. Smiling gently, he directs them to a bench. Seats Yuanzhi down and goes to his knee to help rearrange the hem of his cloak.

Yuanzhi stops him with a careful touch to his hand. Boldly, as if spurred on by some instinct, he slides their palms together. "I don't know you," He whispers. "But somehow, I trust you. Why is that, Young Master Jue?"

"That's because you do," Shangjue insists, leaning up to cup Yuanzhi by the cheek and brushing back his hair. "You know my blood better than I know myself. You're the one person who does."

Yuanzhi blinks, tears gathering at the corners of his eyes. "But I don't remember you."

Shaking his head, Shangjue allows himself the comfort of pulling Yuanzhi close. Pressing their brows together, they share shuddering breaths. "You know me here." Laying his hand over his left breast, he nuzzles his nose to Yuanzhi's. "Just believe in that."

Yuanzhi sighs, sniffling when he tilts his head. Shangjue doesn't let him get too far, brushing his lips to salt-tracked skin. "I want to remember," He sobs. "I want to remember everything because I can see how much it hurts you."

Shangjue shifts them until Yuanzhi is safely tucked into the crook of his neck. Holding him tightly, he promises. "You don't have to remember anything because I can remember it for the both of us. Even if you forget everything else, you just need to remember this one thing."

"Remember that above all else, above everything, you are the most important person to me. And even if you don't remember a thing about us in the past, as long as you're willing, I will fight for us. I will fight for you."

Under the quiet morning rustling of the trees, Yuanzhi nods, holding on to Shangjue. He doesn't know what comes next. He won't pretend and lie that he isn't a little bit scared. But as long as Yuanzhi is happy to be by his side, Shangjue will always be there.

Memories are, after all, something that they can always make.

[nepentheisms]

SPOILERS AHEAD for the end of Trimax. I know bookclub still has a few weeks left to get there, but @pepplemint put down some thoughts I really liked (linked below, their post includes the spoilers that I'm reflecting on). I was originally going to just reblog with comments I wanted to add, but then this post wound up way longer than I expected.

Anyways, for op, I think this essay may be of interest to you with its discussion of the final few chapters; especially this bit where the writer quotes the late Thich Nhat Hanh:

Though the Bible values understanding, it prioritizes love above all. Jesus encourages his followers to love thy neighbor, no matter what, whether or not there is understanding. Alternately, in Living Buddha, Living Christ, Thich Nhat Hanh writes that “In Buddhism, understanding (prajña) is essential to love (maitri). Without understanding there cannot be true love, and without love there cannot be true understanding.” Perhaps the finale of Trigun Maximum is a blending of these two philosophies.

For me personally, the use of the Genesis allusions in the resolution of the story and the way that plants and humans switch around in acting as the god figure in relation to one another have stirred up thoughts about how there's more of a push and pull in God's relationship with humanity in the Tanakh or Hebrew Bible (which has the same books as the Protestant Old Testament but they're arranged differently).

My knowledge of Judaism is pretty basic, so I'd love to hear from someone who can provide more perspective, but from what I do know, the Jewish approach to God differs from the Christian approach in that adherents are encouraged to question God (even the very existence of God is up for questioning). In Christianity, God is characterized as an all-powerful perfect being humans have to obey, but this characterization really involves a lot of retconning of the Jewish source material, because in those stories, God is not necessarily omnipotent or omnibenevolent.

In Genesis 3:22-23, God seems to express concern over the possibility of humans rivaling him. From the NRSV translation:

(22) And the Lord God said, “The man has now become like one of us, knowing good and evil. He must not be allowed to reach out his hand and take also from the tree of life and eat, and live forever.”  (23) So the Lord God banished him from the Garden of Eden to work the ground from which he had been taken. 

But even with the banishment from the Garden of Eden and the whole Tower of Babel episode in which God voices his qualms about humanity becoming too powerful, God also has moments in which he welcomes it when people challenge him. Genesis 32:24-32 is the story of Jacob wrestling with God and insisting "I will not let you go unless you bless me," and he gets his blessing. And it's in these verses that we get an explanation for the meaning of the name Israel - "The one who strives with God" (from the notes of The New Oxford Annotated Bible).

And what is Trigun but a story of striving between creator and creation? There's plenty of contentious striving, full of pain and conflict, but there's also the striving for understanding - a struggle to truly KNOW the other so that together, they may have a chance at building a more mutually beneficial future.

TLDR: I think the relationship of mutual contention between God and mankind as seen in the Hebrew Bible is a better analogy for the humans vs plants conflict than the Christian view of original sin cutting people off from a perfect supreme authority.

[ice-devourer]

so sources first,,,this is based on @hina-has-no-life ’s mori & regret analysis and @daz4i ’s dazai backstory theory, additionally the structure of this very short blurb is very similar to yiyun li’s ‘where reasons end’

PS. THIS IS NOT MORI X DAZAI OKAY THIS IS ANOTHER MANIFESTATION OF MORIS REGRET 🔪

SYNOPSIS — mori thought he had loosened the teeth of choosing to fail a boy he wanted to save. but as camus wrote, “the heart has its own memory, and i have forgotten nothing.” so in this little story, he dreams. he dreams what his heart cannot forget.

im actually quite scared to post this but my bones tell me i must T — T

[START]

Yellow light bathes our scene, our dream.

The air is visible for a moment as the dust glitters on Dazai’s skin, on the backseat, on Mori’s eyes in the car mirror, all illuminated by the decaying light.

The light in slices, as if sliced by a knife—a knife. Neither wants to be the knife. To slice through the beating heart on a white platter, we don’t need questions—but who is the heart? Who is the platter? No, what matters is the knife, because what matters is the harm we can do to the people we love.

“What were you trying to achieve, taking me in that day?”

“I don't often drag out teenagers from rivers, so I can't exactly tell you my pattern of thought or what came to mind,” he says, “I acted before I knew what I was doing.”

“There has to be something, did you think you were saving me?”

“I didn't think I was saving you, not then and not now. However, Dazai-kun, know this,” he glances at the mirror, their eyes meeting in a common place, “know that I want to. Not instantly, not at the very moment we met, not a time i could recount but something began at some point and, I wanted to save you and that has never stopped being the truth.”

“Should i forgive you then, because you tried to be good and you tried your best? You want a gold star sticker to come with that, a pat on the back? What did you want because none of this fucking matters to me, what did matter was what you’ve taken.”

“Ah, did I ever think about mattering?” a moonlight-mild smile creeps up on Mori’s lips, eyes back on the endless tunnel and its knives of light, “Perhaps once, I did, whether I had the right or not but not anymore. I want to save you, even if it will never matter to you. even if you hate me. I don’t ask for your faith. I’m not asking you to trust that I can give you what you're looking for—Just let me.”

What his heart cannot forget cracks through his voice in little, imperceptible shards.

“Just let me fail you, let me fail you again.”

“You know that will never happen, because you fucked up and you fucked up well—you did what they've done too, the people you tried to save me from, you just did it better than they ever could and you know what?” white canines slowly catch light in the rear view mirror, ominously, like a curse, “I hope it fucking eats you alive.”

“If there is a God, Dazai-kun, he listens to you.” The corners of his lips damp and laughing, softly, Mori directly faces the boy in the backseat, a boy who is not there, “Isn't this perfect proof?“