#he's giving me assassin's creed feels

[your-local-hyperfixater]

There was something so heartbreaking about how scared of being alone Basim was when he realized he would never see Nehal again. She might not have been real, but she was real to him and to me 😔. There was terror in his voice when he asked if he would be alone. Nehal was his best friend, his past and present. She was his constant companion throughout his childhood, a time when he probably felt very alone. His father is dead and he has to find a way to survive. He is alone. No parents, no brothers, no one. Yet there was Nehal. The one who he could always find. The one who kept him company. The one who kept him grounded and focused on important things. It was her face he saw when he awoke from his nightmares. It was her who comforted him and tried to help him get rid of them. It was her who appeared when he felt alone or conflicted. She was there when he needed her the most. At Alamut, he was never really alone. He was surrounded by people who encouraged him and cared about him. But when he left, she was there for him. They may have drifted apart, but you can't deny that they still loved each other (platonically). They had differing opinions and motivations, but they would still find peace in each other's presence. Their friendship was one of devotion and care for one another. There was never any fear that Nehal would abandon Basim. She always told him that she would never leave him and stay by his side forever. No matter where he was, he knew Nehal was out there. He knew she would be back in Anbar. She was his home, everything familiar to him. The part of him he could never leave behind. The part of him that would haunt him if he had not gone searching.

Now, he will never see her again. He will never talk to her again. He will never joke with her again. He will never hug her again. He will never rest knowing she would be there to wake him if he had a nightmare again. He will never hear the words he so desperately needs again. He will never be able to return to Anbar and find the house inhabited by a familiar face again. She is gone, and he will be alone. Not even a mentor to guide him. With Nehal's "death," Basim also died. He is now Loki, with all of his rage.

While Nehal was the manifestation of Loki and her appearance was concurrent with Basim's nightmares and him getting closer to the truth, that isn't how he saw it !! He associated her with comfort and home !! He never pieced it together. Why would he? His feelings were real and genuine. They were the truest besties ever

[teecupangel]

Here I come once again, thoughts on the new chapter of the AC black flag comic?

Chapter 3 is available for free on Webtoons for those curious and it’s an action-packed chapter.

So here are my thoughts:

1) The action sequence was pretty neat. Ngl, Edward slapping shurikens out of his way is a bit funny to think about. Like... fuck blocking, Imma slap these highspeed projectiles because I'm Captain Edward James Kenway. XD

This does show just how far the Hidden Blades had gotten. Altaïr couldn’t counter using his blade or gauntlet because of how easy it would be for them to break but here’s Edward, blocking an incoming downward jump slash with a smile.

No notes. Just appreciating how far Hidden Blades had gotten. (Also, this is pretty on point since his grandson can use the actual blade as a parrying dagger in his game)

2) So… remember the whole “Dutch ships have been disappearing” info last chapter? Well, the ones who attack Edward are specifically called pirates in this chapter so the idea that they had a hand in the disappearance is looking more plausible. I’m still thinking there’s some kind of Yamatai defense system at play here though until I’m proven otherwise XD

3) Oh yeah, Noa’s showing us that, yeah, divergence in memories causes desyncing which we already know but instead of making Noa redo the entire memory (if there’s no checkpoint), it just bypassed the memory. Yeah? Where was that when Altaïr had to keep dying in the water because of me, Animus? XD

(Improvement of the Animus, most definitely.)

4) If there was any doubt that Noa was a Kenway, this amount of daddy issue is definitely Kenway.

5) So we finally have a name for the place that Edward is looking for: Angkor.

It’s an actual ancient place so I’m going to guess that Angkor in AC lore was built on the ruins of an Isu city of some kind. The mention of a tower is interesting though since whenever Isu BS is coming our way, we’re more used to hearing of a ‘temple’ and not a tower. Angkor Wart does have multiple towers that symbolize Mount Meru but it specified ‘tower’ in singular form so either it’s a different tower altogether or one of the towers. There’s also Pre Rup which has a central tower so that’s also a possibility.

In other words, ‘tower’ is quite vague and I hope we see Edward getting annoyed after seeing that there are a lot of towers in Angkor XD

Wikipedia’s page of Angkor does say that there were Japanese settlements alongside the remains by 17th century which works well with the timeline of this webtoon. Whether these settlers are connected to the Shimazu clan that attacked Edward or not though remains a mystery for now.

As for the POE, if it’s not an Apple (their go-to POE), it will be something connected to the religions practiced in Angkor itself and that’s… well… that leaves us with a lot of possibility. XD

[quietwingsinthesky]

its like. i LIKE ezio!! and ezio wants to avenge his family and save people and destroy the group that led to all this harm!! but i know that he doesn’t!!!! the games keep going and the modern day segments are there and the war does not end with him!!!

ezio thinks he can end this war. and i know he doesn’t.

this is a tragedy.

[felixdragonheartofficial]

TFA TEAM PRIME HUMAN REDESIGNS FINALLY

FUCK

+headcannons

Optimus: gotta stay focused

looks too old compared to his bot form.

I find it impossible for Optimus to be more than a million years old in this canon. In the least, he's older than 1000 years and since we have mfs that are canonically over 70 million years old(fagatron iykyk) compared to that, he feels like a dude in his early-to-mid-30's being the group parent.

---

-I made him more youthful, gave him curly hair, and tailored his clothing to actually look like his bot form.

-workaholic

-on the cusp of barley being able to hold his liquor

-doesn't own a pair of pajamas until Sari gets some for him

-usually forgets to put them on, but appreciates the gesture

-stays active for like, 3 days until he can't fight off sleep with work brain anymore, and unceremoniously passes out on the couch to sleep for a full 24 hours

-ratchet sighs and puts a blanket over him as per routine

-frequently checks security feed

-elf on the shelf despiser

-early morning talks with jazz and ratchet over coffee (they all wake up at 6 am)

-half thrives on caffeine and a vigorous training protocol

-is a dog person, loves German shepherds to death

David sama, pls forgive me ily very much

Ratchet: to old for this nonsense

doesn't match his body type in the slightest.

Ratchet is really old, he's got a sallow face and a gramp gut, how dare they square him. He's wayyy too angular and peachy looking.

-I gave him his luscious curves back, adding all the equipment id expect a field medic to have because he is a field medic, not a regular doctor. I changed his facial proportions, and also made his face gaunt, for that dead inside PTSD look.

---

-drinks his coffee black with brown sugar, literally drinks it piping hot

-is one of those old people who complains about noise

-confiscates bumblebee and Sari's toy cars, and puts them in a high up cabinet

-neither of them know how to bypass the child safety lock lmao

-casual clothes includes a lot- a l o t of plaid shirts, and 10 pairs of the same blue jeans

-tunes out bulkhead and prowls convos about birdwatching

-big fan of political satire dramas

-Sentinel doesn't approve

-Ratchet doesn't give a rats ass about what he thinks of course

Bumblebee: professional smart-ass

doesn't match his body type/age.

Bumblebees holoform is presented as a 10-12 year old child specifically for the fact that he's short, and the comedic relief. Total ass

I set his human age as 19-20 years old, making him more of a big brother to sari because that og model is disappointingly lackluster

---

-Bumblebee is a scrappy wisecracking punk, like an adhd kid who just got roller skates for Christmas.

-since he doesn't have wheels, I feel like he'd wear skates instead to emulate the feeling

-terrible at watching where he's going cuz he's too busy trying to show off, so ratchet makes him wear all that padding + training wheels

-legit despises the padding and training wheels

-Jealous of Blurr for mastering roller blades lmao.

-his favorite games are choose your fighter and fps

-saw ONE ancient ass assassins creed playthrough and begged ratchet to install hidden tasers in his arm bands (was denied)

-Sari used her key to do it instead

-self appointed "rizzler"

-Optimus has zero idea of what that means and thinks it's code for something dubious

-Ratchet knows what it means and thinks it's silly

-"I' was something of a rizzler myself back in my day, kid"

-bumblebee cringes

-loves summer and swimming

-wants to be the fastest thing in the sea because y'know, it's bumblebee

-is spooked from the beach for awhile cuz he saw sharks in Prowls nature documentary

-there are infact, no sharks in lake Erie

Bulkhead: big guy, bigger heart

doesn't match his body type/aspirations.

Jesus fuck he's so wide?? And his belly migrated to his shoulders?? I'm gonna be honest, I really hate this design. I feel like it contributed to the "brute strength = stupid" take that most in the fandom associates with him.

---

-Bulkhead is a SWEET. CARING. NERD YOU FOOLS. He's like the male version of a tall goth gf-

-a tall-nerdy-farm hand-physics bf, You got me fucked up.

-Its already shown that bulkhead really likes art in Addition to creating it. He hates being only seen as the "muscle" so it wouldn't make sense for him to lean into that.

-bunny slippers that him and sari made together(she provided the buttons)

-the slippers go missing sometimes (basically considered community property unless he's wearing them)

(ratchet and prowl are the main offenders)

-frequent art museum goer

-really likes watching cooking shows, but is too shy to make food himself

-Owns a ton of star maps

-Really wants a treehouse that he, bumblebee and sari can hang out in

-pillowfort enjoyer

-casually reads quantum physics at the beach

Prowl: draft dodger

Doesn't look like him at all.

Prowls holoform being a mustachioed,white, police officer was an actual jumpscare for 7 y/o me, I kid you not

---

- I know this bitch would not wear a helmet (you can't force him to) que windswept hair

-Not as much as starscreams, for obvious reasons but yk

-prowl is like one of those "shoes are a prison for your feet"

-emo hipster

-has a pet cactus named "planty"

-bumblebee heckles him for it

-can and has brought his cactus with him on early evening motorcycle rides

-the helmet is reserved for his cactus, bring your own >:(

-salad consumer

-him and jazz share custody of the cactus

-repeat victim of the cat distribution system

-ratchet has probably spent hours telling him they can't keep any animals at base

-frequent midnight picnics with jazz

-and beachcombing

-and roaming around antique stores cuz jazz wants to know what vinyl records are

-got a mug with an attempted pink chibi cat with big round shiny eyes painted onto it, courtesy of bulkhead trying to find an artsyle

-cherishes this mug to death

-has a shrine dedicated to it

[outivv]

I’m so disappointed with the natlan teaser because like. Girl. All of those characters would straight up look better if they had even the tiniest bit of melanin don’t even lie hyv.

I’m gonna go on a fat rant here so below the cut, fair warning because it’s messy as fuck I’m just pissed off

No because how are you going to straight up take the inspirations, and clear liberties from Aztec, Māori, Qichwa, Nigerian, Hawaiian, Native American, And Mayan (according to this image from @ HYVboycott on Twitter highly recommend btw they have good info imo)

And then you’re not gonna represent them in terms of their skin color??? Yes there are pale people in all these countries and pale people apart of these cultures, HOWEVER the vast majority of people, or the native people are not typically fucking white. I am white and I literally am darker than the majority of the genshin characters, even in winter when I don’t fucking tan. Like the genshin characters don’t even look ALIVE for Christ’s sake. Hyv are a bunch of cowards who take inspiration from poc, and don’t properly represent them, even in their other games like honkai Star rail. Boothill is Native American. Blatantly. “Oh, no he’s not!!” Yes the fuck he is, his entire backstory is based off of native people, he’s also part Hispanic because the original cowboys were Hispanic people called vaqueros, his home planet in the original CN version of honkai Star rail is literally two native tribes put together I believe. He is Native American, and Hispanic, and hyv TOOK that inspiration and that culture and then was too much of a coward to AT LEAST make him tan. Don’t even get me started on aventurine. So it’s not just with genshin that they do this shit, it’s a hyv problem as a whole, but with genshin it’s so like… common, and genshin has so many issues that make it feel like a cash-grab kinda game, and like the devs are just spitting in our face CONSTANTLY, especially when it comes to characters, and representation. It’s so depressing to see a game that at first had so much fucking promise, now just be such a fucking letdown after like what? 5? 4? Years? Like you’ve built up so much hype, and lore, and excitement just for Sumeru and Natlan not having any representation like fuck off. Hyv CAN fix these issues, they just don’t want to and they have expressed that time and time again by making dark skinned enemies, and enemies with dreadlocks. They know that they can, they just don’t want to because they’re too pussy. And it’s not because they’re a Chinese company, I mean obviously I understand that there is a complicated relationship with tan skin and China, HOWEVER that is no excuse because genshin, honkai Star rail, zenless zone zero, and honkai impact 3rd are all worldwide games and they need to appeal to their WORLDWIDE customers, and I’ve seen plenty of CN players fucking just as pissed off that there isn’t any actual diversity for like any of their games. Plus other Chinese companies have made diverse games, like Dislyte which I’m honestly a huge fucking fan of because of their diversity. Having diversity would BENEFIT hoyoverse a hell of a lot, but they are just trying to appeal to greasy old white men who are the same men who have a tantrum while making a reaction video to a game trailer and go “OH MY GOD SHE ISNT GOT ENOUGH!! LOOK AT HER!! SHE ISNT SEXY!!”, “OH MY GODDD THEY HAVE PRONOUNS NOW!! THE WOKE SNOWFLAKES GOT TO THEM”, and “OH MY GOD ASSASSINS CREED IS MAKING A BLACK SAMURAI THE MAIN CHARACTER!! NOOOO THATS NOT HISTORICALLY ACCURATE!!” Because they’re all pathetic, and that’s who hoyoverse is trying to cater to.

Okay I’m done, this went all over the place but I’m so pissed off so fuck hyv, give them the feedback they deserve, have a great day.

[howtotrainabraincell]

Sweet head cannons about different Assassin's Creed characters

Henry Green: This man knows his flowers and does he ever spoil you with them. Whether they're given directly or left around for you to find, they always have sweet meanings and divulge his feelings for you in beautiful, colorful, little ways.

A pink rose once you two have known each for a time, symbolizing his vow of love and his desire to grow old with you. His hand was slightly shaking when he gifted it to you before he spoke gently to you in Punjabi, before telling you that he loves you and wishes to marry you in English. You both shed tears of happiness when you got engaged. It would be years later but when you learn enough Punjabi you would realize that he had told you "I wish to spend the rest of my life with you".

I have a feeling that he remembers the small things. If you two are out to meet a contact for information or out collecting intelligence for the Brotherhood, and you come across a store window where a beautiful cameo is on display, when you express appreciation for it or make a comment about how beautiful it is, he will remember that. Say this is in January....this man will surprise you with it months later on your birthday.

Malik Al Sayf: The thing about Malik kissing you if you are an assassin vs if you're not an assassin is this...he wants to, but it can be tricky. If you are an assassin, he'll kiss you on the cheek the same way all assassins greet each other and bid you 'Safety and Peace' as he would normally do with his fellow assassins, as he doesn't want to give any headway to any rumors about you two. But it's complicated. If he doesn't kiss you then questions will be asked (by Altair OFC who else?) but if he does kiss you, he has to be careful to not be too quick - to seem as though he has a crush and is flustered/he can't stand you (which is NOT true as you are literally the only person, he CAN stand lol). Then there's also the kissing you for too long bc he'll seem romantically interested (OH BOY IS HE) but he can't reveal that as much as he wants to.

Have a feeling the man is an overthinker haha.

If this is before Al Mualim that is - afterward he'll kiss you without a care and if Altair says anything he'll threaten to throw a knife at him lol. If you're not an assassin though, why would he have reason to kiss you??? But you better believe that he'll come out of nowhere when you're minding your own business, whisk you off somewhere where you two can't be seen and kiss you breathless.

Haytham Kenway: He seems like the kind of lover to be gone a lot, but he really tries to make up for it when he comes home. He understands that gifts and surprises don't make up for his absence - although each gift sent is silent sincere apology - but even if he's not there he'll provide for you.

I don't know why...but something tells me that the man gets matching things for you two. If you're wearing a blue dress, he's wearing a suit in the same color and you two always look very dashing whether apart or together.

You could wake up one morning expecting another day at home, when Haytham has instructed the household to make a nice to go breakfast for you and then for the groom to take you horse riding so you can get out of the house for a little bit. With Templar protection of course he's not taking any chances. He may also arrange a day in Boston for you to go shopping and stay in the city to unwind for a bit.  Expect gifts to be delivered when he's away. He'll have a dress made for you and have it sent a week after he leaves with a sweet letter alongside it as well. A flower delivery a few days later. He even surprised you with a spaniel puppy once.

[katiekatdragon27]

Since Ubisoft makes NFTs of Rayman, I don’t feel bad about rewriting the whole show (kinda)

Me and @rainbow-wolf120 both kinda/really like CLH, but we both have issues with it. Soooo why not rework some stuff while keeping the core the same? Seems easy enough (NOT). First up is Bullfrog :)

More stuff below cut:

Bullfrog is my favorite character of the show. I love him, he’s awesome and fun and kind when everyone else is sorta giant assholes. Also his design is very clean and cute, and I don’t really have issues with him.

HOWEVER, I do have a couple grievances with how he dresses and his motives.

On one hand, if he is the last of the brotherhood, WHY DRESS SO OBVIOUSLY LIKE AN ASSASSIN?? This is an issues I have with Dolph too, bc like, if you are supposed to be under the radar, you would think HIDING the parts of you that GIVE AWAY WHO YOU ARE WOULD BE OBVIOUS. But no, no you need interesting looking protags ig.

Another thing that irks me is that there are so many cool assassins in the Assassin’s Creed universe. So many. And they choose to base Bullfrog on Ezio. I get it for marketing ig, but like, there’s literally a French assassin (AC Unity), but no, the French frog gets to be Italian lol. Although I find it funny, I feel like the whole thing was a missed opportunity to give exposer to the lesser-played AC games. Or use it to promote AC Shadows by making Bullfrog a girl or like the woman assassin from that game. Or better yet, combine a ton of different aspects of every AC game into the outfit.

Which is what I did lol.

To fix both these problems, I decided to design two looks for her (he’s a her now, stone me idc, also sorry every Laserfrog shipper ever it’s not personal I promise). The one on the left is her assassin fit. It drives a lot more inspo from AC Shadows and AC Unity, with elements of Ezio and Bullfrog’s original look. However, most of Bullfrog’s initial look is incorporated in the outfit on the right, which is the subtlety outfit. That is the outfit she starts the series with, only to take it off in the sewers to reveal she’s an assassin.

When in the subtle outfit, she tries to hide as much of herself as possible. Her assassin parts, her frog parts, and her girl-ness. Kinda. She just presents as a man so people don’t fuck with her. As for the assassin fit, it shows up in the Sewer scene when she’s fighting the dudes down there. Then they identify her once she’s arrested and surprises Rayman with being a girl lol.

And to everyone who gets pissy about her being a girl, the show needs more girls.

Have a good one my dudes :))

[nemo-in-wonderland]

"Now we're standing here together At the crystal borderline All my memories are shattered Nothing's left of what was mine I'm tryin' to hold you But you slip away A candle cannot burn forever To whom am I to pray

Up we rise into the night We'll never die in the shadows We can break out of these days Darkness will blaze in the shadows Our kingdom will come When our dreams can grow wild Up we rise into the night We'll never die in the shadows

It's so hard to kill the demons When they live inside your heart Don't give up to find your fortune When you don't know where to start So come here and take me I'm already gone In a second life beside you Is where I want to belong"

"IN THE SHADOWS - Beyond the Black"

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

HELLO HELLO, EVERYONE.

So, I have been brainrotting SO MUCH ever since yesterday night about this whole thing, and today I just had ANOTHER epiphany, and I had was therefore COMPELLED to draw Cambion!Jacob and Cleric!Dorothea together.

I was actually going for a comical kind of artwork initially, but then the brain took a turn to the left, and well, WE WENT DOWN SENSUALITY LANE, and I have to be honest, even if this is just a sketchy kinda things, I am actually so happy with how it turned out.

Like, I can totally see the familiarity between Mephisto and Jacob (homeboy has been pestering daddy dearest for advices lol), and I am so happy I had this epiphany yesterday, you have no idea.

Dottie can resist to him, but only for so long (and Lathander can help only so much lololol).

Also,I kinda slightly modified Jacob's whole design, giving him another set of smaller horns (I kinda hc that cambions' horns tend to grow bigger with age, so Jacob, being a relatively young cambion, has smaller horns - especially compared to his brother Raphael. You can imagine the teasing these two have going on. Raphael cannot complain if then Jacob breaks into his House of Hope every other day and thrash the place lolol) and I decided to give him two pairs of wings, one bat-like and one bird-like, pretty much referencing Pathfinder!Mephistopheles' design AND also reconnecting his normal status as Rook in Assassin's Creed. (I do headcanon that among Zaynab, Karim, Raphael and Jacob, he is the only one with feathery wings as well).

AND I WAS SO FREAKING HAPPY TO *FINALLY* BE ABLE TO USE THAT QUOTE, BECAUSE FML THAT WAS THE MEANING OF THE WHOLE "MORNING STAR" THINGY FOR DOROTHEA ALL ALONG.

You see, in my canonical AU for Jacob and Dottie, Dorothea is Jacob's own Lucifer, and I WAS SO FREAKING HAPPY TO FINALLY BE ABLE TO USE IT HERE PROPERLY. Fml, it feels like freaking validation after almost 5 years of working on her character *gives a huge pat on the back*

That being said, I hope you will like this as much as I loved working on it and as much as I love them <3

--Nemo

[novasintheroom]

117. Never Let You Go

♡ Pairing - Vash x Reader

♡ Word count - 0.6k

♡ Warnings - none

♡ Description: You're both drunk and singing. It leads Vash to a confession.

Now part of the 150 Bullets drabble series on AO3

A/N: Please listen to "Leave Her Johnny" from Assassin's Creed 4 for the tune of the song sung here!

“Oh leave her, Johnny, leave her! For the voyage is long and the winds don’t blow, and it’s time for us to leave her!” Vash stumbles up the cobbled hill toward the inn, singing the song of the night at the Briny Barns tavern. You laugh beside him, feeling your own pleasant buzz from the alcohol. You’re both leaning on each other, trying your best to stay upright and not spend the night in an alleyway.

Shaky, you loop your arm through Vash’s and continue the song, albeit mumbling and washy. “I hate to sail on this rotten tub, leave her Johnny, leave her!”

“Never!” Vash proclaims, tugging you close and planting a big smooch on the side of your mouth. “I’ll never leave you!”

You giggle at his antics and sloppily shove your hand at his face. “But that’s the song! You gotta leave her, Johnny!”

“Ah, right.” He takes a one-two stumbling step before he suddenly reels back and falls on his butt. Your snorting laughter chases him down, and soon you’re crouched beside him, trying (and failing) to get him back up.

“No, no, leave me Johnny, leave me!” He says, laying down on the street and sighing dramatically. “That fireball whiskey is…woo. That is…somethin’.”

Giving up, you lay down beside him. Thankfully there’s no tomas droppings nearby. Vash points up at the stars above, other arm coming around your shoulders to pillow your head. “See that? That’s…uh…wassit called…”

You squint, trying to see through the double-vision you have. “What’re you pointing at?”

“Shhh,” Vash says, putting a finger to your lips. “I’m trying to remember…ah ha! It’s Gillespie’s Ring! See?”

You swat his hand away. “No.”

“Aw.” His arm flops down to his chest, and you both lay there for a moment in silence. In the distance, the sound of the tavern can still be heard, with villagers and travelers and who knows who else singing and dancing. Vash halfway wants to turn around and go back to the party, but knows you’ve both hit your limit for the night.

It gets him thinking. You’re a pair. A partnership. Lovers. You’ve been through thick and thin with him, and he’s so used to you dogging at his heels that it’s strange now to be alone. His heart swells.

Carefully, he leans over and kisses you on the temple. “You know I’ll never let you go, right?” He whispers, plum dark sky the only witness to his words.

You’re drunk enough to take a moment before responding. “I know, birdie. Just like – like I’ll never let you go.”

“Yeah,” he says, grinning at you before kissing you on your nose. “You’re my girl. You’re my forever.”

You cross your eyes in exaggeration and snort. “And what you are is a sap.”

Vash laughs, never denying it.

Finally, after a few more attempts to point out constellations, you feel your butt go numb from the hard ground. “Alright, we gotta get to bed. C’mon, to bed.” You stagger to your feet, and Vash follows, slumping on a nearby building for leverage. He quickly melds to your side, though, and starts singing again as you walk. “Oh, I’ll never leave her, Johnny! I’ll never leave my girl! ‘Cause the winds are fierce but her heart is too, oh I’ll never leave my girl!”

[jessicas-pi]

So the Ahsoka show (and a dream I had last night) gave me an idea. Imagine: AU where in Chapter 11 of The Mandalorian, Bo-Katan tells Din to go to Ahsoka... but also says that if Ahsoka won't help, then he should try finding her apprentice, Sabine Wren, on Lothal.

So after Ahsoka refuses to train Grogu, Din goes to Lothal before he tries Tython, which is therefore where everything with the Darktroopers goes down, which means that (a) Sabine is able to give Hera a heads up that the Empire is Doing Something, and (b) Sabine ends up inadvertently roped into the events of the rest of Mando S2. The Grogu rescue mission sort of helps her feel better---at least to feel like she's doing something. Din, meanwhile, sees someone just like him, who needs to keep busy to keep her mind off her trauma, so he decides to call her up for a little "help" whenever he feasibly can claim he needs it, or for some Jedi Training™ with Grogu (who didn't go with Luke, due to no trip to Tython and no seeing stone), or whatever excuse he can make up, which ends with Sabine getting pulled into BoBF and Mando S3, too.

Highlights include:

Din & Sabine: *win the fight with Moff Gideon together* Sabine: *takes the Darksaber from him, just to disarm him* Sabine: WAIT ACTUALLY NOPE NEVER MIND *throws the Darksaber as far as she can & refuses to pick it up again*

Sabine: You want ME to teach your kid? Din: Yes. Sabine: You do realize that I can't use the Force? Din: Yes. Sabine: And that my master stopped training me because I wasn't good enough? Din: Yes. Sabine: And that I have absolutely nothing to teach him? Din: Yes. Sabine: ...nothing I say is going to deter you, is it? Din: No.

Sabine: I just... feel... lost. Boba: Well, you could always work for me on Tatooine. Fennec: Have you ever considered an assassin business partnership? Bo-Katan: It's gonna take me a loooooooong time for me to get over you winning the Darksaber again, but you are my best friend's daughter, so if you choose to, you may come with me. Greef Karga: The Nevarro school could use an art teacher, you know. The Armorer: You are always welcome to take the Creed and join our covert. Din: How do you feel about being adopted? [later] Ahsoka, to Hera: Should we be concerned about the number of questionable figures trying to take in Sabine? Hera, having Maul flashbacks: Trust me. It could be a lot worse.

Sabine: You need to go to the Living Waters? Yeah I know where that is, I can take you. Din: That's a relief. Otherwise I was going to go ask Bo-Katan about them. Sabine: Oh? Let's ask her anyway. I'm totally down to bother Bo-Katan. Any time, any day. Kalevala HERE WE COME-

Din: While I appreciate your modifications to IG-12, Sabine, I'm not so sure about the words you've added. Grogu, delightedly smacking his new button: KRIFF. KRIFF. KRIFF. KRIFF. KRIFF.

Din: You had me at 'battle droids.' Sabine, giggling: yOu HaD mE aT 'BaTtLe DrOiDs'

Sabine, watching Din make his 'your song is not yet written' speech: This is sooo much better than the holodramas. Axe Wolves, side-eyeing her: You don't get out much, do you? Sabine: Nope. Want some popcorn?

.....ANYWAY, my point is, Sabine gets dragged into All The Mandoverse Shenanigans. Which is pretty funny on its own, right? But it gets better.

Because it just so happens that Din is on Lothal with Grogu when Ahsoka shows up with the map. and he kinda just....gets pulled along for the ride. So then HE'S in the AHSOKA show, mostly just trying to make sure Sabine doesn't do anything crazy, following her when she does it anyway, and being confused about Everything. Which lends itself to additional hilarity--

Din: Nightsisters? I heard they were witches. Ahsoka: They are. Din, internally: Oh my manda, I finally KNEW something!

Din: The evil Jedi are chasing us! Sabine: They're not Jedi! Din: They're not? But they have laser swords like you! Ahsoka: There's still a difference! Din: What difference? Ahsoka: Jedi use the Light side! These are Dark side users! Din: There are different sides of your sorcery??

[Sabine and Ezra reunite] Din: I'm so glad you finally found your husband, Sabine. Sabine: Ezra: Din: The crabs: *start gossiping* Sabine: He's... he's not my... husband... Din, confused: But you've clearly been living the Mandalorian marriage vows? One when together, one when apart, sharing all... Sabine: Yeah, no, that's- that's just coincidence. Din: Hold on. You live in his house, and you keep all his things, and you refuse to leave Lothal for more than a week or two at a time because it makes you miss him too much- Sabine: *makes stop talking gesture* Din: -and you gaze lovingly at the enormous mural you've painted of him, and you left everything behind the second you knew you had a chance to save him, and as far as I can tell, you've been utterly devoted to him since the moment he disappeared ten years ago- Sabine: *stop talking gestures intensify* Ezra: Wait, Sabine, is this true? Din: -and you're telling me you two aren't married? Sabine:

[ro-written]

Me Gustas Tu - J.W

Tags/Warnings: Fluff; Nothing really, gn!reader, very little rereading cause that’s my brand now

Word Count: 1.1k

Song Inspo: “Me Gustas Tu” by Manu Chao

Jung Wooyoung likes a lot of things.

He likes the color black. He enjoys the simplicity of it. Appreciates the way he can dress it with anything and can find familiarity within it. It’s a quiet color. The color he comes back to at the end of the day in his bedroom. One that helps calm him and rest his mind after a flashy, long, overwhelming day. It’s the color that surrounds him and allows him to be himself. 

He likes seeing you sleep peacefully under his black comforter in his room. When he comes back at the end of the day and you’ve already made a home in his bed. Even in the darkness of the muted color, you brighten the place immediately with your presence. He wouldn’t consider himself a romantic, too realistic and practical in his thoughts to even entertain the idea. But when you give him that tired smile and dig yourself into him when he finally gets under the covers? When you murmur lowly, still half-asleep, about how much you missed him and how warm he feels? Well, he feels like he could write volumes of poetry.

He likes clothes. He adores the way he can express himself through what he wears. Clothes make him feel safe, make him feel like himself. He likes piecing things together that people may not have considered, and end up shocked when they see how well it matches. Clothes make him feel confident. Can completely shift his attitude one way or another. Make or break his entire mood. A good outfit can define his entire day. 

He likes seeing you in his clothes. Particularly this one black hoodie he has. It’s oversized, even on him, stretched out from years of use. But goddammit, he just can’t get over how comfortable it is, even after all this time. Can’t bring himself to get rid of it. And seeing you in it? When you leave your fragrance on it for him after having “borrowed” it for a few days? When you send pictures to him, wearing it while he’s away on tour? He thinks it has to be his favorite piece of clothing.

He likes gaming. It’s one of his favorite stress relievers. Being able to come home and hop on a game, not think about anything else besides beating this one goddamn level. Losing himself in the storyline of Assassin's Creed and mindlessly doing quests that he’s done at least five times before. Others may find it repetitive; He can’t begin to count how many times Yunho has given him a funny look for playing the same story again. But he enjoys it all the same.

He likes when you play with him. When you get excited playing FIFA against each other. He pretends to get huffy when you beat him (even though he couldn’t deny the flutter in his heart and the gentle smile playing at his lips while watching you celebrate.) He likes to teach you how to play a new game. He can sit even closer to you and help guide your fingers over the controls. You know exactly what he’s doing, and when you poke at his cheek to call him out, all he has to defend himself is an eye roll, and I just want to make sure it’s an even playing field, love. He didn’t even mind when you simply sat near him to watch him play. He enjoyed your presence, knowing that you simply wanted to just spend time with him. Maybe you were talking to him about the game, or maybe you were talking about your day. Maybe neither of you was talking about anything, the orchestral music of the game filling the air. He didn’t care. He had you.

He likes cooking. It allows him to learn new recipes, and explore different parts of the globe right in his kitchen. He can focus on a recipe, the rest of the world fading away from purview. Similar to his clothes, he likes making the food aesthetically pleasing too.  He enjoys the chaos right before the calm of being able to enjoy his creation. He likes how he can mix various items to create a tasteful dish. Being able to say that he created something of his own.

He likes cooking for you. He likes seeing the way your eyes gleam and the wide smile you offer as he sets your favorite food in front of you. And yes, he learned and mastered the perfect recipe for it. His heart pounds in his chest whenever he asks you to try a new dish, awaiting your honest answer. And you do answer honestly, something he appreciates every time. 

He likes dancing. It gives him a way to express himself, aside from his clothes. Where words fail, he communicates through movements. He can let his body move on its own accord, responding to the beats and melodies in the songs in its own way. Actions speak louder than words, and when he’s dancing he feels like he can recite his own Shakespearian play to the world.

He likes dancing with you. Being able to put on a record and taking your hand in his, grinning as you bashfully lean into him, allowing him to lead you around the room. He likes to press his face near your ear to hum along to the song, swaying you side to side and gently guiding your feet. He likes hearing you laugh a little at the corniness of it, but melting into his body nonetheless. He even likes dancing for you. When you stay with him at the studio and just watch as he shows you a new routine he’s putting together. And when he finishes he can see the starry look you have in your eyes.

There were times when his feelings felt conflicted. Moments where he had to debate if he actually liked something or if he simply wanted to like it. 

One thing was for certain though.

Jung Wooyoung likes you. He likes your patience with him. He likes your smile. He likes the way you make these small faces at something when you were focused on a task. He likes the way you bite at your nail when you get lost in thought. He likes the way your eyebrow quirks when you want to react to something. He likes when you poke his dimples when he smiles at you. He likes that you can effortlessly get him to laugh - really laugh. A laugh that reverberates in his chest. And god, does he like the feeling he gets just being around you. A feeling that warms his whole body, that leaves subtle tingles under his skin. 

One thing for certain?

He loves you.

This was written by @/ro-written and is not to be plagiarized, translated, or distributed anywhere else. Copyright Ro-Written 2023.

All comments, reblogs, and likes are always welcome!

Wanna help me keep writing? Consider tipping me on Ko-fi!

[recreationalfanfics]

*chin hands* assassin's creed on the mind eh? Do tell 👀

OKAY SO ONE IDEA I DEF WANNA USE IN THE FUTURE WOULD BE YANDERE EAGLE VISION. Like, if an assassin/eagle vision user becomes obsessed with a darling, then instead of showing up as red (for enemy) or green (for ally), then their darling would show up as either a pink silhouette or something.

NOT ONLY THAT, BUT, LIKE DIFFERENT ASSASSIN'S TRYING TO FIGURE OUT WHAT IT MEANS/ALREADY KNOWING WHAT IT MEANS.

Like Ezio using eagle vision and he sees his darling is a different color from everyone else, he instantly believes its a sign their soul mates and will shamelessly follow them, either from the shadows or blatantly walking after them like a lost puppy.

Altaïr believing something is wrong when his eagle vision acts up and only towards you, the person who served no real importance but never seemed to leave his mind. He decides to use it as an excuse to stalk you, after all, it was fine before YOU came along and he's just trying to figure out if it means if you're a threat or not. Deep down, he knows what it actually means but it gives him a good excuse to stalk you.

Connor absolutely is baffled when he notices a pink figure and when he switches back to his normal vision, he sees its you. He doesn't voice this out to anyone because its not that important, right? Plus, he truly wouldn't want to disturb you with that knowledge and, when you really think about it, it's rather helpful for the both of you! Now Connor can keep tabs on you and you won't ever have to worry about anything hurting you because Connor will always be waiting in the shadows to protect you.

Evie would be a Lucid yandere, the moment you become miscolored in a way she's never heard of, she's doing some research on her own time and found out about rare instances assassin's who found their "soul mates" with their eagle vision. Like Connor and Altaïr, she would definetly use it as an excuse to be able to stalk you while keeping her conscious clear. It's not her fault technically and yes, maybe she is tailing behind you and her heart soars at the thought of being able to pick you out of the crowd and track you down so easily...but it's only because she can keep you safe!

Jacob doesn't even question it, he also takes it as confirmation that you were meant to be his. He would absolutely take advantage of his new ability and you'd be none the wiser. You try to avoid him by going a different route? He somehow ends up calling your name and happily running over to you and you're wondering how could he have known. You're bumping into him a lot more often when doing mundane things? Haha, what a coincidence! May as well hang on his arm and let him treat you to a nice drink! Just the image of Jacob desperately jumping from rooftop to rooftop using eagle vision only to stop and smile to himself when he sees your silhouette makes me so happy-

EDWARD DOESN'T REALLY QUESTION IT, HE'S JUST GLAD HE CAN HAVE PIECE OF MIND WHEN IT COMES TO YOU TBH. He knows what he's doing is shady but at the same time, he can't help it. But also moments when you manage to sneak away from him and he just easily walks towards were you're hiding and it fills you with so much dread and panic and you're not sure how he manages to do that every single time.

AAAH, IMAGINE ARNO BEING ALL SMUG ABOUT IT. Like, you're both at a gala somewhere and you try to lose him in the crowd, not wanting to deal with his possessive behavior but no matter how many people are in the way, Arno uses his eagle vision and pushes and shoves past people as he makes his way towards you. Just when you think you lost him, you feel his hand wrap around your wrist and pull you close and his hood is over his head, revealing nothing more than a sly grin.

[alessiathepirate]

Assassin's Creed: Mirage

THE ART OF PICKPOCKETING: Basim Ibn Ishaq x fem!reader

Summary: Basim Ibn Ishaq really liked to think of himself as someone, who's impossible to pickpocket -- and she finally found the opportunity to prove him wrong.

Notes: English isn't my first language. I apologize for any mistake I may have made while I wrote this short story.

Warnings: none

•••

Basim Ibn Ishaq really liked to think of himself as someone, who's impossible to pickpocket.

And whenever he said that thought out loud, she wanted nothing more than to prove him wrong.

She sometimes liked to include the children too, who were free to do whatever they wanted after finishing the task Dervis had given them. They liked to be the distraction, while she did her best to sneak up on him and take the little blue charm from his scarf. When she failed Basim chuckled while the children laughed. Nehal just stood not far away, shaking her head as she tried to hide a smile.

All her attempts had failed. None of them worked.

Basim always seemed to expect all her ideas and tries, and he was holding a firm grip on her wrist the moment her fingertips were touching his clothes.

She almost gave up, accepting defeat. Almost.

Because soon the right moment presented itself.

She just came back from an errand Dervis had given her -- an easy task; just a go in - grab the small chest of dirhams - then get out without getting caught. She was on her way to give Dervis the chest when she ran into Basim - or rather: Basim jumped her in a tight alleyway.

She was startled and almost dropped the dirhams, what would've gotten her a long, endless, angry speech from Dervis himself. She playfully hit Basim on the shoulder as he laughed.

"You're such a child sometimes, I swear." she shook her head disapprovingly, hiding a smile.

"Oh, come on! You left me all alone today with nothing to do!"

"Wasn't Nehal around?" she asked with a raised eyebrow as she continued to walk toward Dervis' place.

Basim followed her closely.

"Nehal isn't you." he complained and she felt a blush threatening to appear on her cheeks. "Besides, she never wants to come with me to see what the Hidden Ones are up to!"

"Because you annoy her a bit too much with that." she chuckled as Basim pouted at her teasing tone. "And it's not a bad thing that at least one of us isn't suicidal."

"Do you have any other errands to do after this one?" Basim asked.

"No. Why? Is there something you'd like to do?"

"I was thinking, maybe we could go and practice."

"Practice what?" confusion was the only visible emotion on her face.

"Pickpocketing."

She stopped so suddenly that Basim almost bumped into her. It was Basim's turn to look confused and hers to pout.

She looked at him as if he just hurt her feelings. Her eyebrows were raised as if challenging him to continue. When he didn't, she decided to voice her anger.

"Pickpocketing? You think I need to practice pickpocketing?" her voice was higher than usual and Basim just scratched the back of his neck awkwardly, not really knowing what to say.

"Well, everyone needs to practice..."

"Basim!" she could imagine his heart jumping at her tone. "Do you think I need to practice?"

He crossed his arms in front of his chest and did his very best to look confident, but he couldn't really fool her. She knew him too well. And she knew he wasn't feeling overly confident at all.

"Well, I did follow you and you didn't even notice me until I jumped you. And you still can't pickpocket me."

If looks could kill...

"So you're telling me that no one could possibly surprise you? Not like you suprised me?"

A quiet understanding ran through Basim's eyes, as if he finally realized that he set up a trap for himself. Her eyes were shining with mischief as she was waiting for an answer, and his body became more rigid, feeling a storm coming.

"That's exactly what I'm saying..."

Always acting so confident, always hiding the side of him she loved the most - the side that loved poetry, and softness, and the thought of love itself...

"If that's what you think, Basim..."

She put the chest between her left arm and her side to keep her right hand free. Then, she took a step or two toward Dervis' place to let Basim feel safe and give him the false feeling of relief.

The moment she heard him take the first step, she turned around, grabbed his scarf and pulled him down into a kiss.

She closed her eyes, but she could imagine the surprised look on his face. She could imagine him blushing and she could imagine his eyes being wide open. And those thoughts made her grin.

She made sure to kiss him with passion. To show him the feelings she has been having for him since the beginning of time. She made sure to kiss him roughly, she made sure it made him lose all his senses. She made sure it was a great distraction.

By the time Basim collected himself and found the courage in himself to kiss back, she already let go of his scarf and pulled away.

His flushed face made her smile widely.

"So this wasn't surprising... At all..."

"No, I--"

She grinned.

"It's alright Basim. It happens to the best of us."

She started to walk again and after a few long seconds Basim began to follow her.

Some of the children noticed them and ran toward them to greet them. She just giggled and raised her left hand high, showing them the blue charm what she was holding in a tight grip.

"I finally did it!"

The cheering was almost comical. So was the laughter what came after Basim touched his scarf with a confused expression, not believing that the charm was gone.

"Oh, don't worry Basim, we all need our practice!" she teased and the children laughed harder.

"That's cheating!" Basim argued with a blush. "Give it back!"

"Get it back!" she shouted as she began to run, dropping the chest of dirhams not caring if Dervis gets his money or not; or if he gets angry or not.

Victory just felt too good. So did Basim's lips on hers.

Their game of cat and mouse didn't last long. After a few minutes Basim managed to tackle her on one of the rooftops - and she gladly let him turn her around and kiss her with so much passion, she had to whimper.

Yet the minute Basim's fingertips touched the charm, she grabbed his wrist, pulling him away from her prize.

"Don't you dare." she warned.

Basim grinned. She did too. Then his lips were on hers again as her free hand held onto his shoulder tight.

[teecupangel]

So I read the Desmond is English mastiff post.

You know what's bigger than that? Kurdish kangal. (no not the Anatolian shepherd, there's a difference) those fuckers get BIG and I mean BIG bc they're herd protection dogs and throw hands with wolves. So I'm cackling bc I can just imagine how terrifying and ridiculous it would be that Desmond is that big of a dog, he's practically a beast at that point.

Let me raise you another thing. Desmond the Danger noodle. Desmond the nope rope. Pick a snek, any snek.

Here’s the Desmond is a mastiff for anyone curious

I’m not sure if I got the images right as wiki links both Anatolian and Kurdish Kangal to the same Kurdish Shepherd wiki but here are the images that thekennelclub.org.uk added:

They’re really big and I can totally see Desmond fighting wolves and cougars with Ratonhnhaké:ton as this kind of dog.

It would be funny though if, since he’s a shepherd dog but also Desmond ‘My self-preservation radar is questionable’ Miles, he doesn’t herd sheeps, he herd wolves.

Ratonhnhaké:ton has no idea how he did it and Desmond would like to swear the wolves followed him home, he doesn’t know how to herd at all.

Of course, he can’t defend his honor because Ratonhnhaké:ton can’t understand him anyway.

But hey, at least, it wasn’t a bear.

Right?

… right???

Also, it would be easy to get Desmond to his other two main ancestors since Kurdish Kangal is a traditional Turkish breed. This would make it easy for Desmond to get to Altaïr since he canonically visited Constantinople in 1204 so he could have gotten Desmond then and brought him back to Masyaf as a gift to his sons (who became Desmond’s herd… together with the other children around their age).

Ezio could also meet him when he’s in Constantinople. Maybe even have Desmond be the strange dog who appears whenever Ezio is looking for a memory seal. He has read tales of how the Levantine Brotherhood had a large dog as a protector of children so Ezio is pretty suspicious of the strange large dog who seemed to be connected to the memory seals. (Also, this gives Ezio a companion he can share his true feelings about the Creed and the life he lives as an Assassin, knowing the dog can provide comfort and would not say anything to anyone).

If you want Desmond as a snek boi, here’s the idea of Desmond being a snake

And here’s Desmond as a bigass Ttanoboa that can and will gobble enemies up here

[autumngracy]

Hi, just a random question from a fan of AROS (for which I have no coherent words to decribe my admiration)- I'm sure you've been asked this a million times already, but I'm quite new to this fandom, so forgive me and feel free to ignore the question, of course- who did you base your Javert on, appearance-wise?

Actually I don't think anyone directly asked this before!

To be honest I didn't actually base him on anything or anyone in particular ... I think the reason for this is because I read the brick before ever seeing any adaptations of Les Mis, so the first Javert I pictured was just my own interpretation of him from the brick ...

And what's funny is I can't remember if I originally pictured him with short hair or long hair. I read the 1938 Heritage Press edition of the brick, which is the Wraxall translation + about 1500 Lynd Ward illustrations, and in those illustrations he has short hair. But, oddly, I didn't remember it as being short in those illustrations? I had to go back and look years layer to confirm. (Alas, my beautiful Heritage Press copy is lost somewhere now!)

So I don't know if the long hair thing was me originally picturing it that way despite the illustrations being otherwise (possibly because the illustrative style made it somewhat vague at first?), or if it was from me later getting brainrot from looking at all the post Terrance Mann Javert designs ...

Best I can say about the hair issue is, well ... I just really happen to like male characters with long hair ... idk why lol. I have a lot of male OCs with long hair and every time I make one, part of my brain goes "Another one? For real? Do we not have enough of these little bitches already? If you don't stop putting long hair on all these characters people are gonna start to think you have some kind of kink."

Which. Well. I'm actually asexual so idk lol I think it's just an aesthetic preference

ANYWAY

For his wardrobe, that's just the brick descriptions plus factual research into 1830's era menswear. The only anachronistic element of his appearance really is his hair, but I do get around that by pointing out that he could have simply picked the (older and naval oriented) style up while he was at the Bagne (which did in fact have a dress mandate for keeping long hair tied up, suggesting it was a common enough hairstyle among the guards) and just never dropped it even after it became unfashionable—because A) he doesn't seem to give two shits about being fashionable, B) keeping short hair means either spending money to keep it short or having an intimate enough relationship with someone that they will do it for you free—neither of which I can see him wanting to do—and also C) he appears to be a creature of habit, so keeping the same, easily self-maintained hairstyle over the years fits my understanding of him.

Also, I'm not even exaggerating his tools of the trade because there really is a line in the brick about him having some kind of sword, which I had to go back and reread several times because it surprised even me (but it's 3am and I'm too assed to look it up rn). And we already know he has 2 pistols and a bludgeon (which the brick says he holds tucked up invisibly in his sleeve, Assassin's Creed style, lmao).

On another subject—

Given his stiff and distanced way of interacting with the world, questionable of social skills (see him bluescreening when Fantine is pleading with him in the mairie by way of what may be thinly veiled sexual advances), as well as his black and white thinking, penchant for being distracted by his thoughts to the point of complete obliviouness, propensity to either give extremely short responses or to go into ranting monologues, with little in between—plus the idea that he hates reading but makes himself do it for self improvement reasons, and how he seems to start stimming when lost in thought—I could definitely see him possibly being Autistic or having ADHD.

Now then, about his race ...

I know originally I actually pictured him differently than the Javert I wrote for my fic—as more white, at least—the way he appeared in the Lynd Ward until I read people discussing how he was probably supposed to be part Romani. And when it came to me having to pick conclusive character designs for my fic, I thought it would be much more interesting if it was a Javert who was visibly Romani instead of white passing, which he seems to be in most everything that bothers to mention his background.

I do find it weird that he's seemingly been played by nothing but white guys except for Norm Lewis and David Oyelowo (that I can find). So there's never really been a Romani Javert in stage or screen adaptations ... However, there's still a decent amount of fanart that shows him as darker skinned/Romani, so at least there's that.

Anyway I find that a visibly non white Javert just adds a lot more nuance and depth to his character, even compared to a still Romani but white passing version of him. Because then it changes how he interacts with and views the world (and vice versa), and it changes or adds to his motivations for doing what he does. It brings his (very canon!) struggle with internal racism to the forefront, which a lot of adaptations downplay or completely ignore.

I think part of why this appeals to me is that in modern times we are very used to the idea of the shitty oppressive white cop who is approaching everything from a position of absolute privilege and authority (which is a very shallow and uninteresting archetype, character-wise) ... and brick canon Javert, regardless of whether or not he is white passing, is not coming from a position of privilege—and not just because he is poor. He is coming from a position of social insecurity and vulnerability, which (at least it seems to me) he is trying desperately to escape/overcome.

And this makes his motivations for choosing his specific job far more interesting than "shitty white cop that enforces the status quo because he gets off on exerting power over other people". It suggests a sort of willful mental dissonance and denial that also make a lot of sense in hindsight when we consider the effects of his derailment.

The idea of him snapping and realizing for the first time that most everything he was doing was morally corrupt (or at least highly questionable) is one thing (and a level of obliviousness/ignorance that is somewhat hard to believe, imo) ...

But the idea that he knew how morally reprehensible his actions were all along, and was repressing it on purpose? To gain the only foothold he could see on the ladder of a world he was born on the lowest rung of? And after decades, is forced by external factors to finally, finally look his decisions in the eye and confront himself about them?

Well, shit. That hits a lot harder, doesn't it?

And it certainly hits him pretty hard. Obviously (as I pointed out in the the fic) he did mentally store away notes of things he found morally questionable about/during his career over the years—he just didn't let himself act on them. But it implies he was aware of the injustices, even if he only relegated that awareness to his subconscious.

The brick talks about how he felt he existed outside of society and had only two choices in life—black and white thinking; criminal vs protector, etc.—and it spells out how this is pretty much the direct result of his internalized rascism—so, I mean ... I don't think it's unlikely that canon Javert knew from the beginning that he was sacrificing his his heritage, culture, and moral compass in pursuit of respect and recognition from society (and thereby, social safety).

And in a Post-Seine world, he's forced to reconcile with all of that.

I may have just spoiled a major upcoming plot point for AROS tbh but oh well I was dropping breadcrumbs of foreshadowing about it the entire goddamn time lmao

[tiddygame]

Ghoap god type au part 9!

Ao3 /// part 1 /// part 2 /// part 3 /// part 4 /// part 5 /// part 6 /// part 7 /// part 8 /// part 9

aphantasia whooped my ass trying to write this chapter, so for clarity's sake, the fort in this chapter is an almost complete rip-off of Murex Fort from Assassin's Creed: Odyssey with only some small adjustments (i.e. the snowy mountain, added stone walls, and size with my version being bigger than what you see in the game) and the upper part of Pharsalos Fort. It is painfully obvious to me that I copied these forts, and even if the plagiarism doesn't come across in the story, it would feel disingenuous to try to imply that I came up with the layout all on my own so I wanted to give credit where credit is due.

@imjustheretofightforlove / @pieckyghost / @life-as-a-gamergirl

...

The fort was significantly bigger than Ghost was expecting.

It wasn’t one of the temporary encampments he was used to; It had proper walls made of brick, towers that provided ample view of the surrounding area, and long banners that draped down the walls with the kingdom’s symbol emblazoned proudly across them.

The fort was built into the base of a mountain and he could see the tops of some buildings that trailed up the incline poking out from the high walls. The snow that had piled against the bricks only served to make it look grander, a sign that the fort had been standing there for many winters and would continue to do so for many more to come.

It was an impressive structure but the fact that Ghost was able to get as close as he did was concerning. The walls were built to house hundreds upon hundreds of soldiers and yet he stood at the open front gate, unimpeded. 

He was fully equipped with several weapons on display and his armor clearly denoting him as an enemy soldier sat atop a war horse. He should have at the very least been stopped, if not openly fired upon.

Ghost advanced slowly, waiting for someone to finally notice him and raise an alarm or light a brazier. Yet he stood in the entrance and wondered if he was too late. 

The plans he had copied made mention of weak spots that could be targeted and gaps in defenses that could be exploited but there he was, right inside an enemy fort having used the front door.

The interior was oblong, carrying on further to his right but quickly cut off on the left by a cliff face, upon which were some of those buildings he saw outside. At the base of the cliff were hastily assembled canopies doing a poor job at protecting the crates of supplies housed underneath them.

On his right, the area was partitioned by another wall of stone, this one man made, with an entryway that led to the rest of the fort. With the angle he had, he could only see more snow and stone walls beyond the door.

There were a few signs of life; There was a small path carved through trodden snow leading to the supplies and he could hear fires crackling and people hurrying about on the other side of the interior wall. 

But something was wrong. Even the small, temporary camps he was used to had better guarding than this.

He had stopped Taxes right after the gate, unable to move forward. His paranoia was getting the better of him, but everything just felt so wrong that he couldn’t take one more step. 

Not that Taxes would have allowed that. She was nervous as well, sensing her rider’s worry. She stomped and snorted in place, making it known that she did not want to stay there.

Ghost dismounted; He was worried about what would happen if she was caught in the crosshairs of a surprise attack. Ghost walked slowly and quietly towards the doorway to the right, leading Taxes behind him as he itched to grab his weapon. 

Still, he carried on with only her reins in his hand.

His suspicion that the inhabitants of the fort were beyond that wall was correct. There were several campfires dotted around the middle area with soldiers huddled around them for warmth.

Most of the tents and buildings seemed to be occupied by others in need of medical care, medics and healthy, uninjured soldiers rushing in and out of tents. As he watched, the people around the campfires would tap in and out with those working, a rotation to assumedly make sure no one exhausted themselves or got too cold.

It was only then that he realized that the walls of the fort were fully hollow, presumably all the way around, as people carried supplies to yet more medics within the walls. 

It seemed that what was once a formidable military fort was now an impromptu emergency medical center. Ghost blamed Soap for the pang of sympathy that struck him and nestled into his chest.

He wondered if the general knew he was planning to attack the sick and wounded. Wondered if he would care. He thought back to the soldiers’ sleeping faces. Perhaps not. 

Ghost’s rumination was interrupted when someone finally, finally, noticed him. 

They shouted orders and very quickly there was a wall of people blocking him from continuing further, their spears drawn and hastily grabbed shields raised. He made no move to draw his weapon but did not raise his hands in surrender.

Taxes pulled against the reins once but remained calm. Ghost was sure that standing in the dark shadow of the doorway, they made for a rather intimidating sight. He was just glad they didn’t immediately attack, but it did raise concern about their proficiency as soldiers.

Not openly attacking was the correct decision in this incredibly specific scenario, but they had no reason to know that. Ghost was glad that he didn’t have another arrow in his chest, but if these were the people he needed to win the war, then things were going to be even more difficult than he thought.

A man emerged from the hollowed walls and immediately made his presence known with a shout. “What the hell is going on?”

The man didn’t need to push his way to the front of the blockade as they parted for him; Clearly he had some level of power and/or respect here. He carried himself as a man in charge, but the emblem on his tunic called him captain.

“Who are you?” the captain demanded, enough authority in his voice to be mistaken for a much higher rank. He had significantly less protection against the cold than those around him, wearing only long sleeves and an ugly hat with no coat in sight.

“Where is your commander?” Ghost asked, even though he had a feeling he already knew the answer.

“You aren’t answering my question.” He said it with enough power that it came off as a threat without any promise of violence having been muttered.

Ghost ignored him again. “Where is he?”

The captain let out a humorless laugh that made the hair on the back of Ghost’s neck stand up. “I’m afraid someone has already poached your contract. He died two weeks ago.”

“I am not a mercenary,” Ghost stated with much more conviction than he felt. The man had an aura of power that made Ghost loathe being on the receiving end of his ire.

“An assassin, then. Either way, he’s dead,” the captain paused and let the statement linger, “If you’re after the person in charge, that’d be me. But I would not suggest attempting that — I’m afraid you’re outmanned.” He said it with a huff of air, like Ghost killing him was a bad joke at best.

“I am not here to kill you,” Ghost corrected even though he knew it wouldn’t change anything.

The captain retorted quickly, “And snow is yellow.” 

(It was certainly the most creative way he’d been called a piss-poor liar.)

“I came here to offer information,” Ghost said flatly, wishing he got tips from Soap on how to be personable. 

There was a small amount of movement to his left, but he couldn’t afford to take his eyes off of the captain. One errant twitch of Ghost’s fingers and he’d be dead. He wasn’t stupid enough to think he could survive seven spears pointed right at him.

“Oh, did you now?” the captain laughed, this time something closer to real but just as alarming as before. Laughed like Ghost was a naive child with no idea about how the real world worked. It made him more unsettled than offended.

He plainly answered, “Yes.” 

There was a long pause, the silence filled by the wind wailing around the mountain, enraged at the walls of the fortress for preventing it from wreaking havoc on the people within.

A new voice cut in. “Uhm, I—”

Their voice was quiet but as soon as they spoke, both Ghost and the captain turned to see who dared to interrupt the verbal struggle between them. The person the voice belonged to shrunk back when their attention snapped to them, their sentence cutting off. They had a crutch under one arm and a person under the other, who looked nervous for them as they glanced between the two parties.

It… was the kid. Deja-vu washed over him at the way the kid cowered, flashing back to the medic on the brink of death he had found dying in the woods. 

…And clearly Ghost failed to help them. 

Their leg had been amputated. 

Above the knee amputation; An aggressive procedure that was avoided as much as possible with many complications spawning from it, not just with the immediate infection risk but the pain as well. 

Ghost… Ghost could have killed the kid in battle and he would have felt remorse, but not guilt. Yet now, he watched the kid lean on their friend for support as their wooden crutch slid against the icy stone and he felt nothing but reproach for his own cruelty.

He looked back up at the kid who somehow looked more panicked when their eyes met his, quickly turning away and staring at the ground beneath them with shifting eyes. Ghost was consumed by a level of contrition he had thought himself no longer capable of feeling.

He had killed gods-alone-know-how-many people yet it was the first time he had left someone permanently disabled— 

No.

It was the first time he had seen his own actions directly lead to someone being permanently disabled. Ghost would never know how many times this story had been repeated before with his callousness being the cause.

“I— I have something I need to s-say,” they said, stumbling over their words so much that it took a moment to understand them. Ghost wondered if his presence alone was enough to push the kid to the brink of a panic attack. 

It, for whatever reason, almost made him feel worse than causing the kid’s leg to be cut off.

The captain’s voice softened as he addressed them, “Son, now is not—”

“NO!” they shouted, shifting as they almost lost their balance, “Or, no, I’m sorry— I…”

“Breathe, son.” The captain was kind yet commanding and the kid listened.

It was obvious that he was much more used to leading on a smaller scale, a scale where he leveled with those under him, treated them as people and not soldiers. No self-respecting commanding officer would refer to an underling as ‘son.’

Either way, they followed the order, taking a shaky breath. “I… think you should listen to him.” The kid stared at the general as they said it, voice shaky but opinion firm.

It wasn’t what Ghost was expecting at all. He thought it was going to be a request to get the first hit in.

The captain sighed at the request and was about to refute it but the kid pushed on. “He… he was the one who— who carried me out of the woods. He was the one that got me to the doctor. I’d— he—”

The kid took a breath, trying to formulate a passable argument around the panic overtaking their mind. “He didn’t have to save me, but he did.”

Their mouth moved like they didn’t want to leave it there, but no noise came out. Having said their piece (or as much of it as they could get out), the kid looked between Ghost and the captain before staring holes in the ground.

The captain looked at the kid with that sympathetic look before pinning Ghost under one that was much more threatening as he considered what the kid had said. 

“Is that true?”

Based on the way he asked it, Ghost could tell that he was already coming to terms with having to give Ghost the benefit of the doubt.

“Yes,” he said, only just leaving out the ‘sir’ that wanted to follow it. Just because the man carried himself with authority didn’t mean Ghost had to treat him as an authority figure.

The captain dropped his shoulders and pinched the bridge of his nose, sighing heavily. He waved a hand at the soldiers to stand down and return to their posts. Some of them gave him questioning looks, but they all soon quickly returned to their prior routine.

The kid looked up at that, a grateful expression taking over the anxiety riddled one.

“Drop off your weapons and horse,” the captain said, pointing to a spot to his right with an empty hitching post. “Then follow me.”

Ghost gave no verbal confirmation or even a nod, just quietly followed where he had pointed and loosely tied Taxes’s reins around the post. He didn’t think they were stupid enough to try to do anything bad to his horse, but he wanted to make sure the knot was loose enough that she could pull free if they did.

He laid his smallsword and halberd against the wall and hesitated before dropping his bag as well. He busied himself with nothing in particular as he watched the kid out of the corner of his eye. The captain was having a word with them, gently advising something while the kid obviously protested whatever the advice was.

When they were done, the captain dismissed them and stood at the base of a staircase that led to a path atop the stone walls as he watched Ghost. Ghost gave Taxes an apple and made a point not to rush just because the man was waiting on him. 

When Ghost approached, the captain looked at the two arms he had deposited. They both knew that Ghost was still equipped with whatever weapons he had hidden, but the captain nodded and led him up the stairs regardless.

The top of the walls provided a path to the buildings Ghost had seen on top of the cliff at the entrance. The overview of the fort showed a grim picture, the entrance vacant and covered in snow while the other side had people constantly rushing around to prevent the sick and injured from getting worse.

Ghost was tempted to tell the captain that he needed to post guards at the entrance, but he had a feeling the man already knew that. They walked in silence, Ghost taking in the landscape with the higher viewpoint. 

He was sure that if he had a warm fire, he’d find the grand, snowy vistas charming. Instead, with the echoes of the rushed medics and freezing soldiers behind him, it looked like a siren’s song, like it was begging some poor, naive soul to fall victim to its promised eternal slumber.

The ice made the winding passage tricky; there was no footpath worn into the snow. Wherever the captain was leading him, neither he nor any of his soldiers had been in a long time. 

Part of him was curious if the captain was just taking him up there to kill him away from the prying eyes of the rest of the fort.

The walkway led to yet another, albeit shorter, staircase, this one ending on a man made landing carved into the rock. Up on the cliff, the walls weren’t able to protect them from the wind and his cloak whipped to the side; The captain remained unaffected.

Ghost didn’t know what purpose the two buildings served, only that they both looked fairly similar. He was led past the first one and glancing through the frosted windows, it was dark, but it looked like it had at one point been a storeroom that had since been emptied.

The captain stopped at the second building’s door, pulling out a key and unlocking it, though frowning when it didn’t open. He braced himself against the door, taking four attempts to shove it open. He carried on inside as if it was normal.

Ghost followed. The inside was just as dark as he expected, the only light to illuminate the dusty interior falling in through boarded and dirtied windows. The open door made the wind echo loudly inside the room, the noise seemingly magnifying as it crashed against the walls. 

The other had gone further in, lighting a lantern and doing something in the dim light. Even though he knew how likely it was for everything to have been a setup for an ambush, he closed the door, shutting out most of the noise.

He took several more attempts to close it than the captain had to open it, with Ghost fighting against the wind for the handle to latch. By the time he turned around, the captain had lit a fire in a fireplace he’d failed to notice in the darkness. 

Ghost watched as he broke an old, brittled chair into pieces and tossed them on the fire. Now with more light, he set the lantern on a table in the middle of the room. It must have been some kind of war room or headquarters that had gone abandoned for one reason or another.

The captain dusted off one of the old (but thankfully not brittle) chairs and set it at the table, gesturing for Ghost to do the same. He was not sure why he did; Any other scenario and he would have stayed standing out of spite.

Still, they sat at the meeting table directly across from one another. Ghost sat down without taking his eyes off of the captain, subconsciously checking that the book was still in his pocket.

Once settled, the man across from him appraised him before sticking out his hand. He introduced himself, “Captain John Price.”

Ghost appraised him as well. His other hand was flat on the table, not hiding any weapon just out of sight. He followed the display of trust without having to think about it, shaking hands as he reciprocated, “Ghost.”

“So I’ve heard. Why are you here?” the Captain asked, maintaining the firm tone that told Ghost that the man sitting across from him was not intimidated.

“I have information,” he repeated.

“What’s with the sudden change of heart?”

“Grew a conscience,” Ghost lied dryly. He pulled the book from his pocket, showing clearly that it wasn’t a weapon, and slid it across the table. “Page 73.”

The Captain gave him a skeptical look but followed along, making no secret of glancing back up to keep an eye on Ghost as he flipped through the book. His eyebrows raised as he assumedly reached the page.

The inner margins were full of information, writing that appeared to be nothing more than random scribbles until you looked close enough to actually read the messy scrawl. 

It was an entire war’s worth of information crammed across a handful of page’s margins; Detailed plans of attack, possible weak points, and entire dossiers on each commanding officer’s strengths and weaknesses that he’d observed over the years.

He’d be lying if he said it wasn’t cathartic to write out the general’s every failure and how to exploit them, even with the guilt hanging over him like a noose. From page 73 to 79, he doomed the man who had previously been his savior.

After skimming over everything, the Captain folded the page to mark it and closed the book. “And how do I know I can trust you?”

It was probably more rhetorical than anything; Whether he meant it or not, marking the page showed he had enough trust in Ghost’s information to want to come back to it.

“You don’t,” Ghost answered honestly, “It depends on which risk you’re more willing to take.”

On the journey, he’d had a lot of time to think and the question of trust was one he had asked himself and found he had no answer for. Anything that could be a sign of honesty was too easy to turn back around with an explanation that still left Ghost without an alibi.

(After leaving the cabin, part of him had considered turning around. Riding back to camp and removing the general’s head. Wrapping it in cloth and hanging it from his bag. Showing it off as a proof of trust. Tossing the decapitated head to the man in charge to see how he’d dispute that. 

He wasn’t as appalled at the idea as he should have been.)

“I’ve heard of you,” the Captain said after an agonizing pause, “Not good things, but I have heard of you.” 

Ghost didn’t back down from his piercing gaze even as he dreaded wherever this was going.

“I think there’s more to it,” the Captain finished. Ghost waited for more, but that was it.

The Captain was trying to say as little as possible while prompting Ghost to spill everything — A good tactic that probably would have worked on anyone other than Ghost.

Unfortunately for the Captain, he had long ago perfected the art of only answering exactly what was asked and nothing more. What felt like a lifetime ago, it had forced a quick-tempered father to word his demands very carefully and, more recently, forced an ill-mannered general to overthink every order he gave.

With no question asked, Ghost remained silent. It went on for several minutes, Ghost waiting to see how long the Captain could remain stoic before he broke and asked another question.

Six and a half minutes passed (yes he counted, what else was he supposed to do for almost seven minutes?) before the Captain sighed and rubbed his face, exhaustion now firmly on display.

Before he spoke, Ghost knew what was going to happen now. The intimidation hadn’t worked, so the Captain was going to switch to a more human approach. But with the way he held his head in his hands and, for just a moment and no longer, let his guard down, Ghost again wondered how much of it was a ploy by a cunning officer and how much was an exhausted man unable to rest.

The Captain sat up in his chair and put his elbows on the table, crossing his hands and holding them in front of his mouth in the mimicry of a prayer. He let his head rest against them a moment before seemingly finding the strength to lift his head and speak. 

“I’m going to level with you, Ghost.”

(Ghost had a small smile that was unnoticeable behind his mask at correctly pinpointing what the Captain was going to do next.)

“I’ve had about three promotions in the past five months, I’m holding onto the title of captain out of stubbornness. The sick and injured were sent here as a temporary solution to a lack of medics, but now they outweigh the healthy troops,” the Captain partially mumbled the last part as he looked out the window, like he got caught up in doing calculations on just how screwed they were.

So Ghost was right — a fortress turned into a medical center. He had a feeling that was a decision made three promotions ago and that no one in charge stayed alive long enough to do anything about it.

The Captain took a deep breath, sighed, and dropped his hands to the table. “Now you’re telling me that the enemy is planning an attack and we need to move to a less defensible place? You, the enemy, is suddenly coming to us with insider information— do you see why I’m struggling to believe you here?”

“I don’t know what you want me to tell you,” Ghost replied, still sitting back in his chair with his arms crossed. It was a bit of a risky gambit; It ran the risk of antagonizing the man further and, in turn, leading him to disregard everything Ghost had to say.

They had reached a stalemate. Trust is a two way street and both refused to move.

And so Ghost waited. He stared at the captain with a stony expression, unmoving. To an outsider, he would look intimidating, like some infallible, unaffected thing; In reality, he was trying to remember what Soap grabbed from the cabin that he could eat for dinner.

“Why are you here?” the Captain tried again. However it was a question that Ghost had already answered twice (the first time without even being prompted) and thus felt no need to repeat himself a third time.

They returned to silence. 

Ghost quietly hoped that the Captain would start interrogating him again. He was tired from the trip and the room was comfortably dark and warm with the fire; Could you blame him for starting to feel sleepy?

“And what of the god of death?”

Well, that woke him right the fuck up.

“Excuse me?” Ghost asked, hoping his odd reaction looked like that of someone who was surprised at a seemingly random question. Surely that would be more logical than whatever the truth was.

The Captain laughed like something was funny and Ghost did not like not being privy to the joke. His smile was genuine and threatening. Like he found Ghost’s ignorance amusing but felt nothing but contempt for him.

He sneered, “The army that shed so much blood, the Old Gods had to awaken to take care of the dead? Not even their favorite executioner has heard the rumors?”

Ghost remained impassive on the outside while ice ran through his veins, shocking his system and shutting off everything non-vital. He couldn’t tell if he was more alarmed that people were getting close to finding out his connection to the god or that they thought Soap was aiding the slaughter.

He would need to tread very carefully, to overthink every word and every way it could be interpreted. But he was not sure of how to go about the following conversation in a way that would save himself and Soap from any potential fallout.

“No,” Ghost corrected sharply.

“Pardon?” the Captain asked, angered surprise pouring from his tone.

“Soap has not sided with any faction,” he answered, throwing self preservation out the window. He was angry at even the implication that Soap and the general could possibly be working together. 

Why he felt the need to protect Soap’s reputation over his own safety, he did not know. It seemed he didn’t know much these days, but he knew that the idea of the god repeating the cycle that happened previously had his bones twitching.

In fact, he was so caught up in his own righteous anger and need to protect someone who did not need protecting that he didn’t catch his slip up until the other leaned back like he was taking in a sudden rush of information.

Soap.

His name had been forgotten for an age. No one should know it, least of all know it well enough to drop it casually in conversation.

Fuck, that was stupid. 

Yes, Soap had chastised for him for calling himself stupid, but holy fuck, that was stupid.

“Yet he sent you,” the Captain asked, confirming his fuck up and putting the last nail in his coffin with such force that the wood cracked.

Ghost had nothing to say that could save him, so he said nothing. He kept up the stoic stare while on the inside his lungs staged a revolt. The fewer damning things he said, the better.

“If we acted on this,” the Captain asked, gesturing to the book without taking his eyes off Ghost, “Would we have the god of death on our side?”

“No,” he answered, immediately throwing his previous solution to say nothing away. Ghost jabbed, “If you want a god on your side, start praying to the god of war.”

The Captain stared back at him. This was still an interrogation. Ghost could not afford to get angry; He answers only what is asked and nothing more. His previous response should have ended at no.

“Yet he sent you,” the Captain repeated.

Don’t answer. Don't answer. Do not answer. DO NOT ANSWER, YOU FUCKING MORON.

“If they win,” Ghost answered, “They kill the soldiers, starve the civilians, and continue their reign of terror. If you win, the war ends.”

The Captain muttered, “If life grows, so does death.”

He hummed, contemplating the slew of information that had been dumped onto him. Ghost contemplated what he would offer to Soap as an apology for how badly he’d fucked up.

Was the rumor of Soap’s return just an astronomically lucky guess out of the rumor mill? Or did someone, somewhere have some facts to back it up?

Sure, he told the kid Soap’s name, but he would be surprised if they remembered anything about that day beyond that he got hurt and Ghost took them to a medic. And even if they did, he doubted anyone would believe the delirious ramblings of a kid who just had their fucking leg amputated.

Ghost was likely the only one that could recognize the god on sight, and even then Soap looking like, well, Soap was a recent development. So how the fuck did the leader of the opposing army know that Soap had awoken?

The Captain’s voice snapped him from his contemplation.

“What do you know about strategy, son?” the Captain asked.

“Not much,” Ghost answered truthfully.

“That’s more than none,” the Captain said as he stood, “Which is good enough for me.” 

He walked to the door and barely turned the handle, letting the wind blast it open. “Get comfy, we’re gonna be here a while.”

…

Several hours later, Ghost really fucking wished he’d lied and said he didn’t even know what the word strategy meant.

Apparently, whatever strategist they’d had died a while ago (which Ghost would never say aloud, but it explained a lot about the trajectory of their more recent battles.) The Captain instead brought in a few various lower ranked soldiers he seemed to trust.

And they trusted him in turn. As inexperienced as he may be with leading an entire army, he at the very least had the trust of each and every member of his troops. When they entered the reinvigorated war room and saw Ghost, the enemy they had just been pointing spears at, they hesitated but sat at the table with him when they saw their Captain do the same.

It became a battle plan by committee, everyone pitching in their expertise to patch where there was once a gap in knowledge; Occasionally, someone would be sent down to fetch yet another person who could lend a different viewpoint.

It was annoying to be a part of as a man who hated working in teams, but he still couldn’t help but admire their tenacity. It was a bad place to be in, the general more or less planning to attack a hospital, but they refused to accept it as an impossible situation. 

Admirable, but fucking hell, he was exhausted. 

He and the Captain were the two most experienced there (which was sad, to be quite honest) and had to act as the common sense filter for about eight starry-eyed rookies who refused to accept loss, both of the battle and human life, as a possibility. 

By the time everything was finalized, it was so dark that they had to leave the upper section of the fort in pairs, sticking close with a torch to light the way. There was no room for pride when he and the Captain descended the icy stone, arm in arm so as not to fall off either side of the wall.

They provided him with lodging with the agreement that he would leave in the morning and return to the camp as if nothing had changed at all. It was harder to hold onto his guilt over leading soldiers he’d known for years into an ambush when he saw the way joy had slowly spread through the fort.

Word had gotten out that there was a plan in motion, a hope for winning. The fortress was pitch black with snow steadily falling, yet they quietly cheered at the notion that they had a chance. 

The tent he’d been given was smaller than the one he had at camp with only a few blankets stacked on the ground as opposed to a cot, but even before spending a night there, he knew he preferred it to his own. 

It was tucked close to the others, a small way to conserve warmth, and if he strained his ears, he could hear excited whispers from his neighbors. The words were lost to the wind but the happiness lingered, quiet laughter ringing in the desolate night.

It was stupid and it was sappy but Ghost finally felt at least a little close to being at peace with his betrayal, knowing that this was what he was saving in return. 

The dinner he’d been fantasizing about for hours was provided as well. Sitting in his tent, he had resolved to eat some crackers if he felt up for it and go to sleep hungry if not, but one of the rookies he’d been strategizing with apparently noticed that he hadn’t eaten. 

They had approached his tent and actually said “Knock, knock” out loud and waited for his permission to open the flaps of the tent. They handed over a bowl of some kind of stew quickly and quietly apologized both for bothering him and the small meal and wished him a good night before he could even fully process what they had knocked about. 

He was still staring into his rapidly cooling dinner when Soap appeared.

The god didn’t say anything, just draped himself over Ghost’s back like a blanket, like it was second nature to make sure he was warm and comfy, and mumbled something about his food freezing solid before he could eat it.

Ghost smirked, pushing back against Soap teasingly before sitting up, still partially leaning against him. He pulled down his mask and ate in silence, Soap tapping a rhythm against his side as he did. The rookie had apologized for it not being much, but it was one of the better meals he’d had in a while.  

He chewed slowly and dragged out the last few bites even though it had chilled past the point of being palatable, worried that when he was done, Soap would pull away.

Is he still worried about falling, jackass?

Ghost smiled. He hadn’t heard from him since that morning. It felt like two months had passed since then, since the cabin. Even after reflecting on how much he had done in one day and feeling the exhaustion creeping towards his spine, he still wasn’t ready to fall asleep and end the day yet.

It was a novel feeling for him, to want to make the day last longer as opposed to cutting it short, and though he knew he would be even more exhausted in the morning, he wasn’t ready to toss away this rare happiness for a few more minutes of sleep.

It did not take long for Soap to break the silence with a quiet mutter, “I won’t be able to stay like I did last night.”

“I wasn’t expecting you to,” Ghost reassured quietly. He would miss forcing the god of death to be his pillow, but he supposed he could make do.

“What?” Soap poked back as he leaned forward, forcing Ghost to do the same, “Already wanting me to leave?”

Ghost scoffed and rolled his eyes. He took a breath to speak but cut himself off; He almost responded with a firm denial before his brain caught up and stopped that before he could embarrass himself.

The instinctive honesty from his own subconscious surprised him. Such a simple thing, but the realization that he was genuinely upset at the idea that Soap could have felt rejected by words that were meant to reassure left him unsettled.

Thankfully, his scoff and obvious dismissal of Soap’s teasing was enough of an answer even without a verbal response and the god chuckled silently. He remembered his prior wish that Soap had coached him on how to be personable; It was back tenfold as silence found its way back into the tent. 

Ghost couldn’t tell if it was an actual awkward silence or just his social ineptitude back in full force. 

It was easier when it was just the Captain interrogating him, but now he had to keep a not just civil, but friendly conversation up without being too clumsy. 

A truly impossible task. At least the Captain had—

Had known that Soap was active but was mistaken on why. Who believed the rumors that were swirling of a greedy, malevolent god’s return. Who had his fears fed into by Ghost saying Soap’s name.

Ghost knew he was forgetting something.  

“Ghost,” Soap said in a warning tone, “Yer thinking too loud again.” He added with a small laugh, “Or, sorry — Sulking, brooding, whatever word it is you want to use.”

Ghost took in a deep breath and before he could think better of it, said, “Rumors are circulating that you reawoke to aid the general.”

The god tensed but said nothing. 

This was the one thing Soap had wanted to avoid. Despite how much his mind revolted at the words, Ghost hastily apologized, hating the uncertainty of not knowing what Soap was thinking. “I’m sorry, I—”

“I know,” Soap said in a soft voice. 

Ghost had a feeling he wasn't talking about his feelings of regret. 

The simple and quiet admission almost hurt more than if the god had gotten angry and cursed him. He didn’t deserve the god’s patience; Soap had already given him so much, but how much of it was given knowing that Ghost was restarting the cycle?

“How?” he asked.

Perhaps Soap could read minds as he answered, “It’s not your fault, it was bound to happen eventually.” He had the tone of someone telling a pretty little lie meant solely to appease the other.

Realizing that he might have misrepresented the situation, Ghost minutely shook his head and reworded his admission. “I… may have confirmed the rumors.”

Soap pulled away and looked at him with betrayed disbelief. “What?”

Confirmed the rumors that he had reawoken, not that Soap was siding with the general.

Ghost shook his head, “I meant—”

Soap interrupted, “What did you say?” The words were not angry (yet), but the surprise that Ghost may have betrayed him was still there.

Ghost relayed the conversation he’d had with the Captain almost verbatim, focusing on the memory as opposed to Soap’s reactions to his words, if the god had any reaction at all.

It was easier with Soap still sitting behind him. Confessing his fuck up to the canvas tent in front of him was easier than looking a god in the eyes and confirming his fears.

Once he was done recounting the “interrogation,” (Was Ghost allowed to poke fun at the Captain’s interrogation skills if he got Ghost to crack, even if accidentally?) they fell into a nerve-wracking silence.

The howling wind outside only called attention to the quiet within the tent. 

After some amount of time, Soap returned to how he was before Ghost had started talking — draped across Ghost’s back, this time his chin hooking over his shoulder.

It was a mirror of a position they had found themselves in multiple times before when on Taxes, but this time it felt different. A couple of weeks ago, or even a few days ago, he would have tried to tell himself that it was some convoluted manipulation tactic. 

Right there in that tent, he wasn’t even sure he could convince himself that it wasn’t Soap trying desperately not to fall apart.

Soap pressed his mouth into his shoulder. Ghost could not tell what caused the reaction until he realized the god was trying to contain a noise — whether it was cries or laughter, he did not know.

The longer it went on, the more apparent it became that he was chuckling, finding some part of the account funny. Ghost could feel the god’s small smile growing as Soap tried to dampen the reaction.

Soap mumbled between chuckles, “If you want a god on your side, start praying to the god of war.”

Ghost’s brow furrowed, the parroting of his own words not clearing up any of his confusion. The angle was awkward, but turning to his right, he could just about see Soap and the tear tracks that were running down his face.

Ghost panickedly asked aloud, “Are you crying or laughing?”

“Yes,” Soap answered with a huff of laughter that ended on a sad sniffle. 

That wasn’t a yes or no question!

He felt like a rookie on the battlefield for the first time, terrified of doing the wrong thing. Except he wasn’t fighting for his life — he could do that just fine. No, instead he was just trying to fucking comfort someone. 

He would rather be on the battlefield. Getting stabbed wasn’t as stressful as this shit.

Soap’s hands had ventured back to holding him at some point in the midst of it all. Not knowing what else to do, Ghost patted Soap’s hand in a shitty imitation of the comfort the god had provided him the night prior. Pulling the touch away afterwards felt like it would be the wrong move, so he awkwardly laid his hand on top of the Soap’s.

Now, of all times, would be a fantastic time for a pushy dead man to chime in with some post-mortem knowledge.

I don’t know? Just do whatever feels natural?

Well. Fuck. So they’re both lost then. Ghost had to think about it for a moment before rubbing Soap’s hand with his thumb. Soap had done something similar for him, right? 

Right?

Probably? I’m fucking dead, not omniscent.

Gods, what the hell is the point of being haunted if the haunter can’t help you with simple tasks like social interaction?

Fuck you man, it’s not my fault you need a miracle—

“Thank you,” Soap muttered.

FOR WHAT?

Ghost and his haunter’s thoughts matched, for once; Both were at a loss for what Soap was thinking about and referencing with his gratitude.

“You’re welcome?” Ghost more asked than said with the hope that Soap would offer some clarity.

A hope that was dashed when Soap just snickered at his confusion.

Better than him crying, at least?

Soap, with a smile that seemed out of place for how much stress he had just caused Ghost, said in a wispy voice, “Lie down, you’re gonna have a long day tomorrow.”

It was obvious that Soap didn’t want to discuss whatever the hell just happened even though Ghost was still unsure if Soap was pissed at him or not. Making someone cry does not feel good. 

He wanted to ask what Soap wanted him to do to make up for his blunder, to ask Soap if there was anything he could do. Ghost did neither. He instead stretched, the motion a little awkward with Soap still clinging to his back. If Soap wanted to act like nothing had happened, then that’s what Ghost can do.

Just ignore the past however-many minutes and go to sleep.

Unfortunately for him, it was as if Soap’s words had activated a part of Ghost’s mind, his exhaustion suddenly hitting him even though he had been fine barely a moment prior. 

He stumbled through the steps he needed to take before laying down; Boots were removed with fumbling fingers, blankets hoarded by cold hands, and weapons laid out with sore muscles.

Soap tried and failed to hide his amusement at his lack of coordination, asking something about whether or not Ghost had snuck out to a tavern when Soap wasn’t looking.

Ghost aired his grievances, complaining about Soap with incomprehensible rambles. The nonsensical words kept him awake enough to carry through his routine but if you asked him the next day what the fuck he was talking about, he would have had no answer.

When he finally laid down, the weight of the day fell onto his chest, forcing him to lie still and breathe before he was able to untense and pull his blankets closer as he rolled to his side.

Ghost only remembered that Soap was still there when the god spent some time pulling his covers straight and making sure he was evenly protected from the evil cold. Again, he felt shame for how incapable it made him seem but he forced himself not to dwell on it.

Beyond the shame, there was something else there. Disappointment, mayhaps. But why he felt it, he did not know. At least, not until it was quelled by Soap lying next to him.

He internally scoffed at himself for being so childish but still did not rebuke the offered touch. It was muted through the several layers of fabric, something he was grateful for.

Ghost’s eyes drifted closed without his permission. Opening them, he found that Soap was watching him.

When he had first started looking into tales of the first incarnation of Death, he found it funny just how varied accounts of the god’s eyes were. It was such an odd thing to take note of, but it stuck out to him. 

While most everyone agreed that the god’s preferred form had blue eyes, the exact tone was an unexpectedly hot topic for debate.

Some said they were dark like a stormy sea, some said they were light and freeing like an open blue sky, and some even claimed they were icy like a pond that had just frozen over.

Back then, he had thought it stupid, assuming people were either exaggerating or, what he thought was most likely, that the god changed the tone on a whim. But staring into Soap’s eyes directly, he finally understood.

They were monochromatic prisms, only reflecting one color but showcasing every shade that could be considered blue. 

Or maybe it was past his bedtime. That was probably it.

When he pulled out of his stupid, blue-tinged thoughts, Soap was still staring at him but with an expression that Ghost wasn’t awake enough to understand. He hoped his own creepy staring would be cast aside as a direct result of his exhaustion.

He fought to stay awake a little longer, something in him wanting to avoid falling into sleep.

And it was as he was losing that fight that he felt something against his forehead for just a moment before it was gone. In his sleepy state, he couldn’t quite figure out what it was, brushing it aside as perhaps a stubborn strand of hair or bunched up fabric.

In a level of clarity you can only get when just about to fall asleep, when your logic and reasoning has already shut down and left you only with observable fact, he realized that Soap, the god of death, just kissed him on the forehead. 

It felt nice, he thought.

Anything that came after was lost as he finally fell to the whims of his exhausted mind. While the idea of sleeping peacefully felt laughable for years, he had now fallen asleep two nights in a row without feeling like the world was going to crush him once he reopened his eyes.

The peace was shattered by a loud noise outside, something deafening in the dead of night that echoed through the walls of the fort. 

He sat up quickly, his heart pounding as he prepared for an attack. He stilled as his chest heaved, forcing his mind to wake up and listen for more of an indication of what was happening outside the tent.

There were several quiet footsteps shuffling around, and it wasn’t until he processed that there was light, daylight edging past the flaps of the tent that he realized there was no nighttime kerfuffle.

It was morning. 

Soap was gone, likely (hopefully) having left hours ago. While he wanted to fall backwards and go back to sleep, the sound had sent too much energy through him to allow him even a few more minutes of rest.

Ghost only got up to start the day after quite a while of cursing the gods (all except for one) and reluctantly peeled away each blanket one by one. With his shield gone, he got ready quickly, donning his outerwear before the icy air had the chance to freeze him solid.

He repacked his bag and rubbed his eyes, demanding himself to wake up fully before leaving the tent. He was barely awake when he pushed past the flaps of his tent, but it was as close as he was going to get.

When he stood fully, he saw that the rest of the fort was in a similar state of tiredness. He had a feeling that not even the Captain was awake enough to kick his men into shape as they shambled around and prepared breakfast.

As much as he wanted to throw himself onto a fire to get as warm as he physically could, he instead found the stable that Taxes had been moved to and prepared to set out. He needed to leave five minutes ago if he wanted to get to camp before nightfall.

Ghost was surprised to see that his horse had been well cared for, someone clearly having taken the time to win her trust to brush and feed her. He smiled as he pet her mane, happy to see his fears of her being mistreated were unfounded.

He remembered once upon a time ago, he had denied Taxes being his horse but by now she might as well have been. There certainly wasn’t any other horse he would want to take with him to fuck up a long planned war.

“Ghost, I—”

The voice from behind him was an unwelcome intrusion on his time spent spoiling Taxes. He turned to face it stonily, his anger plain in what was visible of his face. 

It was the kid. His expression softened without him being fully aware of it.

“Gods,” the kid flinched at the anger that was momentarily directed towards them, mumbling under their breath in a way that Ghost clearly wasn’t meant to overhear, “Fucking creepy bastard.”

They rolled their shoulders and carried on. “I wanted to thank you.”

For the second time in less than twelve hours, someone was thanking him and he had no idea what for.

They waited, clearly expecting him to say something, and looked only slightly thrown off by the silence. Back in the woods, they had been full of determination and brashness, ready to gut Ghost if given the chance. Here, the determination stayed, but now with much more nerves.

When it was clear that Ghost wasn’t going to say anything, they swallowed anxiously and stumbled over their words as they added, “I… I would have died if not for you. Back there. In the woods. I—”

“Do not tell me that you owe me your life,” Ghost interrupted sternly. He walked to the other side of Taxes; He knew the conversation was not done, but he did not have the time to stand there doing nothing. He glanced up at them, waiting for their rebuttal.

The kid was surprised by the sudden broken silence and shook their head, “Well, yeah, of course not.”

Ghost heaved an internal sigh of relief as he prepared Taxes’s bridle.

The kid continued, “Not anymore. I turned in the favor by stopping you from getting skewered yesterday.”

Ghost heaved an external sigh. “You do not owe me for causing your leg to be amputated.” He wasn’t used to speaking so openly but he needed the kid to understand his point for reasons he himself couldn’t voice.

“What? No. What?” the kid looked bewildered, adding on, “My leg was already fucked when you found me. If you hadn’t gotten me out of the woods— What?” Their own bafflement cut them off and they paused, trying to figure out where the point of confusion lied. “Was I supposed to crawl for miles with one leg? Just worm my way through the dirt ‘til I found a town?”

Ghost stared at them as he realized that he was the one being irrational. The kid was objectively correct, and yet he still felt guilty. Why was he being irrational?

When Ghost again said nothing, they added, “I thought I was going to starve in those woods. And I would have if not for you. I mean, ‘if it’s life or limb,’ and all that, right?”

He stared at them. They stared back, but with a shifting gaze, too impatient. Snow had accumulated in their hair, standing out against the black strands. They never stood still, their fingers tapping where they held their crutch and their foot shuffling as they tried to keep their balance.

They reminded him of his nephew.

The revelation hit him like a kick in the chest. 

He looked in the kid’s eyes and saw a nephew he only got to meet a handful of times. A nephew he had gotten killed years ago, along with the rest of his family.

Logically, it made no sense. They did not look alike and even in behavior there were only so many similarities between someone old enough to be a medic in an army and a child forever stuck at six years old.

It made no sense, and yet he looked at the pain the kid had gone through and could only think of how much pain he had caused his nephew.

Ghost was being irrational and he didn’t like it. He was not supposed to be irrational— he was not allowed to be and with the life he led he could not afford to be.

“Uh, yeah, anyways,” the kid nodded, not knowing how to respond to Ghost’s unwavering stare. “Just uh, wanted to say thanks.” They turned, leaving slowly as their crutches struggled for traction on the icy stone.

“Kid,” he called out, refusing to let his irrational emotions control him. His chest still hurt.

“Badger,” they corrected as they turned awkwardly, standing as they waited to see what it was Ghost wanted. With such a shitty nickname, you would think they would be happy with being called anything else.

Ghost nodded his head in a “Come here” gesture, grabbing his bag. They approached Taxes cautiously, hesitantly reaching out a hand to pet her. To Ghost’s surprise, the mare allowed the touch, her skin jumping as they made contact but not moving away.

(Or maybe it wasn’t that surprising. Maybe this was just how she was when she wasn’t surrounded by the rowdy soldiers she normally had to keep company.)

Once they had her permission to pet her, the kid moved both of their crutches to one hand and rested their arm against her back for support. She was tall enough that the angle was a little off, but they seemed happy being able to pet her.

Looking away (and not thinking about how much his nephew had loved horses), he rooted through his bag, pulling out something that he never should have held onto and passed it over.

“Is this… my knife?” they asked.

Ghost grunted an affirmation, brushing Taxes and failing to not focus on the way their face lit up as they looked between him and the knife.

“Thank you! I thought I left it in the woods, I thought it was gone!”

Nope, Ghost just forgot to leave it with the medics when he dropped them off. 

He grunted again, not wanting to admit that it was his own oversight that led to them thinking they lost something that seemed important to them.

The kid repeated, “Thank you, I wish I had something to give—”

“You do not owe me anything,” Ghost interrupted, staring them down.

“Right,” they added awkwardly, unsure of what to do with the firm command. When Ghost had to brush around their arm, they sheathed the knife and held out their hand for the brush.

He considered them for a moment but hesitantly passed it over. Unsurprisingly, they just brushed her other side. They had to lean awkwardly on their crutches to do so, but again just seemed happy to brush her.

(His nephew had ran up to him, excited. They met so few times the little tyke was still anxious around him but seeing the horse he’d been given for his visit home made him forget his fears.

The kid had gasped in amazed wonder, letting Ghost pick him up so he could pet the horse’s mane. 

His brother smiled, happy to see them bonding, even if it was only for a few hours before Ghost had to return to his cell. These moments were treasured, for all of them. 

They were bittersweet, he was only allowed home before a major fight. The one kindness from the arena, a last chance to say goodbye, one last shared dinner should the worst come to pass.

His nephew wasn’t old enough for any of that, however, and just seemed happy to pet his uncle’s temporary steed. He glanced between Ghost and the horse with a look of pure adoration—)

When they were done, they held onto the brush a moment, considering, before passing it back and asking, “The person that was with you, my memories are all fucked, but uh, gods this is gonna sound insane, was that the god of death? Like… the old one?”

Ghost did not reach for the brush nor answer. He did not think they remembered that.

They sighed, relieved. “Okay, yeah, I knew it was just my mind fucking with me. I just, I— I know it’s insane, but—”

He grabbed the brush and interrupted calmly, “No, you were right. That was Soap, the god of death.” Ghost turned to put the brush away and hide his smile at the kid’s sputters. At least he knew now that it wasn’t the kid that blabbed about Soap’s return.

The kid stammered, “What the fuck—? Actually, no, sorry, I have to go… uh… fucking… water the grass.” They turned and headed back to where they must have come from, shaking their head. 

Ghost could hear them grumbling about ancient deities appearing out of nowhere just to be an inconvenience. Ghost could most certainly sympathize.

He finished preparing for the trip and mounted up. As he approached the gate, he made eye contact with the Captain. The Captain nodded at him and Ghost returned the gesture with a hole opening in his chest. 

As he left the fort, riding out into the snow, he was struck by the realization that he felt… lighter. He should have felt worse, now irrevocably dooming his cohort, but instead he—

He stopped in the middle of the road.

Ghost… free wasn’t the right word, it couldn’t be, but after the battle, he’d be gone. He would have to. To leave, to find somewhere, anywhere else. He would never see the general again after leading his men into the trap.

Within three weeks, he could go wherever he wanted. The general wouldn’t have control over him, nor the owner of the arena. He pushed Taxes into a walk.

Why did the prospect of freedom fill him with dread?