#i keep getting in my head about this fic

[partystoragechest]

A story of romance, drama, and politics which neither Trevelyan nor Cullen wish to be in.

Canon divergent fic in which Josephine solves the matter of post-Wicked Hearts attention by inviting four noblewomen to compete for Cullen's affections. In this chapter, Trevelyan tries to find Dagna's delivery.

(Masterpost. Beginning. Previous entry. Next entry. Words: 3,457. Rating: all audiences, except for a swear.)

Chapter 12: Unloading Baggage

Trevelyan cascaded through the bowels of Skyhold, sent with special purpose by Dagna. There was a delivery arriving this afternoon, and by the Ancestors, her order had better be there!

Trevelyan had optimistically come this way because she thought—incorrectly—that it might be quicker. Absolutely not. Beneath the main hall, Skyhold wound itself in circles, a grand labyrinth of servants’ quarters, kitchens, larders, and washrooms.

A kind laundress pointed her out of one such room, along a better-suited corridor. It was down this route that Trevelyan finally found her way into the particular kitchen that she had been promised had an external door.

She had hoped to confirm this with the staff working there—but when she wandered into the room, it was remarkably empty. All except for one elven woman, hunched over two jars.

“Excuse me,” Trevelyan said, pointing to the door across the room, “is that the way out?”

The woman looked up. She had funnily-chopped blond hair, incorrectly-laced clothes that did not look like a worker’s wear, and a grin that could only be described as wicked.

Her eyes flicked to the door, then back. “Yeah?”

“Thank you, I will—”

Maintaining eye contact, the woman picked up one of the jars—labelled ‘salt’—and poured its entire contents into the other—labelled ‘sugar’. Trevelyan blinked, mouth hanging open.

“Um…”

“You didn’t see nothing, yeah?” the woman said, a mischeivous glint in her eye.

Trevelyan smiled. “I have no idea what you’re referring to.”

With a cackle, the woman slipped into the shadows. It was this that made Trevelyan realise she’d seen her before—up on the mezzanine, during the gala. She was suddenly very glad she hadn’t eaten anything that night.

Regardless, she had her answer for the door. Trevelyan pushed it open, to the welcome sight of gleaming sunlight, shining down on Skyhold’s courtyard.

Specifically, the stable area, which the kitchen connected to via a small flight of stairs. Trevelyan hesitated to journey down them; their height gave a good vantage of the storeroom entrance below—and the caravan of carts encircling it.

The quietness of the kitchens was at once explained. It seemed that all hands were on deck, scurrying to and fro like industrious insects, helping to unload barrels and crates and sacks. Skyhold had many mouths to feed, and large stores to fill. Finding a small shipment for the Arcanist in the midst of this commotion was no easy task.

But Trevelyan endeavoured to find it anyway. She squeezed her way through the crowd, to arrive at the foot of one of the carts.

A human man stood atop it, well-built, no doubt from many years at this craft—for he slung boxes and barrels into waiting hands like it were an art form.

“Serah!” Trevelyan called, to catch his occupied attention. “Do you know if any of these are for the Arcanist, Dagna?”

The man slid a crate toward a servant with pinpoint accuracy, and puffed out air. “Sorry, miss, not seen that name”—he passed off another box—“and you’re not likely to find it here. Better off asking your quartermaster once all this is unloaded.”

“I suspected as much. Thank you, regardless!”

Trevelyan retreated as he prepared another sack, yet noted when she did that no one came to claim it. Though as many of Skyhold’s staff as could be spared were aiding the delivery, there were about a dozen carts, all piled high. Only so much was possible.

“Would you like me to take that?” she asked.

The man shrugged. “You’re not busy?”

“Finding that shipment, yes—and it seems the quickest way to do so is by helping things along!”

The man chuckled, and hefted the sack towards her. “Can always use more willing hands! How much you carry?”

Very little, since leaving the Circle. Trevelyan certainly hoped her old strength would still remain, but acknowledged privately that she might need a little… assistance.

A week ago she’d never have dared to cast anything in such a public setting, but her work with the Arcanist had somewhat relaxed her attitude. And so she snuck a hand behind her back, and traced a rune against her spine. The energy of the Fade found her little opening, and trickled on through.

The old strength returned, and more. Trevelyan clapped her hands around the sack, and with ease, lifted it onto her shoulders.

“Take it to the storerooms,” the man instructed her, “should be someone down there to say where to drop it.”

Simple enough task. The confluence of other servants would guide her where she needed to go. Weaving betwixt them, Trevelyan exchanged a smile with every passing face. Maker, it felt good to shed the tedium of idle nobility!

Except one of those faces, she recognised. Trevelyan dropped her sack, and turned.

“Lady Samient?” she sputtered. “What are you doing here? Aren’t you supposed to be meeting the Commander?”

Lady Samient smiled. “We just parted. I saw you from afar. Lady Trevelyan, what are you doing here?”

“Oh!” Trevelyan patted her hands against her smock, to wipe off the dust. “Well, there’s a shipment I’m hoping to locate, but it doesn’t get found until the entire delivery is stored and catalogued, it seems. So, I thought I might help.”

She tried to sound as nonchalant as possible. Like it was actually common for noblewomen to randomly muck in.

But Lady Samient appeared unfazed: “Do you need help?”

She couldn’t seriously be offering..?

“No, no, it’s quite all right,” Trevelyan tried to say—but Samient was already loosening her cuffs, and rolling up her sleeves. “You needn’t trouble yourself.”

“No trouble,” said Samient, untying a leather strap from her wrist, to pull her hair into some kind of rudimentary ponytail—though cleverly without unveiling her ears. She positioned herself by the sack. “Lift on trois.”

Shaking off her bewilderment, Trevelyan accepted that she was not to win this argument, and thus, on three, did lift.

Truly, she could have carried it alone, but she did not wish to reject Lady Samient’s offer—especially as the Lady turned out to be quite the capable worker. The descent into the stores was made with ease, despite how narrow and dimly-lit the steps were. Endless, too—they journeyed far further down than Trevelyan had even for the Undercroft. How deep into its mountain plateau did Skyhold burrow?

Eventually, they reached the bottom. No sunlight here—it was a large, torch-lit hall, of which Trevelyan could barely see the other side—if not due to the distance, then due to the amount of containers already consuming the place. Skyhold was stocked floor-to-ceiling. Even the stores at the Circle hadn’t been this well-equipped.

Following directions given by waiting pantlers, they found where they were to deposit their load. Job done, they braved the lengthy climb.

“Did you do this sort of thing, at the Circle?” Samient asked, to pass the time. “You said you worked in their storerooms.”

“Not this, per se,” Trevelyan admitted. “Well, sometimes I moved things—but I was more involved with taking stock and keeping ledgers.”

“Like the quartermaster.”

“Like the quartermaster’s assistant.”

Samient chuckled. “You seem to do a trade in being an assistant.”

Trevelyan smiled. “Stick to what you know.”

Emerging onto the surface, she found herself particularly empathetic towards the reluctance of dwarves in Orzammar—what ought to be gentle sunlight burned into her retinas, glaring and harsh. Blinking it back, she turned to Lady Samient:

“Thank you for your help. I won’t intrude upon your time any further,” she said, despite Samient being the one to have offered it in the first place.

Lady Samient glanced at the carts, still plenty full. “I am not so pathetic that one measly sack would put me at rest,” she replied. “Come, allons-y.”

In a feat of industriousness that put Trevelyan to shame, Samient strode up to a cart, and awaited her next assignment. Trevelyan hurried after her.

She could not help but wonder (for the Baroness had put her in mind) what could be the reason for Lady Samient’s willingness toward such manual labour. Her sheer comfort with such a menial task, and the lack of concern over how it might reflect upon her social image, was all terribly curious.

They were the sort of traits that, perhaps—were the rumours true—might belong to a woman born of a servant; who did not have that haughtiness of high breeding that saw them think themselves better than lifting a barrel. Perhaps that was why, instead of the title that ought to be her birthright—Duchess—she went by the lesser Lady.

But Trevelyan hardly cared from who or what or where Lady Samient originated. Because, regardless of the cause, Trevelyan quite liked this side of her.

“Ey up, you’ve got a recruit!” the deliveryman called, upon their arrival. “Maker’s breath, you ought to be here every week, if you can multiply like that. Here.” He rolled a barrel towards them, and stopped it with his foot. “This do ya?”

“Thank you,” said Samient. She directed Trevelyan to, “take that end.”

Un, deux, trois—up. With scarce strain or struggle, they hauled the barrel to the stores. And the next, and the next. Indeed, they proved quite the formidable pair—a modicum of practice under their metaphorical belts meant that each subsequent task was completed faster than the last.

They were able, even, to loosen their focus, and communicate not about what steps to take or when to drop, but of people and scandal and gossip:

“Is he a mage as well?” Lady Samient asked, upon hearing of Trevelyan’s acquaintance with Dorian.

“Yes, he is,” she confirmed.

Samient hummed. “And where have I heard the name Pavus before?”

“Noble house in Tevinter,” Trevelyan said, “part of the magisterium.”

Samient’s eyebrows flicked upward. “Well, if you’re not quite interested in the Commander, you could do far worse than that.”

“Oh, no,” Trevelyan laughed, “I’m certain he’d be quite flattered, but I’m afraid he doesn’t like women.”

“Oh. How rude!”

“No, no—I mean, he likes men.”

“Oh.” Samient rolled her eyes at herself. “Of course. I see how that would be something of an obstacle.”

Trevelyan quite agreed. “Yes—call me an optimist, but I would prefer my future husband to actually want to marry me.”

Lady Samient did not, as Trevelyan had expected (and hoped), titter at this comment. Instead, her vision trailed across the courtyard, to somewhere behind Trevelyan.

Following it, the curious Trevelyan found a rather disappointing sight. No wonder Samient’s face had soured—there was a group of soldiers loitering near the carts, whispering and laughing about something they apparently found uproariously funny.

That would be innocent enough, if not for the fact their eyes kept flicking in the Ladies’ direction, accompanied by what Trevelyan could only assume were supposed to be subtle points.

“How childish,” Lady Samient scoffed.

Trevelyan rolled her eyes. “Pay them no mind—it must be a good sign! Thedas must be saved, if they have the time to be doing this.”

The remark put a smirk back on Samient’s face, and they returned to their cart—which, thanks to their labour and others’, was nearly bare.

“Are those louts even helping?” Lady Samient asked the deliverer, as he skittered a small crate towards her.

He glanced at the soldiers, and clicked his tongue. “No. Here for the show, I s’pose. Heard ‘em laughing about some ‘noble skirts’ playing pretend at being working folk.”

Lack of creativity aside, it struck Trevelyan that only she was in a skirt, and that it was a plain smock—so the insult did not quite apply.

“Don’t see any nobles ‘round here, though,” continued the deliveryman, quite obliviously, “but let ‘em play, if they are. So long as they’re doing the work, who gives a toss?”

The Ladies chuckled, exchanging a look, as the deliverer went in search of something for Trevelyan to carry.

“Go,” she told Samient, “do not be idle on my account.”

“You’re certain?”

“Of course—we do not wish to be accused of playing pretend, after all.”

Lady Samient laughed, with devious and wicked joy that Trevelyan quite shared. She dutifully parted, off to the stores once more. Trevelyan turned, to collect the sack the man had dropped for her.

A hand fell upon it. Gloved in black, and sudden enough to startle her. She looked to the arm to which it belonged—and then to the man whom that arm belonged to.

The Commander stared back at her.

(And beside him, a small platoon of sheepish-looking soldiers).

“Forgive me,” he said, releasing his grasp. “I hadn’t realised. Take it.”

There was a growling sort of undercurrent in his speech; a shortness, far more pronounced than even when he had scolded Lady Montilyet. Someone, it seemed, was in trouble.

Trevelyan smiled. “No, no,” she told him, “it’s yours.”

With a nod—again, more curt than usual—the Commander hauled up the sack, and slung it into the waiting arms of a soldier.

“We are all the Inquisition,” he lectured, “and instead of aiding our cause, you mock those who do. Save those barbs for the enemy. We work as one.”

To Trevelyan’s great satisfaction, each soldier was saddled with cargo and sent marching to the stores, with the Commander’s disapproving stare burning into their backs. She could not help but smile.

“I apologise for their conduct,” said the Commander.

Or lack thereof. Trevelyan shook her head. “Quite all right. I do not care for the opinions of those who do not know me.” Like his, for example.

“Very well.” He hesitated, as if mulling over his words. “May I ask, are you… well?”

That imperious air sloughed from him once more, and left only the tenderness of their previous meeting. In that moment, Trevelyan recalled the magic she had cast upon herself, and felt it still, quietly coursing below the surface. Yet, nothing on the Commander’s face suggested he had sensed it.

“I am fine,” she assured him. Again.

The sudden thud of an apple-crate beside them was a welcome distraction, as the deliveryman announced, “That’s the last of it.”

Though Trevelyan reached for it, the Commander took up the handles first. “Allow me,” he said.

Trevelyan would have protested—the soldiers’ mockery had not left her so fragile that she could not lift a box—but she had not the chance. For, out of the corner of her eye, she could approximate the shape of Lady Samient, observing them from afar.

“Twice in one day, Commander,” the Lady purred, strutting closer, “to what do we owe this pleasure?”

She spoke her words like honey, moved her body like silk. It was quite at odds with the plainness and practicality Trevelyan had seen of her during the last half-hour. Perhaps she had not been lying about her time with the Commander, and he responded well to such affectations.

Or perhaps not. For the Commander did not respond at all to this velvety question, muttering instead, “I should, ah, get this to the storeroom.” Entertaining not even another word from either of them, he fled.

Though Trevelyan was quite amused by this, Samient appeared rather bemused. She fixed Trevelyan with a peculiar stare, that Trevelyan almost interpreted as suspicion, until she realised that his presence, to Samient, remained a mystery.

“Well, since he shall not deign to explain himself, I shall,” Trevelyan told her. “The Commander was here to scold his soldiers. Quite furiously, too.”

Lady Samient’s mouth sank into a smile. “Ah, I see. Good. As they deserve.”

“A shame you missed it.”

“Yes, but unlike them, I was far too busy working.”

Trevelyan chuckled, and rested herself against the cart. Its bed lay bare, as did those of its brethren. For that, she felt they had quite earnt a break, yet the bustle did not cease—she noted plenty of staff still to-ing and fro-ing, fetching more barrels and crates and chests. Except—these came from the kitchens.

“You take things from Skyhold, too?” she asked the deliveryman.

He was perched on the side of the cart, wiping the sweat from his brow. “Aye,” he said. “Sometimes they have deliveries for us, but usually it’s the empty bits we take back, and fill ‘em up again.”

“How often do you come?” Lady Samient wondered.

“Every week, supposedly—but the Maker has other ideas sometimes. Got delayed this week by weather. No problem, though; I hear you’ve got stores enough to last months.”

Sounded about right to Trevelyan. Any defensible castle did, just in case the enemy ever tried to starve you out.

Lady Samient hummed. “All sounds very efficient. Do they not worry about something untoward sneaking in through these deliveries, though? Seems like you could fit a man in one of those barrels.”

She wasn’t wrong. You could certainly fit a man. Or a Trevelyan. If things ever got too dire, she might squeeze herself into one of those things, and be shipped out on the next delivery to… wherever these carts went to.

But the delivery man shrugged. “I s’pose they check’em. You’d have to ask the soldiers.”

Tsk. There went that plan.

And, as if that weren’t enough disappointment, it seemed the mere mention of soldiers summoned movement in her periphery. Their aforementioned tormentors trudged on up, out from the stores, tails between their legs. But without their Commander’s instruction, they seemed quite at a loss for what to do next.

“Such idleness,” whispered Lady Samient, apparently of the same mind as Trevelyan, “more the sort I would expect from those work-shy nobility.”

Trevelyan laughed. “How fortunate we are not—”

She stopped, on noticing nearby a maid, huffing and puffing and red in the face, attempting to roll an empty barrel towards a cart—entirely by herself. All it took was one wordless glance at Lady Samient, and the two were traipsing off in her direction.

“Do you need help?” Trevelyan asked the maid.

“Oh—yes, please! Thank you, miss,” she replied, releasing her quarry into their capable hands. Though grateful, she fixed them with a curious stare. “Sorry, but... you’re the Ladies here to see the Commander, ain’t you?”

Lady Samient raised an eyebrow. “What of it?”

“Nothing, your Ladyship! Well, you’re such an ‘elp, and—you know, there was a lot of sugar in that delivery.” The maid waited to see their faces change, but the Ladies’ expressions spoke only of confusion. “Well, we need a lot in, you see. Because the Commander—he has something of a sweet tooth, is all.”

Perhaps that was where his sudden sweetness had come from. “Good to know,” said Samient, “thank you.”

“’Course, your Ladyships.”

Armed with this newfound knowledge, they prepared to haul the barrel away—but Trevelyan hesitated. She considered herself for a moment, and whether or not she owed loyalty to the little prankster in the kitchen, or the kind woman she’d just met. It wasn’t a hard choice.

“Excuse me,” she whispered, “just before the cook uses any of that sugar—perhaps a little taste test, may be in order. Your kitchen had a rather impish visitor, earlier.”

Though the maid seemed almost bewildered for a moment, and Trevelyan worried she had misspoken, her face soon resolved into recognition, then annoyance. “Oh, that Sera!”

Trevelyan recalled the name—Dagna had mentioned it on a few occasions. From the description she’d been given and what Trevelyan had caught her doing, she safely assumed that they were one and the same.

Leaving the maid to deal with her mischief, Trevelyan seized her side of the barrel. With Lady Samient’s aid, and practised ease, they hefted it up, and paraded it past the loitering group of soldiers. One bravely asked if they needed help.

The answer was no. And a scathing look.

***

Ser Morris delivered—in the literal sense. Hours after she’d left, Trevelyan raced back to the Undercroft, an intricate little chest in her hands.

Dagna was surprised to see her: “I won’t lie, I kind of thought you just quit for the day.”

But Trevelyan was quite able to explain, and Dagna was satisfied that she had used her time with noble purpose. It did help that finally seeing her order put the Arcanist in something of a good mood.

She placed it upon a workbench, and with great reverence, opened the chest. Even Trevelyan recognised what was inside.

“New enchanting tools,” Dagna said, “straight from the finest smiths in Orzammar. With these, I can do things a little more delicately. Which means the time for theory is over—tomorrow, we enchant!”

Trevelyan grimaced.

Tomorrow she was with the Commander.

[justaz]

merlin told arthur his favorite color was the color of the sky during sunset when it shifted into a deep violet. arthur gets a tunic made in that exact shade. its the best thing merlin owns. arthur was hoping that would mean he’d wear it almost everyday but merlin almost never wears it. the only time he does wear it is when royals come to visit (which isn’t all that often). arthur “subtly” asks about it and merlin is like “it’s the best thing i own. i’m not gonna dirty it mucking out the stables or serving rowdy knights wine while they splatter food on it” and arthur is like “why not wear it when nobles come to visit? look at least a little presentable for them” (cough nice save). merlin doesn’t see the point in it bc nobles don’t care about him at best, view him as less than human at worst.

arthur really just wants to see his boyfriend servant in the tunic he had made for him (bonus points for sending a message that merlin is his. not that merlin seems to notice. man is too much of an idiot). merlin wants to preserve his favorite tunic and gift from his boyfriend king.

[astrobei]

he’s very tired after his surprise party btw

[yuri-is-online]

Tsum Tsum event with Yutu where his tsum didn't get the hidden identity memo and isn't wearing a mask or a hoodie, it's just a free range Yutu out in the wild following Yuu around. No one recognizes the little guy but they see his little dorm uniform and start asking questions it's not like Yutu can really defend himself because they don't know it's him. And his tsum knows that and is rubbing all the attention its getting from Yuu in his face.

[benevolenterrancy]

@hereticcryptid I appear to be slowly but surely developing an entire series about how Hensheng and Baxia apparently get fed up with their owners' inability to express their feelings and take matters into their own hands...

[saturnaous]

I don’t like ingo and emmet at all. does anybody wanna hit them with trains together

[fuckinart]

(they'll never understand) How could I ever understand? No, I don't have to understand. I don't wanna understand. So I will never understand. (we could have everything)

[danieyells]

Acimo unscrambles into Camio, and Camio is depicted as standing on burning coals when answering questions, which I assume is the aspect of it that grants Ritsu his pseudo-invulnerability

And I imagined that when Ritsu made his wish it was something like to be unshakeable and impenetrable. He mostly meant it figuratively but as @ritsu-shinjo puts it, being immune to being punched in the face makes Ritsu very smug.

And I imagined that Camio gave him a trial. Just a little one. Maybe even before he made the wish--Leo said the demons chose them after all, so I can imagine that Camio tested Ritsu before he was ever in a situation where he would be desperate enough to sell his soul for a wish.

Ritsu found himself in some vast void or pit in hell or something. But the only thing of note between him and the bird-demon watching him was a little road of burning coals. And all Camio asked him to do was walk to where he stood across the coals. If it hurt too much or he was too frightened the path was narrow enough that he could go off the side. But if he truly believed himself worthy of the change he desired--if he really wanted to be able to help his father--he need only walk through the coals, for the trials ahead of him in life would be equally difficult, if not moreso. His soul was the only cost. But he would live normally. Should Camio need more of him, such as to use his soul while his body lived on or some such, he would know.

Ritsu, of course, requested this contract in writing. It was provided and signed(Camio 'signed' with one of his little clawed bird feet in red. . .'ink'--unsettling but not all that different from a hanko stamp Ritsu supposed) and Ritsu looked at this coal path and his bare feet(this was definitely a dream because his pajamas had mysteriously disappeared and he felt unbothered by his own nudity) and. He walked. And it burned but he was determined. He was worthy. He wasn't going to back down.

And the coals started to give way and sink a bit. They sank his ankles and they burned the whole of his feet. But he kept walking through them, trying to lift his feet up further to unsink himself. But he sank further, down to his calves. It wasn't too late to turn back and escape--but he refused to show weakness or doubt in himself. He wasn't going to show weakness to some nightmare. He kept walking and sank further--knees thighs hips and finally one step just dropped him wholly into a pit where the coals swallowed him completely.

At first he was terrified--but he realized it. Didn't hurt? It was a little hard to breathe, the fire was swallowing his oxygen, but he wasn't in pain. And if he moved his arms or legs the coals moved out of the way. He felt extremely warm, like burning, but not pain and feom what little he could see of his own hands through the coals he wasn't. Burning at all. His body was fine.

He kept walking in the direction he'd been facing. He felt a wall in front of him and when he pressed his hand against it he felt the coals covering him fall away to the ground around him and he was back in his room, pajamas back where they ought to be, no hellish void and his skin cooling down, the only coal left burning in his own hand with the little demon bird stood atop it.

It sang and for a moment he understood. Congratulatory. "Well done, Coalwalker."

The bird flapped its wings and the coal in his hand turned to the contract they had signed, Camio itself becoming a thick smoke he inhaled with a sharp gasp but didn't feel any need to cough from his lungs.

"Should you need the agreed upon strength again, you need only recite the incantation: Acimo."

"Acimo. . . ." He felt stiff, but not tense. Heavy, but not weighed down by his body. Sliding, and tilting, and-- "aah!"

His mattress slid and tilted sideways off of his bed, depositing him onto the floor with a thump much louder than he was sure was truly necessary, his bedside table sliding along the floor some from his head thumping against it. It didn't hurt despite that he felt his elbow collide with the floor--and when he squinted into the dark, hearing his mother running down the hall towards his room in response to the noise, he was certain he saw a divot in the wood where he'd cracked it on impact. None on the rest of the floor at least, but it seemed the desire to be 'unshakeable' had manifested in an increased density.

"Ritsu! Are you alright!?" His mother called into his room. "I'm coming in, okay?"

"Yes, that's fine--I'm alright. . . ." He wasn't in any pain at all. Not from his elbow in the floor or his head hitting the corner of the table. No pain, no blood, no disorientation beyond what was expected from sliding down suddenly--and the sudden lights from the hall and his room light turning on once his mother had opened the door and run over. She reached out to examine him, worried for his wellbeing. Noted his tension--the stiffness that hardened his body when he recited that incantation--and he reassured her that he was simply tense from suddenly waking up falling down. Something guided him to how he could disable the power and he 'relaxed' with a few deep breaths before his mother could worry over him further, although she still insisted on a quick trip to the emergency room to make sure he hadn't had some sort of seizure or fractured anything in his fall.

They replaced his bedframe and had the floor repaired in the coming weeks.

On the way home from the emergency room with his clean bill of health, his mother pointed out to him how rare and odd it was to see a thrush so far into the city. It tweeted at him, and he knew it was for him though he no longer understood its song, and flew away.

It would be a long time before he found use for the physical power he'd been given, but knowing that he was practically immune to physical pain bolstered his mind. Unshakeable. Impenetrable.

He need only become a fully fledged lawyer--the best lawyer in Japan--and he would absolve his father of the mounting accusations against him. This wish was only a piece in his true wish.

Nothing would get in his way, now that he had walked the coals.

[thegreatyin]

And thus, with the passing of 24 hours, Caeru's ambition truly comes to an end. Major Nemesis spoilers below the cut- we're talking endgame ambition business here. Mostly on a character RP front.

The Doomed Scientist made quite a few... choice decisions, in the end. Killing Cups once and for all, recording his story as one of grief-

And sparing what little remained of Mr Mirrors, leaving it free to roam Parabola as it sees fit.

Some of them, he can explain. Others, he's still left to feel... discontent.

Cups needed to die. That much was certain from the start. It was a tyrant, as all Masters are, and complicit in the bargaining and eventual destruction of four (potentially five) cities, as all Masters are. It was an obstacle. A murderer. A petty monster that felt no remorse even on its deathbed, and it went out of its way to ruin multiple lives just because it felt owed its own sick and twisted idea of revenge.

It killed his first love. It looked him in the eyes and he knew what it had done and he knew from the start it was going to die.

Perhaps, in the end, it knew too. And yet it still pleaded, and wanted to live, and-

It made a bargain.

A bargain Caeru didn't take.

Not because he didn't want to. Gods, he wanted to. He wanted it. He wanted it more than anything else in the world. To have Greylu back, to give him the gift of life, of love, to show him the wonders of the Neath and the beauty of the correspondence and all of the people Caeru has met and loved and found home with along the way-

But. He couldn't.

Because Cups was a monster. And no matter what, it deserved to die. And he could not, in good conscience, allow it to live.

Even if sparing it meant everything he's ever wanted.

So he's left here, now. With a bloodied traveling coat, and a bloodsoaked knife, and a favor finally fulfilled.

And nothing to live for. No resurrected lover, no charming visits to Helicon, no slow dances in the living room, no memories to rebuild and lives to live and he won't live again-

Nothing. All he has is a coat born of obligation, not to his love, but to people he's never even met. To lives he's never even touched. To a paramour, still alive, with hair of rose-pink, who doesn't even remember her own brother's existence.

Cups didn't die for Caeru's sake. Cups died for the sake of all who wanted it dead. For the revenger's court, and the ghost screaming in his ear, and the reckoning that will not be postponed indefinitely.

And Caeru, who acted as a tool to carry out their wills? Who all but betrayed his own lover, just to satisfy a cause he never knew existed?

All Caeru is left with, is regret. Regret-

-And grief.

[mechazushi]

Kafka Hibino

Kafka Hibino.... with visible salt and pepper side burns.

Kafka Hibino.... wearing glasses and has salt and pepper side burns.

Kafka HIbino.... in that black turtleneck and a dark brown leather jacket and also wearing glasses and has salt and pepper side burns.

Kafka Hibino.... wearing that outfit and is an Animal Biology Professor in an College Au.

Kafka Hibino..... asking out Hoshina who is an Advanced Mathematics Professor working at the same college, to have an after-work drink with him.

Slightly DRUNK Kafka Hibino... becoming very forward with an also slightly drunk Hoshina

Slightly Drunk Hoshina... immediately matching Kafka's freak tenfold and Kafka is very much fine with this.

[necrotic-nephilim]

jaytim but damitim were getting married for reasons (maybe politics or they just have a really toxic relationship and tim is done) and tim runs away and into jason car

oooh i LOVE this. i think it's pretty easy to swing DamiTim getting married for political/family reasons. maybe something that Ra's arranges, forcing Tim into agreeing bc it keeps WayneCorp safe and out of the hands of someone like Tommy Elliot. and it's more fun if for that reason, neither Tim nor Damian are a fan of this turn of events. bc it *works*, legally, but they can't stand being in the same room as each other. maybe they hatefuck a few times, but it's clear they're terrible for each other. or maybe Damian is actually too controlling of TIm, seeing the marriage as an opportunity to finally force obedience out of Tim and that's his breaking point for going with Jason.

and Jason being the disgraced family figure who ends up getting Tim out of it is so fun. bc no one would expect *Jason* of all people to be the one to get Tim out of this situation. at first Tim goes with him just for the reprieve of getting away from Damian for a night, then it turns out Jason actually has a pretty well thought out plan for Tim to be able to get out of the marriage. and sure they're hooking up the whole time, but Tim doesn't actually expect to catch feelings. catching feelings would probably make the whole situation a lot more complicated. but he spends more and more nights at a club Jason owns, sometimes crashing at Jason's apartment not even for sex, but just to get away from everything. fuck buddies but they have a slow burn romance sort of thing going on as Tim deals with legal divorce proceedings. also sort of fun if Damian fights the divorce and you have the fun lil tropey moment of Jason protecting Tim, as well as the larger family reaction to Jason and Tim getting together if Jason is perceived as the family pariah. who approves and who disapproves, how the things that forced Jason out of the family are handled now that he's wrapped back up in the legal drama of everything. there's literally so much you could do with this, i adore it.

[doodoodinklefart]

back for another jjk yap sess, this time abt geto LOL...

im honestly a little surprised i never noticed this before but the way that geto (who thought that his best friend was killed and saw a girl he was essentially willing to uproot his life for get murdered right in front of him) tries SOO hard to stay calm while toji's talking and then the MOMENT he brings satoru up again and trivializes riko's death, suguru loses it. i'm thinking suguru let him talk in the first place despite the risk of letting toji reveal his pact (and wanting to kill him Very Bad) cuz he figured it would be better to understand toji's deal since he beat satoru, something that suguru trusted would not happen

but then he starts referring to satoru strictly as "the six eyes", and i think that suguru, one of the few people that saw satoru as a person beyond his cursed technique or his family name could not help but get super pissed abt toji's dehumanization of satoru (and riko too, who he only refers to as the star plasma vessel). i just thought that it was very interesting....... suguru cared so much and it makes me CRAZY AS FUCK.

like, to begin with i think its sooo so interesting that suguru made it a point to be considerate of all the human parts of satoru despite the fact that im sure most other people assume he doesn't need to be worried about. i'll never stop thinking about suguru asking if he needs a break since he's overusing his technique, telling him he worked hard after getting back to the school, trying to rush to his side after he's been stabbed and being conflicted when satoru tells him to leave with riko and kuroi... he didn't just assume satoru could handle all that shit on his own cuz even if he could have he shouldn't have to.

also related omg im almost done i promise but!! the scene where suguru gets to the star religious group and sees satoru again for the first time...

the way that he can't even believe his eyes, probably in part because he's acting way different but also because he thought he FUCKING DIED. and he had to drag himself out of the tomb of the stars and probably went to look for gojo's body before even going to shoko. and then he had to tell her he couldn't even find his body man WHAT THE FUCK!!! i think maybe saw a twitter post about this part in particular but he might have thought toji took riko's body and satoru's, so the thought that he went all the way there thinking he'd have to see two dead bodies of people he cared about... ugh. suguru geto i love you

[justaz]

im a slut for post magic reveal arthur (& knights) thinking merlin has like. a smidge of magic. like he can get stains out of clothes or warm food and baths but OBVIOUSLY merlin can’t fight. that’s ridiculous. merlin doesn’t correct this notion for whatever reason - perhaps it’s best that people think that so when they’re all in danger, he isn’t registered as a threat so he can protect his silly lil guys. ofc his silly lil guys realize that they were wrong bc the bad guys get a lil too close to hurting arthur and merlin is like “nope! fights over!!” and annihilates them

[triglycercule]

dust and horror angel and demon themes,,,, they could totally parallel each other...... :3

dust=angel of death described in the delta rune prophecy (self declared) (i DEFINITELY elaborated on this one waayyyy before but anyways dust with a fucked up savior complex SAVE ME SAVE ME.... death is a blessing ass guy. life is torment and he will be the one to liberate monsters from their bodies and with the strength they provide to him be able to take down evil evil creation of pure misery that is the human ✨✨✨ dont worry his evil cackles are to HIDE HIS PAIN of saving everyone....... trust)

horror=demon that dragged everyone in horrortale into hell (as perceived by everyone else) (i think it would be a cool hc if everyone outside of snowdin viewed horror as literally a demon. maybe undyne preaches that. anyone outside of snowdin might be WAYYY worse because they starve for longer and literally take part in cannibalism so they might not have the same sort of mild sanity that snowdin residents do,,,, besides he DID kinda bring them all eternal suffering. kinda. nobody but undyne knows what happened at the core so she could totally just paint the story to blame horror fully)

ANYWAYS i like the possible dynamics this could have :333

dust to horror (please let me kill you PLEASE let me kill you i can end it all so peacefully wouldn't it be nice??? i promise ill make it quick just for you),,, horror to dust (i want you to live and suffer with what youve done i want you to watch all of your choices hit you one day and i'll be there and laugh at you. i'll keep you alive just to keep you suffering ok?)

OR dust to horror (you dont deserve to die you dont deserve to even be hurt by me. not because youre the exception but youre the Exception i absolutely loathe you so youll never get the sweet release of death :3) and horror to dust (just let me die already i dont wanna be here. youre supposed to be a savior right??? an angel?? then why don't you save me already when i need it more than anyone else)

[shima-draws]

Slamming my head against the wall god fucking DAMMIT I'm so in love with Sanlu I am GOING to explode.

[whattimeisitfic]

You guys.

Help.

One particular commenter is getting in my head. And I just want you to know it is taking every single ounce of my being not to project the steadily growing headcanon ship I have for Lucifer x Sofia into the actual fic. Like I’ve always wanted this to be a non-romance fic that focuses on Luci’s mental health so I don’t think I actually will. However I’m telling you all because I want you to be proud of the amount of self-restraint I have.

Please recognize my efforts because they’re actually kinda a cute concept and I’m dying. He’s already adored by her kid so there’s no issue there and I just— I caaan’t—