#im just. hhhh

[mofsblog]

"This is some gay shit" Good. Silly. Fair enough. Doesn't inherently invalidate other interpretations of the relationship. Honestly yeah, it is kind of gay regardless of their canonical relationship status

"There's literally no platonic explanation for th-" WRONG!! KILLING YOU WITH AMATANORMATIVITY KILLING LOBSTERS 🦞🦞🦞🦞🦞🦞🦞🦞🦞🦞🦞🦞🦞🦞🦞🦞🦞🦞🦞🦞🦞🦞🦞🦞🦞🦞🦞🦞🦞🦞🦞🦞🦞🦞🦞🦞🦞🦞🦞🦞🦞🦞🦞🦞🦞🦞🦞🦞🦞🦞🦞🦞🦞🦞🦞🦞🦞🦞🦞🦞🦞🦞🦞🦞🦞🦞🦞🦞🦞🦞🦞🦞🦞🦞🦞🦞🦞🦞🦞🦞🦞🦞🦞🦞🦞🦞🦞🦞🦞🦞🦞🦞🦞🦞🦞🦞🦞🦞🦞🦞🦞🦞🦞🦞🦞🦞🦞🦞🦞🦞🦞🦞🦞🦞🦞🦞🦞🦞🦞🦞🦞🦞🦞🦞🦞🦞🦞🦞🦞🦞🦞🦞🦞🦞🦞🦞🦞🦞🦞🦞🦞🦞🦞🦞🦞🦞🦞🦞🦞🦞🦞🦞🦞🦞🦞🦞🦞🦞🦞🦞🦞🦞🦞🦞🦞🦞🦞🦞🦞🦞🦞🦞🦞🦞🦞🦞🦞🦞🦞🦞🦞🦞🦞🦞🦞🦞

[emilyjunk]

"Kevin isn't that bad it's not like he beats her, why does she need to kill him or fake her death, just get divorced" you are the point of the show, you are missing the crucial reveal. Allison sees Kevin in every single scene as she does their last scene together, but we as the audience aren't privy to that and we only see sitcom Kevin which is Kevin's self perception. He is not suddenly becoming scary and threatening to her. He was like that the whole time. We only see Allison's feelings about Kevin and the aftermath of her interactions with Kevin -- this is the ONLY time we see Kevin from her POV except for the brief initial breaking of the sitcom cam. Every other time we see Kevin on screen it's from Kevin's POV. Even after she cuts her hand we only see the bandage in her singular pov when she is away from kevin, but when it shifts back to sitcom Kevin it's gone.... We do not see the reality of her interactions with Kevin, that's the point of the show!!! Because when Kevin is on screen, it's Kevin's world! We only see Kevin from anyone else's lens in ONE scene at the end, which is when Allison decides to leave, so yes the sitcom cam "softens his abuse" but it also just fully acts as an unreliable narration because we never literally see Kevin from anyone else's POV until the series finale so every time Kevin is on screen it isn't even an accurate portrayal of what's happening, it's Kevin's perception of what's happening. Allison has viewed him like that the entire show, we as the audience just did not get to witness that POV until the end

[collophora]

Do yourself a favor and go read the entire fanfic work of @fanfoolishness

(In order: Under sun and shade, Blind Side, and Breathless (patching up is one of my fav too, I just had no cool sketch idea for it)

[kitamars]

oh no! more ginhiji

[turtleducsk]

fire lord zuko and ambassador katara were spotted out on their date night(?) 🧐

[altcvnningham]

canis major

adler x bell!reader

summary: adler doesn’t go back to berlin to forget, but he isn’t so eager to remember, either. after leaving you for dead on that clifftop in the arctic, he knows best to leave the past well alone. too bad that past seems to be alive and walking right in front of him; though where he wants to forget, it seems you’ve already beaten him to the punch. or; bell survives solovetsky and only has a hole in her head and amnesia to show for it. read on ao3

tags/cw: bell!reader, amnesia, light angst, referenced adlerbell, somehow bell survives the ending of cw, adler can't let shit go, adler is not capable of remorse but mayyybe a lil guilt?? dog symbolism always, no pairing yet but hopefully i continue this as a spicy drabble series idk wc: 2.7k

a/n: sooo this is my first fic for the cod fandom and the first fic i've posted online in a long time so hopefully this lil ramble suffices!! i've had adlerbell brainrot and wanted to get at least something out before bo6 ruins all of my headcanons so here's a snippet of something i hopefully find the motivation to continue into a mini series. enjoy :')

Sometimes, he goes back to Berlin.

Stumbling out of the muggy bar into the dank alleyway out the back, Adler fishes out a pack of cigarettes from the front of his jacket; two firm knocks of it against his palm before he plucks one out with his mouth, pockets the box, and flips open his lighter. The clink of the metal echoes into the empty around him, the sudden quiet suffused with the sounds of passing cars on the street, muffled laughter from inside the bar, and the distant barking of dogs. Strays.

The cigarette ignites, glowing a cherry red, and he gasps around the filter greedily. Upon exhale, he sighs.

Adler isn’t a sentimental man by any means. What little he clings to, he does so with a loose grip, less than happy but stolid enough to allow whatever else he deems unnecessary slip through his fingers. Places, people. Things. Memories. Tucks the important things- logic, rationality, work, duty- into orderly compartments at the forefront of his mind, archived and marked off ‘til he needs it, while the rest, the mess, gets done away with, thrown into the great black gorge of oblivion. Anything else that stays- more often than not a thorn in his side, an unbidden, wriggling tumour he can’t find let alone cut out- is sequestered to a dark aperture in the back of his mind, anchored deep where it can’t come back up. Yet somehow, some nights, they always do. The smell of his ex-wife’s hair. The day he got his scar. Vietnam. The lab. Solovetsky—

The next word, the name, forks across his mind like lightning, and he bites his tongue before he can think it. It sits at the back of his mouth, nestled like an aching cavity in his molars. A tremulous breath that he forces down with another drag of his cigarette. Out with the rest. Out with the rest.

The barking doesn’t cease. Dogs, a pair of them, he can hear a couple streets over. He pictures them from the gravelly register of their snarling- maybe German Shepherds, a Bullmastiff or a Rottweiler. Their fight enunciated by the violent rattling of chain-link fences, segregated, the only threshold that keeps teeth from necks.

But no, not a sentimental man. He tells himself that the itch to revisit Berlin every Summer is for superficial reasons, and by no means is renting out a shithole hotel room opposite a sewer-laden river considered a vacation from anything other than the luxuries he gorges himself mindlessly on at home- maybe this is to keep him humble, more than anything. It doesn’t do well to remind himself of old times, not when he’s lived the life he has. Remembering seldom accompanies itself with the bittersweetness of reminiscence, and the taste it leaves in his mouth is always acrid. He doesn’t miss Berlin any more than he misses that dismal safehouse, or that sterile room he wheeled you into, questioned- tortured- no, interrogated- well, he doesn’t care to remind himself of the picture. Or the person he strapped to the gurney. But he catches himself thinking back to the city divided more than he likes to admit, and for whatever ostensible reason it is that drags him back here, he relents to it every time.

He tells himself it’s the weather, the cool rain a nice reprieve from the scorching California heat. Or that the food is better, not so much overprocessed shit and sugars. Can take his coffee as black as he likes without the waitress turning her nose up about it and double-triple-checking if he’s sure. And it’s the people, maybe, who leave him well enough alone. Or the drinks. The views, some places. The- air.

Not like Arctic air. Not like—

The one dog’s snarl rips bloodcurdling through the night, all froth and venom, and as the chain-link fence screeches and judders in its rusted welding the other mutt quiets a moment. Cowers under the meaner dog’s ferocity. Then, like it had been wounded, it lets out a low, anguished howl, beast reduced to a scared little pup. Adler holds the smoke in his chest around a stifled breath anticipating a release. But the first dog just grumbles, the fence clinks, and there isn’t much noise after that.

But the quiet doesn’t last long- just as Adler drops his cigarette and snuffs it with a wrench of his heel, another sound resonates, yowling through the alley.

The grinding of tires upon wet asphalt crunches from just beyond the alleyway entrance. The streetlamp overhanging the entryway glares bright yellow as it bounces off of the garishly coloured taxi cab, pulling up to a groaning halt outside the bar.

He thinks nothing of it, pulling at the collar of his leather jacket. It’s getting cold, and he’s left his drink inside. Wouldn’t want to waste good beer. Adler turns, and makes for the door.

And you step out of the car.

A half-finished cigarette bounces on the sidewalk before you exit, the softened heel of your boot following soon after in a splash upon the flooded curb. Your German is rusty- always has been- but it’s easy enough to utter a quick and easy danke as you pull yourself up out of the cab. The door shuts with a slam, and you tilt your head back to gaze up at the sign above the bar- Der Fluss Lethe glaring in faded lightbox red- and you let out a contented sigh, your breath suspended in the frigid air. Pink, bitten fingers pluck at your gloves, fingerless faded green knit, shovelling them into your jacket pocket.

Adler’s fist is already curled around the handle of the back door as he clocks your presence in his periphery, a stranger like any other- but your image resembles the one that coagulates in the borders of old memory, the dried blood of you he hasn’t been able to wash his hands of since ‘81. Enough that he does a double take, his eyes wide behind tinted glasses, and he stops, his heart following suit.

He’s seen enough bodies in his time to fill the morgue in his mind twice over, and plenty ghosts to wander coldly among the unmarked graves. Vietnam alone is an unwinding cemetery stretching endless, catacombs along the inside of his skull, lined with what his old shrink would call remorse. Guilt. As if the feeling mattered. As if self-reproach could turn self-flagellation into something so incandescent as redemption. As if the bile in the back of his throat could bring back the dead.

And it couldn’t, because it isn’t… that’s not—

Bell.

It’s in the way you stand, your back rigid, that slight slouch to your shoulders, always dragged down upon you like they bore the weight of the whole world (and they did, once, do you remember?). The pelting of rain smacks off of the lapels of your jacket and ricochets like stars, caught in the light of the streetlamp overhead, but for all he knows or cares it could be raining diamond and all he sees is you- the wrinkling of your nose as you accommodate to the cold, how your cheeks flush at the chill (as they had those nights he pulled you into the darkroom, evidence of your apprehension drowned in the red glow of safelights); your hair is longer, unkempt, but still that same colour (clumps he’d find in his clenched fist when you’d argue yourselves into a wrestling match, pinning each other by the throats to dented walls in Die Landebahn); that scar upon your brow; that wavering line of your lip, pursed and hiding behind your reticence as you always did, and your eyes- your eyes—

—you feel someone watching—

—your eyes turn, and fix upon him with the startled softness of a doe, hunter betrayed by the snapping of a branch underfoot. Adler’s heel crunches against broken glass, his hand lingering right in that threadbare threshold upon the doorhandle, and he can’t speak, can’t move, can’t think—

Open the door, Bell, open the door—

—and you stop outside the cab, your breath caught in your throat. You see a shadow in the alley, in the shape of a man.

The darkness of the alley gives enough cover that you don’t see much, but what you do make out of the man prickles at a part of your mind long dormant: the haughtily broad set of the shoulders; the halo of blond tinted red just beneath the flickering exit light above the door where he stands; the shadow of a strong, clenched jaw; and in the brief glinting of passing headlights as cars rush on behind you, you see a face half gorged by a thick, forked scar, a fissure struck down his furrowed expression. A pair of dark aviator glasses hide those eyes that you know are looking at you, reflecting back nothing but your own bewilderment.

There is something you know. Deep inside that half rotted head of yours, where an incomplete recollection of your existence before you awoke bleeding on that clifftop lies, you feel a twinge of recognition. Familiarity. Something. Something stirring deep in your marrow- a fear inherited, a conditioned surrender, a faded polaroid, a kiss? Your migraine, chronic, comes clawing back with a vengeance, as it does most nights, but this time with a savage fervour that wrenches your face into an involuntary grimace. Where the hole in your head had once been all those years ago it tickles and burns, burrowing into your brain and groping greedy fingers along remnants of memory. It claws at you, digging through your amygdala to find something fresh, something old, something palpable, real, something- anything. Searching what little remains visible to you in the thick fog of your own mind to pin a meaning to this feeling, an answer to your question, a name to that face.

You’ve seen him before. You swear. Somewhere. In a dream, reoccurring, behind a red door. You don’t know how, or why you’d think you recognise him- in those dreams, the door never even opens. Your hand ever stuck on the handle, jammed and impenetrable, what sits behind it forbidden to you. Like not even your own mind wants you to know. It confines you to your ignorance, almost blissful.

Adler’s heart kicks violently in his chest. He shot you. He killed you. He’d heard your death rattle on that clifftop in Solovetsky and the sound was almost like singing, your last word, your last breath. A miserere for your short and fractured life. And he’s looking at your ghost, standing there all owl-eyed and as beautiful as the day he found you bleeding out on that airstrip. Before he took you. Before he took you and collared you and made a damned mess of things.

The only thing separating you from the Bell he knows he killed- his Bell- is the star-shaped scar split across your left temple. The only wound he never had to sit and heal as he belligerently patched you up, poking and preening you like his prize dog. Yet in spite of never seeing it before, he recognises the wound all too well. He put it there himself.

And as you stand there for that brief moment- no more than twelve seconds stretched to an eternity- he thinks for a moment that you’ve put it together. You recognise him. You see him. As he is. You’ve figured him out, Bell, as you always do. You’re the only one to have gotten away with it, nearly. Or so he thought. And now he’s watching a corpse having dug itself out of the grave he put it in, standing there, staring at him. Suppose you’ve always been a dead man walking.

You could do it, he thinks. Turn. Fling your heel round and barrel towards him with all the enmity of a cornered animal. He thinks of the strays, barking. Can picture your mouth frothing at the sides as you sink your teeth down into him- gnarled canines, hooked to your chain-link fence- which he probably deserves. Not an unfamiliar feeling by any stretch, but one faraway enough to seem almost sweet now through the hazy lens of nostalgia. If there truly is a sentimental bone in his body after all, then maybe it’s just for that. Still, he holds his breath, awaiting the killing blow he’s surely due. But it never comes.

You release your held breath, finally, tearing your eyes away from the callous faced stranger. It’s a ridiculous notion. Just an uncanny instance of déjà vu. You don’t know that man any more than you know yourself. You settle on a more rational answer- just one of those faces. And with a disgruntled sigh you rub the scar upon your temple to soothe the ache, turn around, and enter the bar alone.

Adler sighs, his heart sinking from up high in his throat back down to his chest. His hand has latched onto the doorhandle for so long it’s gone numb from the cold, bruised knuckles bluer than they were before (bar fights- not here, but another, as there will always be). He wrestles his jaw pensively, knowing he ought to take it off, keep the door closed, turn away, and leave. Slink back, tail between his legs, to that shithole hotel room to drink himself into a stupor. Let you haunt him there, instead. As you always have.

But he doesn’t. He has no idea what idiocy compels him, what soft, dewy-eyed weak link in him snags on that chain, to willingly wander back into the viper den of reminiscence, but he wrenches his fist around the handle, pushes, and lets himself back into the bar, the thick, hot air hitting him like a drug that he breathes in, tart and sour with the cloy of sweat and alcohol but still faintly- just faintly- of you. Like rain carried along the wind.

And Russell Adler is not a sentimental man.

But from across the bar he hides behind his beer glass, watches as you move about, a phantom, weaving through the faceless mass of people celebrating a championship he cares nothing to follow. You take your order at the bar with a smile he’s never seen on you before, boots folded to tip-toes as you lean over the liquor-stickied top, your perfect mouth pink and sweet and laughing and alive. The world seems to move about you in a haze, an indistinct mist of blurred faces and bottled voices and beyond all the light and life and joy that seems to burn bright around you like a halo all he sees is you.

Maybe, then, he’s a fool.

But it isn’t lost on him, how your fingers skirt across your hair in an attempt to hide the scar upon your temple. Nor is it lost on him how you wince at the feeling, the stars in your eyes dimmed for just a split second as you shiver, like a touch imperceptible running fingers down your back. Nor even the way you fight the urge to look, to follow the feeling of his eyes fixed upon you, and surely not the way you lose that fight, surrendered to it, your sweet face turning and finding him in an instant. Without so much as trying, like instinct, like something as pathetic and saccharine as fate. Your heart called to it, a lighthouse in the fog. Port in the storm. Ships passing in the night but called crashing to the same shore.

(The pieces of you are scattered everywhere, Bell. He finds you in every split seam inside himself. Splintered shrapnel dug through his temporal lobe, severing synapses ‘til they go dark. Even stars die quicker than that. Quicker than you. Is that what it felt like for you, too? When the lights went out, was it him you last saw- or the sky, waxen, over the Arctic? A waning night, a distant moon. The inconsequence of death- brief celestial ephemera.)

The stranger across the bar looks at you, offering nary a smile, eyes indiscernible behind shadowed sunglasses. And where you ought to find his apparent coldness disconcerting, instead you wring out of your chest with a white-knuckled caress a feeling like… comfort.

Sometimes, Bell, you go back to Berlin. You don’t quite know why.

[xochimillilili]

Bwuhh feel so fucking drippy just thinking about being a plushie of sorts to fuck and cuddle with before bedtime. Blushing so fucking much imagining their hands on my skin, how they'd squeeze my chest n run their hands along my tummy, hips and thighs, and absolutely losing it imagining them asking me to play a bit before sleep !!!

Wanna be a soft plushie for them to hold and grope and cuddle, even more since I'd be petting and kissing and cuddling them back, wanna feel them press their knee against my needy cunt while I grope them back and make out.

I just wanna be a sweet whiny mess for them, praising them and giggling and making the dumbest of sounds while they use my body to get themself off.

Doesn't matter if I have to take charge and fuck their face asleep or have them sleepily hump away at my thighs while they suck on my tits until we tire out, I just wanna be a pretty toy for them to play with until they fall asleep !!!

[mvrr-6]

[fettiowi]

thinking about pink diamond and spinel again imagine you lost your best friend. you lost them because of something youve done. the one person who understood you was hurt and taken away by your family who belittles and constantly mistreats and misunderstand you then your family turns around and makes you a new friend. someone to keep you busy so you dont bother them. this person is very clearly molded after the way that they see you: immature, loud, naive, inconsiderate. they're a personification of everything wrong with how your family treats you. you didnt ask for them. you wanted your friend, not this doll created out of misunderstanding who you are and your desires. you still have some fun with them, but it feels like they set you back. a constant reminder of how your family views you as immature and childish. you wanna show your family you can handle yourself you wanna grow up. you wanna show that you are not that imaginary mirror theyve created for you. you wanna leave that life behind and create the future you truly wanted for yourself. and so, to finally move you, you leave that behind. you put the personifications of the created assumptions about you behind and finally grow and move on except... they were never just a mirror. they were never just an expensive toy to spoil you. they were never just a personification of everything they saw in you. they were their own person. someone with their own thoughts and feelings. someone who never knew any of this. someone who loved and was loyal. someone who then thought you disliked them as a person.someone who then grew into someone who nearly destroyed everything youve loved because of what youve done. but you never knew . you were already gone. you never got to meet them. they never got to meet you.

[sunlit-mess]

something something

[amelia-yap]

A DRAGON WEISS FER YE!!!!

GOSH I love her design so so much,,, the silly <3333

WAAAAAAAAAAAGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH THE CREATURE EVERRRRR 😭😭😭😭

[its-haughty]

Can I request you draw soushi- nah I’m kidding give us more keishin PLEASE

ok i’ll combine both your ideas into one horrible mess if thats ok

[poniquest]

// mew/two community i must know. how would you rate this little man. did i do good

[twentyfivemiceinatrenchcoat]

cult!sugu and his emotional support non-sorcerer host HEAVY on the mind . disastrously so

[illbegottenfaith]

I just know a lorenzo zurzolo interview hatess to see me coming

[firefly464]

Scott | Pearl | Martyn (You are here!) | Cleo | Scar | Grian

Word Count: 2,049

Fandom: 3rd Life | Last Life SMP Series

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences 

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply 

Relationships: Martyn Littlewood | InTheLittleWood & Rendog, Martyn Littlewood | InTheLittleWood & Scott Major | Smajor1995 

Characters: Martyn Littlewood | InTheLittleWood, Rendog (Video Blogging RPF), Scott Major | Smajor1995 

Additional Tags: Character Study, POV Second Person, Memory Alteration, this one leans into it way more than the other ones did, Only Winners Remember the 3rd Life | Last Life SMP Series, Martyn Littlewood | InTheLittleWood-centric, Martyn Littlewood | InTheLittleWood Needs A Hug, Canon-Typical Violence, 3rd Life | Last Life SMP Series-Typical Character Death, Martyn and his relationship with loyalty, Ambiguous Martyn Littlewood | InTheLittleWood and Rendog Relationship, you can really read it as /p or /r it works just fine either way

Series: Part 3 of Life after Life (again and again and again)

Summary:

Loyalty is such a strange concept. You don’t get it.

Well. That’s not true. You know how valuable another person can be. How having someone to watch your back can be the difference between life and death.

You also know that your life is far more important than theirs. If it ever came down to it, you would run away and leave them for dead in a heartbeat. You fully expect them to do the same for you.

~~~

Or, an exploration of Martyn and how he feels about loyalty

~~~

https://archiveofourown.org/works/62221153

Or read it under the cut :D

~~~

Loyalty is such a strange concept. You don’t get it. 

Well. That’s not true. You know how valuable another person can be. How having someone to watch your back can be the difference between life and death. 

You also know that your life is far more important than theirs. If it ever came down to it, you would run away and leave them for dead in a heartbeat. You fully expect them to do the same for you. 

So maybe it’s more accurate to say that you don’t understand undying loyalty. The kind that leads a person to throwing themselves in front of a sword for someone else. The kind that leads a person to getting themselves killed. 

The idiotic kind. 

The kind that Ren seems to think you have as he hands you a sharpened axe. 

Well. No harm in playing along, right?

---

You never really intended to stick with Ren for this long. You were planning on ditching him as soon as things turned violent. 

It’s fine. That option isn’t off the table. You can still get the hell out of here. 

It doesn’t matter that your green life was just taken by a mob of all things, after you had stupidly refused to give up the chase. It doesn’t matter that you would have hunted Scar down to the ends of the earth if it meant you could get that flag back. 

It doesn’t matter. It’s fine. It’s fine.

---

The coat that Ren gives you sits heavy on your shoulders. It weighs you down, filled with expectation. 

You’ve already died twice for this man. You don’t know if you’ll make it a third. You know that he expects you to stay loyal, to stay by his side. 

The insignia upon your back feels like a death sentence already. 

You try not to think about how little the thought upsets you.

 ---

In the end, you don’t betray him. You’re never given the chance. 

You don’t even get to die for him either. What a joke. 

No, you get to experience the joys of watching Ren’s blood be spilled across the stones of the altar that he had built. 

You watch as his body crumples to the floor. You can hear your own voice, screaming his name. 

You’re almost at his side when the arrow pierces your heart. You don’t even hear it whistle through the air. 

How fucking pathetic. 

~~~~~

Loyalty is a weird concept. It’s confusing. It  doesn’t make all that much sense to you. 

You know that you’re supposed to be loyal to the Southlands, but that group was doomed from the start. You’d be an idiot to not prepare a lifeboat when you can see the iceberg in the distance. 

So you create a backup plan. You meet up with those from the fairy fort. You’re not sure why them specifically, but it feels right. 

You still don’t plan on doing anything stupid for them, but it’s good to have a backup. 

Besides, Ren owes you! He owes you for saving his life from that stupid fire. 

You still don’t know why you did that. It was a dumb decision, you could have easily gotten yourself killed in the process. 

You ignore how natural it had felt to run to his aid. How throwing yourself through the flames had been easier than breathing. 

You have to ignore it. Otherwise you might go insane. 

---

You’re the last one left. You’re left in the crumbling facade of the place you once called home. 

They’re gone. They’re all gone. 

You shouldn’t care this much. You shouldn’t be this distraught. 

You had seen the iceberg from a mile away. You had prepared the lifeboat, you were ready to bail. 

And yet… you had stayed. You didn’t abandon ship. 

You’re such an idiot.

~~~~~

Loyalty is fucking stupid. That’s the conclusion that you’ve come to. 

What’s the point of having a soulmate if they abandon you the second you mess up? Aren’t they supposed to stay by your side? To help and support you? Make sure that you don’t die?

They’re most certainly not supposed to tell you to fuck you off. 

And ok fine, you probably didn’t help when you pushed Cleo off a cliff and got you both killed, but how were you supposed to know that there was a ledge there? Honestly, you fail to see how this is your fault. 

Besides, you had died too! So it’s not exactly fair to completely blame you. 

You try to make a backup plan. You meet up with Ren and Pearl, try to create a new alliance. 

It’s the perfect group of people! The two that have been disgraced and abandoned by their soulmates and… Ren. 

For some reason. 

You’re still not entirely sure why Ren is included in the alliance, but it feels like the right decision. You barely know the guy, but you feel like you can trust him. 

It’s probably a stupid decision. It’s probably going to get you killed. You think you might ok with that.

---

In the end, you’re forced to return to Cleo’s side. You don’t want to, and you’re pretty sure she wants it even less, but you have to do what you have to do to survive. 

With everyone on red, it’s not like you have much of a choice. You need someone to watch your back if you have any hope of winning. 

You would go back to Ren and Pearl, but you have no idea where Pearl is, and Ren is—

Gone dead he’s dead and you couldn’t do anything to save him you didn’t even get to see him die you didn’t even get to give him a burial you failure how dare you abandon your king like this—

Well. He’s not here. That’s what’s important. 

So. Cleo it is.

---

When you die, it’s alone. You’re huddled in the secret passage underneath the snow. 

It’s cold. 

You wish you could say that you’re surprised Pearl turned on you. You’re not. Of course you’re not. You would have done the exact same. No point in pretending like you wouldn’t.  

You’re not that stupid.

~~~~~

Something’s wrong. Something’s broken. Something isn’t right.

You can feel it the second that you open your eyes. Someone has tampered with the world's code with your code and no one else seems to notice or care. 

Why don’t they care???

You can’t help but let out a sigh of relief when the curse burrows underneath your skin. Hard to focus on anything else when every inch of your being is screaming out for blood. 

But then you kill BigB and the curse is lifted and you’re left with nothing but the knowledge that some part of your soul has been stolen and you can’t even remember what it was.

It makes you want to scream. 

---

You return to Scott, hoping that maybe being by his side will help soothe the ache that plagues you. 

It almost works. Almost, but not quite. 

---

You try to bring it up to Scott. Subtly, of course, you’re not stupid enough to reveal a potential weakness to the people who will be trying to kill you. 

But you have to know. You have to know.

“I think something got messed up in the world creation,” you say, forcing yourself to keep your voice light. 

“What do you mean?”

“I dunno. It just… feels like somethings missing, I guess?” It’s the only way you can describe it. “It’s like there’s a bit of code missing.”

Scott freezes. He stares at the chest he was organizing. The only sounds you can hear are the waves lapping against the island. 

You knew it, you knew it!! You knew that it wasn’t just you!! There really is something wrong! It’s the only reason he would react like this!

But then he turns to you. And you feel your heart freeze in your chest. There’s no relief in his gaze, nothing that would imply he feels the same break in the world that you feel. 

Only pity.

It fills you with rage. You want to claw the expression from his face. 

“Oh… oh Martyn….”

You don’t bring it up again.

 ---

Scott tells you to kill him. He tells you that you have to do it you have to kill him. If you don’t someone else will and he’d rather it be you than anyone else. 

You’d be a failure of a right hand man teammate if you didn’t. 

You watch as his blood spills out across the stones of the altar into the water around you. 

The water is so cold.

You swallow the sob that threatens to bubble up. 

---

Grian and Pearl keep looking at you with the same pity that Scott did. They look at you like you’re a glass sculpture that could shatter at any moment. 

They know. They know something that you don’t. What do they know what could they possibly know that you don’t?

You hate it. You hate it so much. 

---

When you turn red, Scott is by your side. He gives you a red sash, embroidered with white, saying that he put it together in their spare time. 

The fabric feels warm in your hands. It feels right as you tie it around your waist. 

It’s a dumb decision. An enemy could easily grab it as you’re running away. It could easily get you killed. 

You don’t care. You need to keep it close. 

You can’t let them take it you won’t let them take it it’s all you have left of him you have nothing else you have to keep it close. 

You’re not sure why. 

---

Grian goes pale when he sees the banner around your waist.

Good. 

---

You’re one of the last three left. Scott and Impulse seem to think that the best way out of this is a fair fight, that it’s the best way to decide a winner. You watch them toss their armor and weapons into a pile in the sand. 

Scott and Impulse are idiots. 

You don’t care that Scott has been your teammate since day one. You’ve known from the start that your life is far more important than his. 

You’re not here to make friends and play nice. You’re here to win.

---

Their bodies hit the sand. The banner around your waist is stained with blood. 

You’re crowned the winner. 

Your memories return, and everything makes sense.

~~~~~

He’s not here again. It still hurts, but not as much as it did. Because you remember him now. You know what it is that you’re missing. 

You tell Jimmy that you’ll stick by his side, but it’s more of a formality than anything else. You’re not about to get yourself killed for him. 

There’s only one person who you would consider throwing yourself in front of a sword for, and he’s not here.

Jimmy doesn’t need to know that. 

--- 

You hear a snicker from behind you as you’re working on the base. 

“‘Big dogs’, huh?” Scott asks. 

You pointedly ignore the look that you know he’s giving you. You don’t even have to turn around to see it. You can feel it digging into your skull. 

You laugh. “I have no idea what you could possibly be referring to.”

It’s almost enough to soothe the ache in your soul. 

Almost, but not quite. 

~~~~~

You think you might understand why people chose to die for others. 

The realization clicks into place as you open your eyes and—

Oh. Ren is standing next to you. 

He’s back. He’s here he’s back he’s standing right beside you and you can hear him laughing and the sound feels like returning home.

He doesn’t remember everything anymore. He doesn’t remember the exact way that your hands had trembled when you cut off his head, he doesn’t remember the way that he had comforted you after your first death, he doesn’t remember the time that you spent together. 

You don’t care. You don’t care even the slightest bit. He doesn’t need to remember the history that you once shared to know that you’re with him until the end.

Because he’s here. He’s climbing into your boat and sailing away from everyone else with you and he’s here and you can’t remember the last time the world felt this right.