#it took me ages to write

[bisexualmultifandommess]

Chapter 2 of my Cherik Family AU is out!

This one is from Charles’ point of view so it looks a little into his childhood and how different of a parent he wants to be compared to his own.

[waspgrave]

I can’t believe people are acting like Solas and Varric aren’t friends….did you listen to their dialogues? They talk philosophy, laugh, ask each other questions, give advice, Solas even goes from polite but distant ‘master tethras’ to a friendly ‘varric’ in the span of a few conversations. Solas took genuine interest in his writing and read his books. Varric even invites him to play Wicked Grace. Foolish.

[thefatedthoughtofyou]

"I'll see you guys later!" Eddie calls, his hips wiggling as he fake jogs to the door. Steve holds his hand up after him, Robin waves her whole arm at him, not looking away from the stove. Steve stares after him as he disappears, he hears the door open and click closed.

"You've got that dopey look on your face again." Robin says, crossing her arms and resting against the counter as she watches him. Steve turns to her, avoids her eyes and watches the steam rise from the bowl of Ramen on the countertop.

"Shut up." He grumbles.

"Just sayin. Your eyes get all shiny and your mouth literally hangs open sometimes... it's... ridiculous." She shakes her head but she looks... sad? Steve hates when she looks at him like that.

"Well-" he stops, takes a deep breath. Robin's lip twitches.

"Let it out babe. You'll feel better." She holds her hand out, twitches her fingers encouragingly.

Steve grimaces, runs his hands over his face and then jumps off the stool to his feet.

"It- it- it's just dimples! Dimples across the board Robin! I mean what am I supposed to do with that!?" He groans, his hands flailing at his sides, a habit he'd picked up from both Robin and Eddie.

"You should tell him how you feel maybe?" Robin says, he voice completely calm as she stirs her ramen slowly.

"Can you please stop suggesting that. We've established that's not a viable solution." Steve huffs, hands falling to the countertop on their small island, his shoulders tight.

"Well. No. You established that. I agreed to no such thing." Robin shakes her head, crosses her arms again.

"Steve. It's been three years. We've all lived together. For three years. You've been hopelessly in love with him. Forthree. Fucking. Years."

Steve opens his mouth to defend himself but before he can speak there's a clatter by the door and Eddie comes skidding back into the room.

"You're in love with me!?" He shouts, his eyes wide as they bounce between Robin and Steve.

"I'm out." Robin says, grabbing her bowl gently and walking away.

"Robin!" Steve calls, it sounds more like a whine but he would deny that to his grave.

"Nope." Is all he gets from her as she, uncharacteristically, gracefully dodges his reaching hands and disappears down the all into her room.

Steve turns, his mouth opening, about to apologize or backtrack or maybe cry a little, but instead finds himself with a chestful of Eddie Munson. Eddie's hands tug his hips close and then move nimbly up his sides to rest against his neck.

"Hi." Eddie says, smiling. Steve's eyes move to his cheeks, his dimples, helpless.

"Hi. I can expla- mmfph!" Eddie's lips press to his with a genlte force Steve could only associate with Eddie. His lips are soft, if a little chapped, and warm, moving gently agaisnt his. Steve lets his eyes fall closed and hums into the kiss, wraps his arms around Eddie's waist and holds him close.

"I'm in love with you too." Eddie breathes, pulls back, looks at Steve, his eyes shining with tears.

"I love you too." He breathes again, bumping his nose into Steve's.

"Yeah?" Steve asks, tilts his head and watches as Eddie dramatically clutches his chest with a teasing grimace.

"Yeah." Eddie nods, his nose scrunching. Steve bites his lip, squeezes Eddie's hips until he squirms and then pulls him close again.

"I love you." Steve says, reaching up and tucking Eddie's hair behind his ear.

"You said." Eddie sinks his teeth into his own lip and scrunches his nose again, swaying side to side, moving them both.

"Not to you. And it's nice to say it. Finally." Steve says, smiling as Eddie keeps them swaying slowly.

"Three years is a long time I guess." Eddie nods, slowly, eyes narrowing.

"What? What's that for?" Steve asks, reaching up and moving his finger over the frown lines on Eddie forehead, trailing his finger down his nose as well, making it twitch.

"Nothin just. Three years is a lot." He bites at Steve's hand as he moves it away to rest on Eddie's shoulder, Eddie's eyes move back to his face.

"But six years is longer." He mumbles it, and quickly tucks his face against Steve's neck, hugging him and holding him close.

"Wait what? Six years?" Steve frowns, tries to untangle Eddie from himself, Eddie holds on tighter.

"Eddie!" Steve huffs, manages to untangle himself and look at Eddie, who's red in the face.

"What?" He asks, sounding innocent. Like he hadn't just said what he'd said.

"Six years?" Steve asks. Eddie nods, looks at the floor.

"That was... senior year. My senior year." Steve says slowly, doing the math.

"Yeah. I was there for that." Eddie mumbles.

"I know. I just... you have not been in love with me since senior year." Steve protests, rolling his eyes fondly.

"Okay fine. Maybe not actual love. But I was infatuated. Big time." Eddie admits, rubbing at his neck.

"Dude I was miserable senior year. I had no friends. I got my fuckin heart broken. I mean I was a mess." Steve shook his head again, watched as Eddie nodded in agreement as he spoke.

"I know dude. And I know it probably says something shitty about me but... it was a good look on you." Eddie shrugged, looking sheepish.

"Misery was a good look on me?" Steve propped his hands on his hips. Eddie waves his hand at Steve, groans as he spins in a circle to get his eyes back on Steve.

"Yes man! Sorry. Not in like... ugh. I don't know. You went from pretentious douchebag to sad pretty boy. And you stopped Tommy shithead from shoving my head into a toilet one day and I dunna that sort of changed how I saw you okay?" Eddie's hands flailed, and then he clapped his hands and pointed at Steve.

"And! And and! You didn't even like... seem interested. You just told him to fuck off all nonchalant, and then you were gone, man! And then the next fucking year all that shit happened, and I saw you with the gremlins and I just... fell hard okay?" He shrugged again, rolling his eyes when he saw the grin spreading across Steve's face.

"You sat by my bed in the hospital man. What did you expect? There's only so much my little gay heart can fend off before it goes all soft and gooey." Eddie pouts at him and Steve thinks his heart might burst out of his chest.

"You never said anything." Steve says, takes a step toward Eddie.

"Yeah well. I didn't know you were into guys until very recently and I-" his hands wave at his sides, like he's helpless.

"You what?" Steve pushes, teasing now. Eddie levels him with an unimpressed look and then rolls his eyes.

"I was scared alright? Cuz if I said something, and you didn't feel the same, then I'd have ruined everything. And I don't know if you've notcied this Steve, but I kinda like having you around. And being around you." He makes a face, like it should be obvious.

"And love confessions tend to change things, between people. So I just... didn't say anything." He shrugged again, helpless again. Steve closed the distance between them quickly. Grabbing Eddie's face genlty, holding him as he stares at Steve.

"We are. So. Fucking. Stupid." Steve punctuates each word with a little shake to Eddie's head. The laugh that bursts out of Eddie as he wraps his arms around Steve and pulls him close again fills their apartment like sweet music.

Steve presses kisses anywhere he can reach, along Eddie's shoulder, up his neck, across his cheeks. Eddie finally cups his cheeks and finds Steve's lips with his own.

"Honey I love you. But if you ever call yourself stupid again in my presence we're gonna have a problem you and me." Eddie mumbles, his lips still brushing Steve's as he speaks. Steve snorts and dives face first into Eddie's neck.

"Laugh all you want sweetheart. I'm serious." Eddie assures him.

"I called you stupid too ya know?" Steve sighs into Eddie's shoulder.

"Mhm. I'm allowing that. Currently." Eddie hums, his hand rubbing Steve's back as he clings to him.

"Okay. I won't. But I do really love you." Steve says, pulls back to look at Eddie. His nose scrunches again, that giddy smile back on his face.

"I really love you too." Eddie darts forward, peppers kisses across Steve's cheeks.

"Shit. You're gonna be late." Steve says, glancing at the clock on the microwave. Eddie shrugs one shoulder.

"That's alright. They'll understand. You wanna come?" He asks, squeezing Steve's hips.

"You want me to come? To your dungeon game?" Steve lifts his eyebrows.

"Okay I know you know what it's called. That's not as cute as you think it is." Eddie says. Steve leans closer, his breath ghosting over Eddie's neck makes him shiver.

"Yes it is." Steve whispers, then licks a stripe up Eddie’s cheek, and then promptly pouts when Eddie is unfazed.

"They won't care if I come?" Steve asks, wiping at the wetness he'd left behind.

"Course not. The guys love you. And they'll be fucking ecstatic that I'm not gonna be pinning about you anymore." Eddie winks, slaps Steve's butt as he reaches behind him for his keys sitting on the counter.

"You've been pinning for me?" Steve repeats, teasing, as he grabs his shoes.

"Six. Years. Steven. Yeah, you could say I was pinning." Eddie grabs his bag off the floor as Steve tugs his laces tight.

"Alright alright. But hey," Steve presses himself to Eddie's side as they reach the door.

"They're gonna wish you were still pinning by the time we're done." Steve grabs Eddie's head and presses his lips to Eddie's cheek, hard. Eddie cackles, shoots Steve a wink as he grabs his hand, and tugs him out the door.

[furiosophie]

“Ghost?” Soap asks as he pulls open the door, knife still in hand, baby still wailing. “What are ye doin’ here?”

“What am I doing here?” Ghost throws back at him, brows creased and eyes downright murderous, the kind of look that back at base would mean Soap is about to run laps until he pukes. “You just disappeared for a bloody week, Johnny! Didn’t even tell Price where you were going, aren’t answering your fuckin’ phone, what the hell do you think I’m doing here?”

“Right,” Soap says because yes right, he has a vague memory of Ghost texting him, but he also doesn't really have a clue where his phone is right now and he definitely wasn’t aware it’s been a week until he just mentioned it. For a moment Ghost looks like he’s going to take him by the shoulders and shake, and then his eyes land on Joey, and he frowns harder as if he only just noticed that Soap is holding a screaming child.

“You knock someone up, Johnny?” he asks and it sounds oddly offended but mostly like he’s taking the piss, so Soap is about to tell him to fuck off when there’s a loud crash from the bathroom, followed immediately by a high shriek. He whips around, trips over one of Cass’ tiny toddler-sized shoes, and nearly impales himself on the damn knife if it wasn’t for Ghost grabbing him by the arm to hold him steady.

“Give me the baby,” Ghost says like he says give me that gun when they’re hunched over in the dirt, bullets flying past their heads, so Soap does.

to you i can admit (that i'm too soft for all of it)

[read on ao3]

ship: john "soap" mactavish/simon "ghost" riley

words: 19 220, completed

tags: mw iii fix-it, set between danger close and trojan horse, kid fic, angst with a happy ending, hurt/comfort, domestic fluff, getting together, ghost fell first, soap fell harder, ghost is just some guy (tm), jk this still has 09 ghost backstory, fellas is it gay if the superior officer you've been lowkey flirting with for four years drops everything to help u raise ur sisters kids, this is both a hallmark movie and me processing grief so godspeed, canon- typical violence, mentions of past childhood abuse, not beta read we die like- qunshot

[goayda]

About Izzy and Jim, there is this moment I love in ep 2x02 when Archie asks Jim 'what's your interest on this guy, he seems like a bit of a dick' and Jim says 'He is'...

I love this moment so much because that's all I wanted for Izzy in the new season (certainly not the mutilation part!), first a hug (and I got that wish in ep 2x01 thanks to Fang) and then this: the crew caring about him, even if it was a little.

And the thing that means so much to me in this scene is the fact that Jim admits that yes, Izzy is a dick (he isn't nice, he has done many wrong things), but Jim shows him kindness anyway, they care about him despite being far from perfect (so so far from perfect, my little angry man) and consider him part of the crew now.

What I love is the fact that you can watch this and say, you know? You don't have to be perfect to be loved, you can make mistakes, but that doesn't turn you into an ugly irredeemable thing. You can still change and people can still see you and show you kindness and be there to support you so you can find the way to be a better version of yourself.

Kindness is so underrated, when it's truly such a powerful thing.

[lavared]

-

(More details under the cut)

-

[...]

"...You know, the usual? Turning into a gross spider, brooding in the shadows, doing your mother's dirty work, crawling back to the swamps so you can finally leave us alone???"

"And why, pray tell, should I do something else when I can watch you make a spectacle of yourself instead?"

"What do you mean?"

"I'm talking about this new embarrassing habit of yours. You've been spending an awful lot of time hiding behind the trees to ogle poor unsuspecting lasses."

"I'm-I'm NOT! First off, how long have you been spying on me, exactly? No, wait- I don't really want to know that. And second, I'm not doing anything, and I'm definitely NOT ogling. I'm just standing guard."

"(Scoffs) Oh, are you really? I didn't know standing guard involved all this blushing and heavy sighing. We might have done it wrong all this time, I see."

"(Sighs)...Listen, believe what you will. The Commander asked us to keep watch, so I suggest you do the same, preferably twenty or eighty feet away from me, alright? Thanks."

"As your dear Commander wishes. But I suggest you close your mouth while on...duty. We already have a dog, we don't need another slobbery creature in our fun little party."

[oriato]

A great scene from A Marvelous Light ✨

[spotaus]

New Age AU (Obtaining Killer)

Hey guys! Through with a bot of stuff for the day and I have a sneaking suspicion that this stress headache will not leave me until I finish some projects for work, so I *may* be m.i.a. for a hot second until they stop.

In the meantime, I want to drop this! (Unedited, unrefined, raw off the slab style)

Andddd @ancha-aus and @papiliovolens ! Hello! (Mutzelputz if u see this, the tags weren't working for some reason, I apologize.)

Hope y'all enjoy!

Ccino had convinced him to leave the castle. After nearly a year had passed since his last true public appearance. Since he'd stolen the apple from his brother. Nine months had passed since he'd sent Dream away. He tried not to think about it.

Nightmare had been finding out a lot about his magic. How it made him jittery, and how he felt like he understood so much more. How it made him deeply paranoid, quick to react.

How it made people listen to him.

He figured it was because he was scary now. The negative magic condensed over every inch of his bone wasn't exactly appealing, and the extra limbs which had sprouted from his spine now acted like his own personal weapons. If someone didn't listen, didn't give him an answer he liked, the limbs moved without him even thinking.

It had taken time to learn to better control them. Even now, they writhed in his wake. His nerves expressed through their lashing and twitching as they hovered just above the ground.

The streets weren't exactly crowded.

Upon word of the King's arrival to this small providence, Nightmare had found that many people fled from his path. His travel party of several soldiers, and himself on horseback. He'd always wanted to ride horses. The traitor twin was someone that every citizen wished to avoid.

Ccino had coaxed him outside with promises of fresh air. Apparently there were promising young members of the city guard that Ccino swore would be wonderful future knights. Young warriors for him to bring up loyally under his name, no fear of betrayal.

It had made sense, at the time, but Nightmare hadn't chosen to recruit any of them.

It wasn't to say he didn't want to. Several of the humans and monsters were very talented, and he did his best to give them praise, but he could tell. None of them wanted to work under him. They didn't like him. Rejection and hatred that had pierced him immediately, he could practically taste it.

Ultimately, they would do better here in their hometown. A place they were passionate about protecting, and with people they cared for. Night would not try to mold promising soldiers into his perfect guard. No matter how smart of an idea it may have been.

And so he'd moved on.

Night had visited several smaller shops, onces which couldn't afford to refuse him, and he bought some fabrics, a trinket, some small thing from each place he stopped by. He payed exactly the price he needed for each thing. He wouldn't bribe his people, either. The best he could do would be to remain neutral.

He did discover, against all odds, that he was enjoying this day out. Ccino was, in fact, usually correct about this sort of thing.

The travel had been enriching. Almost exciting. He'd never gotten out of the castle much at all, this was all new and excitingly mundane.

Good things do not last forever.

It was almost sunset when he noticed it. Torches being set up, a platform prepared. A crowd gathering.

An execution, came the mutter from one of his soldiers. Though he recognized the set-up, Night had never been in attendance to an execution. He was morbidly curious. The crowd held such a contempt. A broiling hunger for blood.

He wished he'd wheeled his horse away when a few people were ushered out of a nearby building.

The prison, maybe?

There weren't many of them. Nightmare dismounted his steed, and much to the dismay of the soldiers at his side, he found himself sinking. Into the growing shadows cast by the dying sun.

He re-emerged beside the stage, where the few people were lined up. Ready for death by hanging.

That trick wasn't one that Nightmare quite understood yet, but he was always drawn to feelings of intense negativity. He knew that, now. Something about these prisoners were bothering him, even at a distance, and he found himself more curious as he stood before them.

His guards, at the back of the crowd, hadn't seemed to figure out where he had gone. He had the time, now, to loom over the small group of prisoners.

The city guards, the trained ones, had likely seen him earlier at their headquarters. They did not speak even a word against him as he stared.

Nightmare stared at these faces.

A dog monster, scrappy and scarred, black fur clashing against a few patches of white. One of her ears was missing.

A pair of humans, both men, one with long, curly red hair and another with short-cropped red hair and the beginnings of a beard. Maybe they were brothers?

A skeleton. His sockets dripped with black magic, and his soul was a piercing crimson, just infront of his chest.

A flame monster, small and stout. Their flames a flickering green and purple. One of their eyes had a patch over it.

Nightmare was not great at determining emotions yet. He was hardly versed in his own feelings, but there had been improvement recently. Understanding new emotions had been coming more naturally to him.

Sometimes it hurt, but he was learning.

Now, past the blossoms of a headache, he felt a bit baffled as he subconsciously picked through the negativity these monsters exuded. Their fear. Their pain. Their loss, and their anger.

Oh.

"Only one of you is guilty."

He'd said it without thinking, practically announcing it with a voice that still felt unnaturally deep. A voice which rattled his ribcage and seemed to force past the barrier of darkness around him.

The group before him seemed startled. Confused.

Well, all but the skeleton, who seemed to only raise his skull slightly. As though just noticing Nightmare was there.

"How could you have possibly been jailed in the first place?" He muttered a bit quieter to himself.

He knew, deep down, that there were many, many rules in place for situations like this. Laws which he could challenge. People he could speak to. He could appoint members of his court to each of these people and try to earn their innocence through the rites of the law.

Then again, he remembered the rage of the crowd. The frustration of the people waiting to see these killings take place.

He didn't know what to do.

Now the prisoners, especially the two humans, were staring at him hopefully. He'd managed to shatter the negativity a bit. He believed them. He knew this was wrong.

"I don't know..."

The mutter came again unprompted.

These people would not have the means to repay him for his help. He couldn't just waive fees, or risk his court turning against him. He couldn't afford enemies being made so close to his inner circle.

He couldn't just leave them, though. Not after he'd seen the injustice of it all.

Stuck in his own thoughts, he was drawn out of it by a snickering laugh.

"Just set them free." A voice followed, "You are our King, aren't you?"

Nightmare then found his eyes drawn to the skeleton.

The others had eased themselves away from him. He stood, now, almost alone. He seemed unbothered by speaking up, his sockets held in an almost lazy posture. Tension going completely un-held.

He grinned up as the King, and seemed to watch contentedly as the thought settled in Nightmare's skull.

He could do that. Simply waive their charges. Pardon them. He could do that, surely. Many royals had done it before him for less certain terms. His mother had plenty of times.

"And you are guilty. You'll still be hanged. You know this, don't you?" Nightmare asked.

That was when the Skeleton's lazy sockets seemed to tighten with a sort of glee. Some hidden joke Nightmare wasn't privy to.

"Hmm." This was a poor choice. This was a bad decision. "Tell me, quickly, how you came to be here. Before I proceed?"

Nightmare didn't know why he was asking. He was... curious. Just like he had always been.

Very few people would ever speak straight to his face. Ccino, that was the only one who'd done it since his change. Since the prophecy. This skeleton had done it. He'd spoken when no one else could muster even a plea.

The silence he seemed to bring to every room. Broken, just briefly.

The skeleton stared at him a moment.

"Name's Killer, your majesty." The tone was mocking. "A while back a buddy of mine got into hot water, and I decided to help them out. Now, plenty of bodies later, I'm the one stuck on death row."

Simple. An admission of guilt.

Nightmare stared at him some more.

Finally, it seemed his frantic guards had noticed him. Found him. They rushed to his side, though not as fast as he would've liked. He could feel the frustration seeping from each armored body around him.

"You don't have an aversion to it," Nightmare voiced, "Killing, I mean."

Killer nodded. Unashamed.

It felt strangely calm, still. Perhaps it was because the crowd was still chattering. They likely hadn't noticed Nightmare at all.

The king turned to the city guard, still stood on the steps. "Free these four people. My judgement decrees them as not-guilty."

And, before any time could pass in the slightest. "Killer, I would like you to accompany me, before you abscond."

He'd noticed it. Killer had undone his cuffs before their conversation. Completely freeing himself from his weak imprisonment.

Killer seemed amused at the concept of sticking around to chat.

"If you would, I would like to recruit your services at my castle. I need a man who is willing to kill. And kill swiftly." Ccino said to establish an image. It was obvious now that his reputation would remain in the gutter, no matter what choices he made. He was not Dream.

Killer's sockets narrowed.

"And what would I get for being your little hunting dog?" Again, it was bold. It was new.

Nightmare was sure his expression hadn't changed since he'd come before the group. That same angry glare that sat permanently along his skull. The magic had an image to project.

His tendrils flicked, slightly.

"Payment, room, Fresh meals, and any other amenities you may like, so long as it does not break our treasury." He replied, "All I ask is that you simply obey me. And Me alone."

Not true. He'd probably ask for him to listen to Ccino as well. Once he knew for certain he'd stay.

Killer seemed to be thinking. He eyed they king, up and down. He looked to each of the guard around the king. The ones who were back in position now, though Nightmare could feel their annoyance. Their confusion.

Then Killer turned.

Then he turned back.

"Mm. Can't be worse than the ol' noose." Killer replied. "Funny way to run a country, my king. Hiring the first murderer you spot?"

Nightmare didn't humor that with a response. He was honestly shocked the skeleton had even agreed.

Though, all of that negativity had been swapped out for a glee. Something deep in Killer had changed during their brief interaction. A hope. Night could barely grasp the edges of its existence with his subconscious. But it was there.

.

He ignored the crowds as they grew confused. He ignored the worry pouring from the criminals as he had them released and informed them of their pardon.

He did not ignore when his guards told someone to keep their distance. He glanced up. Killer was standing beyond the guards, looking bored.

Nightmare, trusting fool he was, didn't even ask a guard to watch him to ensure he stayed put.

"Stand down." He ordered the guard, who begrudgingly allowed the skeleton to smugly slip past.

His tendrils kept the monster at a distance Night preferred all on their own. He seemed to take the hint.

"They're all gonna be dead by morning, you know." Killer voiced easily.

Nightmare turned to him, confused. What did he mean by that? He'd pardoned them?

"Are you deaf? The crowd wanted us dead, especially me." He chuckled, "Leaving them here is definitely going to get them killed. If the crowd doesn't rip them apart the second you leave, then it'll happen at night. There will be no witnesses."

Oh... Night hadn't fathomed that these people could turn on the innocent once declared. It hadn't even crossed his mind. Did they have a home to return to? A family they put at risk?

The noose was a fast death, but being murdered? That would've been so much worse.

He could tell, by the way they evaded looking at Killer, that he was right. Nightmare would be sentencing them to a new sort of death if he did it like this.

But he didn't have time for a trial. Or several. The sun was going down, abd Ccino expected him back. The castle needed him present, or they might revolt.

Someone might hurt Ccino.

Oh, he was such a poor ruler. He did not know his people well enough. How he lamented the lessons Dream had taken about crowds and current issues abd how to be likeable.

Night didn't know how to handle this. He was still learning!

A trembled in his hand. He tucked the limb quickly away from where it had been lightly clutching his tunics thick fabric, now hiding it beneath his cloak.

"Killer is right. It won't be safe here, for any of you." He spoke. Thank the gods it didn't sound as shaken as he felt. "I extend an offer to you all. You may stay here, or you may come take up positions among my staff back at the castle. Unlike Killer, I do not expect any crime from you, but you will be paid and housed."

The offer was met with a roar of frustration from the crowd, Nightmare chose to allow his guards to handle it. He watched, carefully, as the four looked between eachother.

The brothers agreed first. (They introduced themselves as brothers as they knelt in thanks.) Then the Dog. She said she had no family left to watch over, starting a new life would be for the best.

The flame refused, saying they would leave town by morning, and try to stay safe.

And so, Nightmare left the town with four new party members. Each had been provided a horse, each tied to one of the guards. Aside from Killer, whose steed was held personally by Nightmare.

He figured Ccino would chew him out for this, for bringing criminals into the castle when he was sent to collect soldiers, but Nightmare had a good feeling about these ones.

They did not hate him. Or fear him. He was helping them. And it felt good.

[pinkytoothlesso11]

Reasons why Jinx is alive– A fully comprehensive evidence analysis

Right. So I've seen a lot of people with conflicting views on if Jimx survived at the end of Arcane season 2, and I have been itching to do a meta post on the subject, so here it goes!

The first piece of evidence that I found particularly noteworthy was the explosion itself. By going frame by frame it was possible to see this:

It's a blink and you miss it kind of scene, but this is right after the explosion, and you can see the clear pink line going into one of the vents. Now why is this important? Well, it's simple, it's the shimmer effect that happens when Jinx is moving very fast! I know that Warwick was holding onto Jinx, but in a explosion its perfectly plausible for her to get out of that grip using the explosion of her monkey bomb.

Then we have the scene where Caitlyn is inspecting the plans for the Hexgates.

There is literally no reason for her to look at these plans. Not unless she thought there was something she missed...

There's no dialogue here, so it's really just based on what she does and how she reacts. Most notably what she's holding.

It's the head of one of Jinx's notorious monkey bombs. What's more, it's clearly damaged and singed. So likely this is the very same monkey bomb Jinx used in the Hexgates. This also suggests that Caitlyn might have been searching for evidence of Jinx's dead body... and clearly didn't find it for her to be holding Jinx's bomb head and then searching on the plans. Which brings me to the focus changing to this:

The vents we see the streak of pink shimmer light go inside correlate to the plans as shown above. The vents connect to the air ducts which connect to the outside. After this, the camera goes back to Caitlyn and we see her look at the monkey bomb head and then smile.

Then we get to the most telling piece of evidence that Jinx survived and left Zaun and Piltover behind, which is definitely a controversial choice on the writers part and does come across that they just want the option to bring in Jinx whenever they want in later stories taking place in Noxus, Ionia and Demacia. Which is very Marvel like lol. This is namely the air blimp at the end shot of the show.

What I find interesting is the fact it mirrors exactly the very first time we see Powder in episode 1 of Arcane season 1 when we see one of these air blimps.

The difference in these shots is that the one from season one is going TOWARDS Piltover, and the one from end of season 2 is going AWAY across the sea. The only difference in the ships themselves is the streak of blue you can just about see on the side of the hull. Maybe a further hint that Jinx is indeed on board that blimp.

Obviously it is what Powder says about the air blimp in season one that truly gives some solid evidence Jinx escaped on the air blimp heading for the sea:

Well, it seems Powder was right about that... the shots being so similar is clearly not a coincidence.

This is made all the more evident with the very last seconds of screen time of the show. It ends with Jinx's signature scribbles taking over the screen for three seconds with the words 'The end' written across.

Some people I've seen commenting on the fact the letter E on 'the' is reversed, but I think that's just a style choice in line with Jinx's graffiti so far. What is significant here is the fact it's so evidently Jinx's mark straight after the air blimp that resembeled the one in the first episode of Arcane season one.

Annnnd there's just one more thing now. I promise I'm almost done lol.

The lyrics to the song Wasteland that plays during episode 8, when Jinx is about to try and end her life are as follows:

This world is a wasteland where nothing can grow

I used to have strength but I ran out of hope

I know it’s my fault that I'm here all alone

This world is a wasteland

Please let me go, go, go, go, go, go, go

But then the lyrics change in the last chorus, they go from Jinx preparing to end her life for good, to THIS:

This world is a wasteland where nothing can grow

If it weren’t for you I’d be here all alone

I know in my heart this is where we belong

This world is a wasteland

Don’t let me go, go, go, go, go, go, go

Don't let me go

I feel it's likely that the line 'if it weren't for you I'd be here all alone' is referring to Ekko. Because it's Ekko who stopped Jinx from killing herself. And then of course the biggest change, from 'please let me go' to 'don't let me go' Jinx isn't ready to say goodbye. She wants to stay living. And I think it's this that plays in her 'sacrifice' scene with Warwick. It's not her giving up on life, it's her accepting that her life has changed and she needs to break the cycle by moving on. Not for anyone else, but for herself.

Let me know in the comments or reblogs your thoughts on this! And thank you for reading if you got this far lol.

[dismalzelenka]

did anyone ask for a da2 disco elysium AU???

probably not, but congratulations, you get to have one anyway! presenting, for the 2024 Dragon Age Create-a-Thon event:

Dog Days of Disco

Summary:

You're a cop. You're a disco superstar. You're Garrett J. Hawke, and you came here to make Lowtown Harbor your bitch. Unfortunately, you may have discoed a little too close to the sun, and now there's a few inconvenient details you can't remember anymore. Like how you got here, or why you're here in the first place, or who you even are. There's also a dead body floating in the harbor, and apparently you are the detective who's supposed to figure out why it's there. Tensions are rising. The City of Chains will have her due. It looks like your smokin' hot finger guns are about to get a whole lot of action. The Disco Elysium AU of Dragon Age 2 you never knew you needed. Written for the 2024 Dragon Age Create-a-Thon! Go Team Free Marches!

Rating: Explicit Archive Warning: Graphic Depictions of Violence Fandom: Dragon Age II Relationships: Fenris/Male Hawke, Anders/Male Hawke, Anders/Fenris, Anders/Fenris/Male Hawke Additional Tags: Written in the Style of the Game Disco Elysium, Alternate Universe, Graphic Description of Corpses, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Substance Abuse, Death, Memory Loss, Murder, Grief/Mourning, Suicide, Explicit Sexual Content, Past Abuse Words: 63,932 Chapters: 10/10

[wraithlafitte]

YALL IM FUCKING SCREAMINGGNGNG

this is the episode when chuck is showing sam all the bad futures, right? and in the car scene when future sam and dean are coming back from a hunt, and dean says “the monsters are winning” LOOK WHAT DAY IT WASSSS I CANT

[lonelystarbuckslover13]

You know what’s a crazy butterfly effect we never talk about?? The musical film ‘Grease’ eventually leading to Olivia Rodrigo’s fame. Think about it:

The film ‘Grease’ was released in 1978, and its immense success led to the sequel ‘Grease 2’ (1982). In 1999 a script for ‘Grease 3’ was developed, but the project was shelved until 2004 when the script was adapted into ‘High School Musical’. ‘High School Musical’ was then released in 2006, becoming an instant hit and earning the film two sequels. The movie series had such lasting fame, that in 2017 a TV show inspired by the film series was developed titled ‘High School Musical: The Musical: The Series’ (‘HSMTMTS’ for short). Olivia Rodrigo was cast as one of the leading roles in the show, and was given the opportunity to write an original song for her character - the song she ended up writing titled ‘All I Want’. Upon the release of ‘HSMTMTS’ in 2019, ‘All I Want’ began gaining popularity and charted on the Billboard Hot 100. This gained Olivia interest from label executives, and she ended up signing a record deal with Interscope/Geffen. During Olivia’s time on ‘HSMTMTS’ she met and dated a fellow co-star, and their subsequent break up inspired her to write the song ‘driver’s license’. She then released ‘driver’s license’ as her debut single in 2021, and the song charted at number 1 and skyrocketed her to a whole new level of fame.

So without ‘Grease’, you wouldn’t have ‘High School Musical’, and without ‘High School Musical’ you wouldn’t have ‘HSMTMTS’, and without ‘HSMTMTS’ Olivia would not have written the song that got her a record deal or met the person who inspired ‘driver’s license’, and THAT is how Grease led to Olivia Rodrigo’s fame over 40 years after its release.

[cod-thoughts]

I couldn't face a life without your light

Word count: 6.4k

Relationships: GhostPrice, PriceGhost

Tags: PricGhostweek2024, love confession, near-death experience, angst with a happy ending, Possessive Price, hurt/comfort, fluff.

This is for Day 2 of GhostPrice week: "Heart" and the titles are what i was listening to while editing: "Snuff" - Slipknot Second chapter is much more fluffy i promise!!!

“Bloody hell, Simon,” Price whispered, his voice barely audible. His hand tightened slightly around Ghost’s wrist, his thumb brushing lightly over the fragile bone. He reached out with his other hand, brushing his fingers over Ghost’s knuckles, the touch reverent and hesitant. He had always held back, careful not to cross a line, but now he couldn’t help himself. He needed to feel the connection, needed to remind himself that Ghost was still here. Price’s chest tightened as regret clawed at him, sharp and unrelenting. He thought of all the things he hadn’t said, the moments he had let pass by because it wasn’t the right time, because it wasn’t safe, because he was afraid. If he had lost Ghost, he would have lost the chance to tell him. To let him know just how much he meant to him. How much he cared. OR The mission goes to shit, there's a love confession and Price can't stop checking Ghost's pulse. Keep reading under the cut or on AO3 where you can actually see chapters lol

The mission was supposed to be routine—a simple extraction from a fortified enemy base. Secure the asset and get out. But plans rarely survived first contact with the enemy. The air was thick with tension, sharp with the acrid tang of gunpowder and smoke that stung Price's throat. Shadows danced erratically in the dim light of distant fires and muzzle flashes, their movements a chaotic mimicry of the men fighting for their lives. The ground was a treacherous mess of shattered bricks, spent casings, and splintered wood—remnants of battles long past and painfully present.

Price’s voice crackled through the comms, calm and measured despite the chaos pressing in from all sides. He was their anchor, a steady presence in a storm that threatened to consume them.

“On me. Keep it tight,” he ordered, his voice cutting through the cacophony of gunfire. It was the kind of tone his men could cling to, solid and unwavering, even as the world seemed to crumble around them. Ghost moved ahead with his usual precision, his presence a silent reassurance. The extraction team wove through the labyrinthine corridors of the enemy compound, each step deliberate, every movement calculated. Ghost’s sharp eyes pierced the gloom, catching the faintest flicker of motion through the shadows.

Resistance was fiercer than expected. The enemy moved like wraiths, merging with the darkness, their numbers overwhelming. Bullets ricocheted off the concrete walls, their sharp whines a grim chorus to the shouts and explosions reverberating through the compound. Each step toward the extraction point grew heavier, the enemy pressing in like an unrelenting tide. Price’s eyes swept over his team, catching the strain carved into their faces, the grit in their movements as they fought to hold their ground.

Then it all went to hell.

The explosion came without warning—a deafening roar that ripped through the building, its force hurling them like leaves in a storm. Price was slammed into the wall, his lungs seizing as the air was driven from his chest. The comms dissolved into static, a chaotic hiss that underscored the sheer violence of the blast. He caught a glimpse of Ghost being thrown clear, his body a dark blur swallowed by the swirling haze of dust and debris. Time slowed, every second stretching unbearably as Price’s heart lurched painfully in his chest.

“Ghost!” The name died in his throat as he staggered forward, his vision swimming. Dust clung to his skin, clogging his throat and lungs, making every breath a battle. The sharp tang of blood mingled with the acrid bite of smoke, the sounds of the fight distant and muffled in his ringing ears. His boots crunched over rubble as he scrambled toward where Ghost had disappeared, each step frantic, driven by the fear clawing at his chest.

Finally, he saw him—a crumpled figure partially buried under twisted metal and chunks of concrete.

“Simon!” Price’s voice cracked, raw and desperate as he dropped to his knees beside Ghost. His hands moved without hesitation, shoving aside debris despite the sharp edges biting into his palms. The balaclava was askew, revealing part of Ghost’s pale face beneath the grime. Price’s stomach twisted at the sight, a cold weight settling in his chest as he pressed trembling fingers to Ghost’s neck.

A pulse. Faint. Fragile. But there.

Relief washed over him, sharp and fleeting, as fragile as the heartbeat beneath his fingers. But then it faltered—a weak, stuttering rhythm that stopped altogether, leaving an unbearable stillness in its place. Price froze, his own pulse roaring in his ears, a deafening contrast to the icy void beneath his fingertips. The world narrowed, everything else falling away. The distant gunfire, the shouting—it all faded, leaving only silence and the horror of what he couldn’t deny.

Move. The thought clawed its way through the fog in his mind, breaking the paralysis. Price shoved the fear down, forcing his hands to Ghost’s chest. He started compressions, the weight of his movements trembling but unyielding, his body acting on instinct even as his mind reeled.

“No, no, no.” The words spilled out, fractured and hoarse, a raw plea forced through gritted teeth. “Don’t do this, Simon. Don’t you dare leave me.”

Each compression was a command, a refusal to let go. His voice cracked under the strain, desperation seeping through the cracks in his control. Ghost’s chest—a chest that had weathered countless battles, shielded comrades from harm—lay motionless beneath his hands. Price’s breaths came in ragged gasps, the gritty air burning in his lungs as he fought to keep the chaos at bay.

“Come on, come on,” Price urged, his voice rising with each word, breaking under the weight of desperation. His muscles ached, his arms trembling with the effort, but he didn’t stop. Couldn’t stop. The alternative was unthinkable.

When Ghost’s body remained still, Price leaned down, forcing his breath into Ghost’s lungs, the chill of his lips a stark contrast to the heat of the surrounding air. He pulled back, resuming compressions with a ferocity that bordered on frantic. Each second stretched unbearably, a cruel eternity where time seemed suspended on the edge of hope and despair.

Ghost’s laugh—quiet and rare, like a private melody—surfaced unbidden in Price’s mind. It was a sound he clung to now, as if the memory alone could bridge the terrible void in front of him. That laugh had been his anchor in darker times, its softness a stark contrast to the sharp, unyielding exterior Ghost showed the world. The thought of never hearing it again clawed at his chest, leaving behind a hollow ache that refused to be ignored.

“Come on, come on,” he urged, his voice trembling. Every press of his hands into Ghost’s chest was an act of defiance, a visceral refusal to accept the silence that surrounded them. His own breaths came in shallow gasps as he forced air into Ghost’s lungs, the cold stillness of Ghost’s lips a reminder of how close he was to losing him.

I can’t lose him… The thought hit hard, nearly paralysing, but Price forced it aside, pouring every ounce of strength into the rhythm of his compressions. His arms burned, his hands shook, but he pushed through it, the alternative too unbearable to consider.

Tears blurred his vision, hot streaks cutting through the grime on his face. “Stay with me, Simon,” he shouted, his voice cracking under the weight of desperation. “I can’t—” His words broke off, choked by the void threatening to swallow him whole. He leaned down again, breathing for Ghost, willing life back into him with every shaky inhale.

His strength was faltering. The ache in his muscles spread like fire, his breath ragged and uneven, but he didn’t care. He wouldn’t stop. He couldn’t stop.

Then, under his trembling hands, he felt it—a twitch. A weak, desperate jerk beneath his palms.

Price’s head snapped up, his breath catching as hope surged violently through him. He froze, watching as Ghost’s chest hitched, his body heaving with a wet, rattling cough that broke through the silence like a thunderclap.

The sound shattered Price’s composure. A strangled laugh escaped him, half-sob, half-gasp, as he let his forehead fall to rest against Ghost’s. His breath hitched, his heart pounding wildly as relief flooded him, sharp and overwhelming.

“You stubborn bastard,” he muttered, his voice trembling. His fingers brushed Ghost’s cheek for just a moment, a fleeting touch that grounded him in the reality he could barely believe. Relief coursed through his veins, dizzying and all-consuming. Ghost was alive—still here.

But even in that moment, the fear lingered. It gnawed at him, sharp and unrelenting, a reminder of just how close they had come to the edge. Price shook himself, forcing his focus back to the present. Ghost needed him.

Ghost’s eyes fluttered weakly, his breaths shallow and uneven, but he was breathing. He was alive.

Price forced himself to pull it together, swallowing the emotion that threatened to overwhelm him. Ghost needed him now more than ever. Taking a deep, steadying breath, Price assessed Ghost’s condition. His eyes were half-lidded and unfocused, his body limp against Price’s side. Each shallow, ragged breath sounded like a struggle, the faint rise and fall of his chest a fragile lifeline. Price felt the weight of him—a dead weight that spoke of just how close Ghost had come to slipping away.

Sliding his arm beneath Ghost’s, Price wrapped it firmly around his waist, his other hand gripping Ghost’s forearm to steady him. He heaved Ghost to his feet, every muscle in his body straining with the effort. Ghost swayed, barely standing, his head lolling against Price’s shoulder. The sight of him like this—vulnerable and utterly dependent—tore at something deep inside Price, but he didn’t let it show. There was no time for fear. No time for hesitation.

“Stay with me, Simon,” he whispered, his voice rough, his lips brushing Ghost’s ear. He felt Ghost’s faint nod—a weak but determined attempt to respond—but his eyes remained unfocused, his body leaning heavily into Price’s support. Each step was a battle, Ghost’s weight dragging at him, but Price gritted his teeth and pressed on. The ground beneath them shifted and groaned, debris making their path treacherous. His heart pounded in his ears, every beat a reminder of how fragile this moment was, how close they were to the brink.

Every muscle in Price’s body burned with tension, the strain of supporting Ghost a physical weight that matched the fear gnawing at his resolve. Ghost’s breaths were shallow against his neck, faint and uneven, each one driving home how close they had come to losing everything. Price’s arm tightened around Ghost, his determination hardening like steel. He wasn’t going to lose him. Not here. Not like this.

“Almost there, lad,” Price muttered, though the words were as much for himself as for Ghost. The distant shouts of his team and the sporadic crackle of gunfire reached him, muffled and far away, as though the world outside had faded into irrelevance. His entire focus had narrowed to the man he held in his arms. Ghost’s head lolled again, and Price adjusted his grip, practically dragging him forward. He refused to let go, refused to let Ghost slip away—not after everything they’d fought for.

Then, through the swirling dust and rubble, the extraction point came into view. The sight was like a mirage, distant and shimmering, but real enough to push Price forward. The medics were already rushing toward them, their movements purposeful and urgent. Price’s grip on Ghost tightened instinctively, his arm braced around Ghost’s waist, even as the medics reached out to take his weight.

“Sir, we’ve got him,” one of them said, their hands steady but insistent.

Price hesitated, his instincts screaming at him not to let go. Ghost’s head rested against his shoulder, his breaths faint and uneven, and Price’s throat tightened painfully. The thought of relinquishing him now—after clawing him back from the brink—felt unbearable.

“John…” Ghost’s voice was a faint rasp, barely audible, but it was enough. Price blinked, the sound cutting through his haze of fear, snapping him back to the present. He loosened his hold reluctantly, allowing the medics to take over. His hands hovered for a moment, unwilling to fully release Ghost, until one of them shot him a reassuring look.

“We’ve got him, Captain. We’ll keep him stable.”

Price stepped back slowly, his fingers curling into fists at his sides. He watched every movement as they loaded Ghost onto the stretcher, his eyes tracking each wire and tube they attached to him. The medical vehicle doors slammed shut with a sharp finality, the noise cutting through the ringing in his ears like a gunshot.

The vehicle roared to life, its sirens wailing as it sped away into the distance. Price stood frozen, the chaos of the battlefield reduced to a dull hum in the background. His chest ached—not from exertion, but from the hollow, gnawing fear that refused to let him go.

When they rushed Ghost into surgery, Price was left in the waiting area, Ghost’s balaclava still clutched tightly in his hands. The fabric was torn and stained with grime, but Price held onto it as if it were a lifeline. The scene replayed over and over in his mind—the moment Ghost’s pulse faded, the empty stillness beneath his fingers, the world narrowing into a single, terrible point of focus.

He couldn’t leave. He didn’t move, save for pacing the narrow room or sinking into a chair with his head in his hands. Exhaustion gnawed at him, pulling at every fibre of his being, but he couldn’t rest. Not until he knew. Not until he could see Ghost, touch him, and feel the steady, life-affirming beat of his heart beneath his fingers.

---

When they finally told him Ghost was stable, Price’s knees nearly gave out. Relief washed over him, sharp and fleeting, easing the crushing weight on his chest just slightly. But the fear lingered, curling in the pit of his stomach like a shadow that refused to release its grip. Ghost was alive—for now. The medics insisted he get cleaned up before seeing him. Price had protested, his voice rough with exhaustion and frustration, but their arguments were relentless.

“You’re caked in dirt and blood, Captain,” one of them said firmly, their tone professional but unyielding. “You’ll bring infection into the room if you go in like that.”

Price opened his mouth to argue, but the logic cut through the haze of his fear. He didn’t want to risk anything that could harm Ghost further. With great reluctance, he nodded and allowed himself to be ushered toward the showers.

The walk felt interminable, every step dragging him farther away from Ghost. The sterile brightness of the hallways made his grime and blood-smeared figure stand out like a ghost among the medics and staff who bustled past. Yet as Price moved, people instinctively stepped aside, giving him a wide berth. Perhaps it was the set of his shoulders, the tension coiled in his frame like a spring ready to snap, or the haunted look in his eyes. No one spoke to him. They just moved out of his way.

When he finally reached the showers, Price all but tore his gear off, letting it fall in a heap on the floor. The hot water hit his skin like a sting, scalding but not enough to pull him from his single-minded focus. He scrubbed at the grime and blood with frantic urgency, his hands trembling slightly as he worked. Every second under the spray felt like an eternity. He rinsed quickly, the water swirling red and brown at his feet, his mind already racing ahead to Ghost.

The thought of Ghost alone in that hospital bed gnawed at him. Vulnerable. Still. The image of Ghost’s chest motionless beneath his hands flashed through Price’s mind, making his breath hitch. He shut off the water and grabbed a towel, dragging it over his raw skin with little care. He couldn’t afford to waste any more time.

Pulling on clean clothes—a spare set hastily handed to him by one of the medics—he shoved his feet into his boots and strode out of the room. His damp hair clung to his temples, but he didn’t care. Every step back toward Ghost felt too slow, his impatience clawing at him with every passing second.

The halls blurred around him as he walked, his focus narrowed entirely on the destination ahead. He barely noticed the staff continuing to step aside as he passed, their quiet, sombre expressions going unnoticed in his tunnel vision. For a brief moment, he hesitated outside the door, his hand hovering over the handle. Then he pushed it open, stepping inside.

When he was finally allowed into the room, the first thing Price saw was the heart rate monitor. Its steady beep-beep was impossibly loud in the quiet space, a sound that became an instant lifeline. His chest tightened, but this time it wasn’t just fear. It was relief, fragile and bittersweet. Ghost was alive.

Price’s boots were nearly silent as he crossed the room, his eyes fixed on the man lying motionless on the bed. Ghost looked smaller somehow, his larger-than-life presence stripped away by the pale, sterile light. Tubes and wires snaked across his body, the machinery surrounding him a harsh reminder of how close they had come to losing him.

Dragging a chair closer, Price lowered himself into it, his legs suddenly heavy. He leaned forward, his forearms braced against his knees as his gaze flickered between Ghost’s face and the monitor. The rhythmic rise and fall of Ghost’s chest was there, faint but steady, and Price matched his own breaths to the pulse of the machine. He couldn’t take his eyes off Ghost, couldn’t tear himself away from the quiet proof that he was still here.

The room was too quiet, save for the hum of machines and the faint ticking of a wall clock. The sterile smell of antiseptic clung to the air, sharp and biting, but Price barely noticed. All he could focus on was the fragile pulse beneath Ghost’s pale skin. He reached out, his fingers brushing over Ghost’s wrist before settling there, feeling for the faint thrum of life.

Each beat was a reminder that Ghost was still alive, still with him.

Price didn’t sleep. He couldn’t. Every fluctuation of the heart rate monitor sent his stomach twisting, his eyes darting between the screen and Ghost’s still form. His mind wouldn’t stop, wouldn’t let him escape the images that kept replaying—the silence beneath his fingers, the way Ghost’s chest refused to move. The sound of his own voice breaking as he begged him to come back. The raw ache in his hands as he fought to keep him alive.

As the hours stretched on, Price’s thoughts shifted, unearthing truths he had buried for too long. It wasn’t just fear that had gripped him back in the rubble. It wasn’t just the thought of losing a comrade. It was the realisation of what Simon truly meant to him.

Ghost had always been more than a soldier, more than a lieutenant. More than a friend. Price thought of all the times they’d stood shoulder to shoulder in the thick of battle, the way Ghost’s presence alone could ground him when everything else seemed to spiral out of control. He thought of the quiet moments—the way Ghost’s gaze lingered when he thought no one noticed, the way Price found himself gravitating toward him, always closer than strictly necessary.

It had always been there, Price realised. That unspoken bond. That deeper connection. He’d buried it beneath duty and responsibility, convinced there was no room in their world for anything more. But now, seeing Ghost like this—fragile and still—the truth was impossible to deny.

“Bloody hell, Simon,” Price whispered, his voice barely audible. His hand tightened slightly around Ghost’s wrist, his thumb brushing lightly over the fragile bone. He reached out with his other hand, brushing his fingers over Ghost’s knuckles, the touch reverent and hesitant. He had always held back, careful not to cross a line, but now he couldn’t help himself. He needed to feel the connection, needed to remind himself that Ghost was still here.

Price’s chest tightened as regret clawed at him, sharp and unrelenting. He thought of all the things he hadn’t said, the moments he had let pass by because it wasn’t the right time, because it wasn’t safe, because he was afraid. If he had lost Ghost, he would have lost the chance to tell him. To let him know just how much he meant to him. How much he cared.

“I can’t let that happen again,” Price murmured, the words barely a whisper, spoken more to himself than to the man lying unconscious in front of him. He leaned back slightly, his eyes scanning Ghost’s face, his grip on his hand firm.

Not now. Not ever.

Ghost stirred, a faint movement that immediately pulled Price from the depths of his vigil. His eyelids fluttered, a shaky breath escaping his lips, and Price was at his side in an instant. The scrape of the chair’s legs against the floor went unnoticed as he leaned forward, his heart pounding so loudly it felt as though it echoed in the quiet room. His eyes locked onto Ghost’s face, searching for any sign of consciousness beyond the subtle rise and fall of his chest.

“Simon?” The word came out hoarse, barely a whisper, but the weight behind it was deafening. Price’s hand instinctively tightened around Ghost’s wrist, holding onto the faint, steady pulse like a lifeline. His breath caught as Ghost’s eyes cracked open, unfocused but unmistakably alive.

It took a moment before Ghost’s gaze sharpened, his eyes finding Price’s. A flicker of recognition passed over his face, followed by the faintest quirk of his lips. “Thought I heard your voice,” Ghost rasped, his voice rough but laced with the familiar dry humour that cut straight through Price’s chest.

“Jesus Christ, Simon,” Price whispered, his voice trembling as the overwhelming relief finally broke free, crashing over him like a tidal wave. He gripped Ghost’s hand tightly, his knuckles white as if letting go might make him slip away again. “You scared the life out of me, you know that?”

Ghost’s faint smile widened, the smallest hint of his usual irreverence shining through the exhaustion etched into his face. “Still here,” he rasped, his voice rough but familiar.

Price let out a sharp exhale, the sound carrying years of tension and fear he hadn’t realised he’d been holding. His shoulders sagged, the weight of the past hours threatening to crush him now that the worst was over. “You don’t get it, do you?” he said, his voice thick with unrestrained emotion. “You… you almost died. I felt your heart stop, Simon. Do you have any idea what that did to me?”

Ghost’s smile faded, his gaze softening as he took in Price’s expression—the lines of strain around his mouth, the redness in his eyes, the unsteady rise and fall of his chest. “John…”

“I can’t—” Price’s voice broke, the words catching in his throat as he struggled to force them out. He swallowed hard, his free hand scrubbing over his face before he tried again. “I don’t think I realised how much you meant to me until I felt you slipping away. You’re not just a soldier to me. You’re not just Ghost. You’re… Simon. And you’re—” His voice cracked again, and he exhaled shakily, meeting Ghost’s eyes with a raw, unfiltered honesty. “You’re everything.”

The confession hung in the air between them, heavy and fragile, like glass balanced on the edge of a table. Price’s breaths came unevenly, his shoulders shaking with the weight of everything he had held back for so long. He wasn’t sure what he expected—acceptance, rejection, silence—but what he got was Ghost’s hand squeezing his, gentle and steady, grounding him in a way no words ever could.

“You didn’t lose me,” Ghost murmured, his voice hoarse but steady, his gaze unwavering. His fingers tightened around Price’s hand, holding him with a strength that belied his fragile condition. “I’m still here, John.”

The reassurance hit Price like a blow, breaking through the last of his carefully constructed walls. He nodded, his forehead brushing against Ghost’s as he let out a breath that was almost a sob. “Don’t scare me like that again,” he whispered, his voice raw.

Ghost chuckled softly, the sound low and rough but so achingly familiar it sent a wave of warmth flooding through Price. His hand curled around Price’s, his thumb brushing the back of his knuckles in a soothing rhythm. “I’ll do my best.”

They stayed like that for a long moment, the quiet settling around them like a blanket, thick and full of unspoken promises. Price didn’t move, couldn’t. He stayed there, his forehead pressed lightly against Ghost’s, their breaths mingling in the narrow space between them. For the first time in what felt like years, Price allowed himself to just feel—to let go of the weight of the past hours, the past years, and hold onto the man who had become his world.

Ghost’s fingers tightened slightly, drawing Price’s gaze back to him. “John,” he murmured, his voice soft but weighted, the rough edge of it carrying an unexpected tenderness. His gaze locked on Price’s, steady despite the exhaustion that lined his face. “I heard you… Even when everything went dark, I heard you.”

Price froze, his breath catching in his throat. He stared at Ghost, searching his gaze for truth, and found it there—steady, unwavering. “Simon…”

Ghost’s lips quirked into the faintest of smiles, his eyes softening as he cut him off gently. “You kept me here. You always do.”

The words hit like a punch to the chest, raw and unfiltered in their honesty. Price exhaled sharply, his shoulders sagging as a wave of relief washed over him, and this time, his laugh was more genuine, tinged with disbelief. “You bloody idiot,” he muttered, shaking his head even as a faint smile tugged at his lips. “Takes nearly dying to admit something like that?”

Ghost’s smile widened, just slightly, his hand curling tighter around Price’s. “I don’t plan on making it a habit,” he said, his voice dry but warm, the barest trace of humour softening his tone. His fingers brushed lightly against the back of Price’s hand, grounding them both. “But… you should know, John. I’ve never had anything like this. Not before you.”

Price’s grip on Ghost’s hand firmed, his thumb brushing against Ghost’s palm as he swallowed the lump rising in his throat. “You’re everything to me,” he said quietly, his voice trembling with the weight of the admission. “And you’ll never be anything less.”

The steady rhythm of the heart rate monitor filled the room, its soft beep-beep anchoring them both. Price let his eyes fall shut for a moment, focusing on that sound, on the warmth of Ghost’s hand in his, and let the chaos of the world outside fade away. For the first time in years, he allowed himself to hope—not just for survival, but for something more.

I think I made it very clear

The evening was a rare pocket of tranquillity amid the chaos of their lives. The cabin they had rented was modest but comfortable, its worn furnishings bathed in the warm glow of a single lamp. Shadows danced gently along the walls, moved by the flicker of light and the soft breeze wafting through the open window.

Ghost sat at one end of the well-worn couch, legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles, a book resting in his hands. The hardcover was old, its pages yellowed and edges frayed—a relic he'd picked up during one of their deployments. His eyes moved steadily over the text, but every so often, they flickered upward, stealing glances at Price.

Price was settled at the other end, a steaming mug of tea cradled in his hands. The aromatic scent of Earl Grey filled the room, mingling with the faint smell of old books and the crisp night air. He sipped slowly, savouring the warmth that spread through him with each sip. His gaze drifted over the room, eventually settling on Ghost. The soft light cast a golden hue over his features, highlighting the sharp angles of his face and the relaxed set of his shoulders.

It had been a few years since they got together, and no matter how many times Price had seen Ghost without his mask, he still couldn’t help but take a moment to appreciate how beautiful his partner was.

Without thinking, Price set his mug down on the side table and reached across the small distance between them. His fingers found Ghost's wrist, resting lightly against the pulse point. The steady thrum beneath his fingertips brought a sense of calm, anchoring him in the present moment.

Ghost glanced up from his book, a subtle lift of his eyebrow signalling his acknowledgment. "Everything alright?" he asked, his voice low, tinged with that familiar gravel.

Price met his gaze, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Yeah," he replied softly. "Just...checking."

Ghost’s eyes softened ever so slightly. He closed the book, marking his place with a finger, and shifted his hand so their fingers intertwined. The gesture was simple, but the intimacy of it wasn’t lost on either of them.

"You worry too much," Ghost murmured, a hint of amusement in his tone.

Price chuckled lightly. "Occupational hazard, I suppose."

They sat in comfortable silence for a moment, the quiet ticking of the clock marking the passing minutes. The world outside seemed distant, its usual threats and uncertainties held at bay, if only temporarily.

"Thank you, Simon," Price said after a while, his voice barely above a whisper.

Ghost gave a slight nod. "Anytime, love."

---

The mission had taken everything out of them. Hours of tense negotiations turned ambush, a relentless firefight, and a narrow escape that left them both physically and mentally drained. By the time they stumbled into their shared quarters, dawn was just beginning to streak the sky with hues of pale pink and orange.

Price closed the door behind them, the soft click of the latch sounding louder in the stillness. Ghost dropped his gear bag by the foot of the bed, shoulders sagging under the weight of exhaustion. Without a word, they moved in a practiced rhythm—boots kicked off, weapons secured, gear set aside.

The room was modest, sparsely furnished, but at that moment, it felt like a sanctuary. Ghost collapsed onto the bed, the mattress creaking in protest. He lay back, eyes slipping closed as he exhaled a long, weary breath.

Price approached the bed, hesitating for just a moment before lying down beside him. The sheets were cool against his skin, the pillow soft beneath his head. He turned onto his side, facing Ghost, whose eyes remained closed but whose breathing had yet to even out into sleep.

Without overthinking it, Price scooted closer, resting his head on Ghost's chest. The fabric of Ghost's shirt was soft, worn thin in places, and the warmth of his body seeped through. Price could hear the steady beat of Ghost's heart—a reassuring rhythm that eased the lingering tension coiled tight within him.

Ghost’s hand slid into his hair, his fingers threading through the strands with a slow, deliberate rhythm. “Still ticking, love,” he murmured, his voice softer now, quieter, like he understood exactly what Price needed to hear.

Price closed his eyes, the tension in his body easing as the rhythm of Ghost’s heartbeat lulled him into a state of peace. “Good,” he muttered, his words muffled against Ghost’s chest. “Don’t stop.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Ghost replied, his voice a faint rumble beneath Price’s ear.

They lay in silence for a few moments, the only sounds the distant hum of the base coming to life and the faint rustle of sheets as they settled more comfortably.

---

The room was warm, bathed in the soft amber light of a bedside lamp. The edges of the world had blurred, leaving only the two of them in the quiet intimacy they had carved out of the chaos. Ghost lay stretched out on the bed, his arm draped lazily over Price’s back, his body a steady anchor against the current of everything outside. There was no sound but the faint hum of the lamp and the rhythm of Ghost’s breathing, even and steady, the kind of calm Price had come to crave more than sleep.

Price shifted closer, the weight of the day settling into his bones. His hand smoothed over Ghost’s chest, feeling the warmth of him beneath his palm, the subtle rise and fall of his breaths. He traced idle patterns through the soft fabric of Ghost’s shirt, his fingers moving without thought until they found their way to the hollow of Ghost’s throat. He paused, his touch light, before leaning in and pressing his lips to the spot where Ghost’s pulse beat steadily beneath his skin.

The contact grounded him in a way nothing else could. The quiet thrum of life beneath his lips, so steady, so sure—it chased away the lingering echoes of the moment he thought he’d lost this, lost him. It wasn’t just reassurance that drove him. It was the unspoken promise in that heartbeat, the bond that tied them together through everything they had endured. Price lingered there, his lips brushing the spot again, almost reverently, his breath warming Ghost’s skin. The world outside faded into irrelevance, leaving only the man beneath him.

Ghost’s hand came up, warm and deliberate, to rest on the back of Price’s head. His fingers threaded through Price’s hair with an absentminded softness, grounding them both in the stillness of the moment. “You’re marking me, John,” he murmured, his voice low and teasing, a familiar edge of humour softening his words.

Price smiled faintly against his skin, his fingers trailing lightly along the side of Ghost’s neck. “Maybe,” he murmured, his voice quieter, more vulnerable than he intended. He pressed another kiss to the spot, letting himself linger, his thumb brushing over the faint pink flush left behind.

Ghost chuckled, the vibration of it gentle beneath Price’s lips. “What’s it this time? Reassurance? Possession?” he asked, though there was no real bite to his words, just the warmth of understanding.

Price pulled back slightly, his gaze finding Ghost’s in the soft light. “Both,” he admitted, his voice quiet but firm, laced with an honesty he rarely allowed himself. His thumb traced the edge of Ghost’s jaw, following the faint shadow of stubble. “Doesn’t bother you, does it?”

“Not in the slightest,” Ghost replied without hesitation, his fingers brushing lightly along Price’s cheek. His voice softened, the teasing note giving way to something gentler. “Reckon I’d be more worried if you weren’t like this.”

That earned a quiet laugh from Price, the sound low and unguarded. It faded into something softer, his expression shifting as his gaze held Ghost’s. He leaned back down, his lips finding the pulse again, a tether to the present, a reminder of everything they’d fought for. “Yours,” he murmured, the word slipping out like a vow.

Ghost stilled beneath him, his fingers tightening slightly in Price’s hair. The quiet affirmation hung in the air between them, weighty and grounding. When Ghost spoke, his voice carried no trace of hesitation. “And I’m yours,” he replied, the sincerity in his tone cutting through the teasing, steady and unshakable.

They stayed like that for a long moment, the silence wrapping around them like a shield. Price’s lips rested against the hollow of Ghost’s throat, his breath warm and even as he let his eyes drift shut. His breathing synced with Ghost’s, the steady rhythm beneath his lips soothing the raw places that still lingered in his mind. The world had nearly taken this away from him once. He wouldn’t let it happen again.

“I love you,” Price whispered finally, his voice muffled against Ghost’s skin but carrying no less weight for it. The words felt both fragile and absolute, as if speaking them aloud solidified something he’d always known.

Ghost stilled beneath him, his breath catching just slightly as Price felt his fingers tighten in his hair. The pause stretched for a heartbeat too long, and Price began to lift his head, already bracing himself for the reserved walls Ghost might instinctively throw up. Instead, Ghost’s hand slid to the back of Price’s neck, grounding them both. He exhaled sharply, the sound almost frustrated, and tried, “I—I…”

He cut himself off with a soft huff of air, his brow furrowing as his grip on Price’s nape firmed. His lips parted like he might try again, but he shook his head faintly, his gaze darting away.

Price’s chest ached, not from hurt, but from the weight of knowing how difficult this was for Ghost. Simon wasn’t ready to say it back, not yet, but Price didn’t need to hear the words to feel them. He’d known for years, in the steady, unwavering way Ghost had stayed, fought, and come back to him every time. Simon had always spoken with his actions, with the quiet, grounding presence that filled the spaces between them.

Ghost’s jaw tightened as his hand flexed against the back of Price’s neck. “Wouldn’t still be here if I didn’t feel the same,” he said finally, his voice low and rough but carrying a raw sincerity that cut straight to Price’s heart.

The corners of Price’s mouth lifted into a faint, knowing smile. His hand slid from Ghost’s throat to cradle his jaw, the touch light but deliberate. “I know,” Price murmured softly, his tone as steady as the heartbeat beneath his fingers. “You don’t have to say it.”

He leaned in slowly, his lips brushing Ghost’s in a kiss that was deep and unhurried, a silent reassurance meant to ease the tension Ghost carried. It wasn’t heated or desperate—it was grounding, a quiet affirmation of everything Price already knew to be true. Ghost stilled for a moment, then leaned into it, his grip softening on Price’s neck as if letting himself breathe for the first time.

When they parted, Price rested his forehead against Ghost’s, their breaths mingling in the space between them. He let his thumb trace the sharp line of Ghost’s cheekbone, his eyes crinkling with quiet affection. “We’ve got time,” he said simply, his voice steady and sure.

Ghost’s lips quirked into the faintest smile, his shoulders losing some of their tension. “Good thing you’re a patient man, John.”

Price huffed a soft laugh, brushing a kiss against the corner of Ghost’s mouth before settling back against him. “Only when it’s worth it,” he replied, his tone light but carrying a weight Ghost would feel as clearly as the hand still pressed over his chest. He let his palm settle there, feeling the steady thrum of Ghost’s heartbeat beneath his touch. It grounded him as much as it did Ghost.

They stayed like that, tangled together in the quiet, the steady rhythm between them a promise they didn’t need words to keep.

[hayaku14]

GUYS I'M BEGGING

SHINICHI ON A SKATEBOARD

PLEASE

[bokettochild]

Road trip for me means long trip full of suffering for my boys!!!

[vaguely-concerned]

Origins is of course the DA game most closely in conversation with and playing around with Tolkien (right down to the walking talking poetree haha) -- and even more so than most works in the larger western fantasy tradition derived from Tolkien's work that DA:O also hails from and owes a lot of its Stuff to, what makes the game so great to me is that it's doing so very deliberately, and is subverting and deconstructing those tropes and entrenched ideas in some very interesting ways without at all denigrating what it's commenting on. (it doesn't have the almost disdainful undertones of the vein of fantasy that seeks to make the world more 'realistic' ala the more tedious reactions to G.R.R.Martin's work, for example, despite having the darker fantasy bent to it.) among other elements it adopts, what I find the most fascinating is the choice to use the same literary device/conceit Tolkien did in ostensibly only having in-universe biased sources and works to deliver the world through (which I feel is an underappreciated thing about his approach but is part of what makes his world so enduringly compelling and real-feeling -- the feeling of real scholarship devoted/applied to a made-up world. the grounding effect of a good diegetic footnote about source criticism, truly).

many things to be said there, and I'm glad each following game has taken on different perspectives and lenses and traditions to view the world of Thedas through because if you stick with that one too closely for too long I fear we could teeter precariously close to Pratchett's famous and bitingly accurate accusation of most modern fantasy of that era just being about rearranging the furniture in Tolkien's attic lol. and while you could accuse DA2 (my perfect wife who has never done anything wrong in her life to be clear) of many things, that's not one of them, they are pulling on some completely different strings for that one and both the game and DA overall is better for it, to my mind. as so many things in this series: worth staying with and exploring for an installment even if it might get stale if all of it was like this! people are understandably sad about the elements from previous games that they liked which were lost along the way, but that capacity for reinvention is to my mind a huge strength of dragon age as a whole.

(I think Veilguard is coming in as a close second in Tolkien conversation-ness if only in outlining/revealing the worldbuilding that indeed may have been planned since DA:O around the animosity that SHOULD by all rights exist between dwarves and elves in this universe (as per Tolkienesque tradition standards). but doesn't really because you see: politics and the many pitfalls of conservation of knowledge over the ages. our ancestral enmity got semi-intentionally lost between the floorboards of history and you know what. maybe for the best. the humans are already up to so much shit you gotta keep your eyes on them at all times you can't be brawling with each other in the deep roads while they're still around getting up to their nonsense or they'll just pile up even more of it)