#shards writes

[risingshards]

Me describing all my creative projects like

[grand-theft-carbohydrates]

i literally spend at least 2 hours a week just looking at various pictures of the terracotta army. utterly entranced. look at the details in the hair. you'd never see ANY of this when they're lined up in formation, but they're there.  

theres about 8000 of these guys down there, no two faces are alike. they're works of art. they're the manifestation of a cruel despot's delusions of grandeur. a talisman against the terrible inevitability of death, both pathetic and strangely pitiful. like watching a child clinging to his blanket, begging you not to turn off the light. they were a bunch of insignificant clay statues from a side chamber that was so small and unremarkable, no one bothered to write down the location. they were modelled after real people. their only purpose was to serve qin shi huang in the afterlife, so he could reign in heaven as he did on earth. now the emperor is just a ghost and his pawns are immortal. my dad and i visited them in the dead of winter, on a weekday, just so we wouldn't have to deal with tourists like us. the place had easily 500 people--not including the ones below ground. we traveled to xian via the old "green skin" diesel train. there are faster means, like highspeed rail but dad insisted i try the authentic way, the same way he would have traveled when he was my age it was also like, a quarter of the price but im sure that had nothing to do with it! back in the 80s carriages would get so packed people had to have their luggage passed in via the windows. as we chugged along, i read my book and my dad made us cup noodles. car is just a shortened version of "carriage", the word is the same but the mechanism is different. it's the same in chinese. i think if i told someone from the warring states period i could travel from the Kingdom of Qi to Qin in just four hours with my metal carriage, i'd be laughed out of town--or accused of being a spy and sentenced to 'death by carriage.' we hopped off the train at 4am and took a different "carriage." the taxi driver joked; "basically every dynasty put their capital in xian, stick a shovel anywhere and you'll turn up some national treasure or another." i wonder what it would have felt like to be a farmer digging a well and then out pops a remarkably realistic human head. statistical analysis show the soldier's faces bear a strong similarity to people living in the region today. the taxi stopped in front of a jewellery-hawking tourist trap and refused budge an inch until we went inside. did you know the terracotta soldiers were originally multi-coloured and painfully gaudy, just like the greek marbles? they were made assembly-line style. the arms and legs were made from the same workshops that made clay plumbing pipes and roof tiles. for quality control, the artisans were required to stamp their names. the workers who built these tombs were executed shortly afterwards, because only dead men can be trusted with secrets. qin shi huang's mausoleum is unlikely to be excavated in my father's lifetime, or mine, not unless i'm willing to take a BIG ONE for the team... instead of the tomb, they built some kind of qin shi huang-themed theme park next to it. not only was it tacky as hell the entrance fee was like $50. we went to the museum and i looked at bronze tools and pottery shards for three hours. look why can't we just crack the thing open i can't be the only one here whos dying from curiosity what if we all just took turns digging

[brainworms-all-night-long]

Nine having issues, an incorrect quotes compilation for no one but myself, I miss my son

[theysangastheyslew]

This should all be taken with a grain of salt due to translation inaccuracies, but from what I can gather from the latest Q and A, all it says about Hange is that they are estranged from their family, she has some skill in housework but doesn't like to do it, and is the type to fly off somewhere then come home unexpectedly (akin to Eren apparently?).

Soooo basically all stuff we already learned from the character interview from years ago 🙄😒😮‍💨

Edit: Guess it also states in a character blurb that Hange is kind, beautiful, smart, stylish, and gets v embarrassed when being complimented. We been knew but still 😌

[lilacthebooklover]

me, looking at the most toxic, awful, horrendously unhealthy fictional relationship in the world: why can't i have what they have? :(

[uriswhumpchamber]

While I am not one to be held back by realism, sometimes it ends up making a scenario better. Like:

Whumpee is great at whatever it is they do. They have some sort of job where they need to retain information, be able to orient themselves, and the like. Their mind is amazing at that, and they're proud - incredibly proud of themselves. And then something happens - the hurt happens.

Maybe they're kidnapped and kept somewhere they don't know, maybe they're tortured for the same information they had before. Maybe they're in a bad accident and lost. Something they, by every metric they used before to feel accomplished, should be able to deal with. Making escape plans, being able to find their way out of places and back to wherever they want to get - it's their whole thing.

But they can't. They're in pain, and exhausted, maybe being tortured, maybe just too hurt or shaken up. And they can't think. They stumble, they get lost - they get a good look at the sky and cannot find North, no matter how hard they try to remember how to do that. They walk into their captors because they make a turn right instead of left, or perhaps just walk in circles for too long without even noticing. They run for the nearest exit only to get lost not even a few meters from it, their head spinning, unable to remember the map for that very same area they're sure they knew. They cannot think, at all, their mind completely empty of anything useful.

And their pride shatters.

[nevertheless-moving]

"Fornication," Wit whispered, staring with haunted eyes at nothing. "That's not Rayse at all. He stole - that reproducing bastard. He stole my breaths."

The rage in the generally amicable man's voice was enough to dissuade Kaladin from asking about the bizarre word choice.

Shallan, evidently, did not have that problem.

"Fornication?" she repeated incredulously.

"It's a curse word," Wit said through gritted teeth. "Used to be common, but it's fallen out of favor among shardplanets the last several thousand years for some stupid CHILD CREATING reason."

Wit snarled, pacing the tent furiously.

"Which is a real PLEASURABLE PHYSICAL INTERACTION shame because now i sound really copulatingly stupid swearing with connection based direct translations, but cursing by 'Gods' or the dead or the weather or whatever intense intimacy else this vigorous impregnation planet swears by is NOT as satisfying when i am this LOVEMAKINGLY angry."

Wit kicked a chair, which flew with shocking force, tearing a hole in sturdy canvas siding. He stared at the tear, exhausted, then collapsed, arms wrapping around himself.

"I'm sorry," he whispered to Jasnah, who was approaching cautiously, in full Armour. "I shouldn't have done that. I generally don't have enough of a temper to lose it like that, but...gender neutral attempt at babies. He stole my breaths. I don't even know how much I lost...it will take decades to do an inventory, and even then...there's important secrets I vowed to protect. Lost people I swore to remember. Oaths I can't even properly remember making anymore, but I have to - I..."

Jasnah knelt down, taking Wit in her arms as he wept softly.

"And I can't even coitally curse right anymore," he sobbed.

[dandelionjack]

i have a maybe lukewarm maybe hot take about this godforsaken show that some people could find mean, but i stand behind it, no elaboration (okay, some elaboration in the tags below… a lot of elaboration)

opinion: if you claim to like clara’s dynamic with the doctor and her character development in series 8 and 9, but simultaneously say you hate the impossible girl arc/elevenclara, you don’t actually understand anything about their relationship and what makes it the way that it is

[rosietrace]

“Midnight Waltz”

| Malleus Draconia + Victoria Shard | 🐉 + 🪞 |

✎ᝰ. synopsis : Malleus held out his hand to her, his eyes glowing under the darkness of the hall. There was a strange tug in Victoria's system, somehow urging her — convincing her — to take that step closer and intertwine her hand with his.

✎ᝰ. content warnings : takes place post-glorious masquerade, Victoria's dress description is inaccurate to the event color scheme due to this being written pre-redesign, potentially ooc

✎ᝰ. genre : romance, canon divergence, oc + canon character

( ˚₊· ͟͟͞➳❥ ) a/n : I have so many drafts in my docs its almost EMBARRASSING ☠️ so I saw that this was already finished among them and decided, “why the hell not?” and boom. I've finally posted it. Good for me ig [ dividers belong to the amazing @cafekitsune !!! ]

✎ᝰ. : reblogs > likes

“And just where do you think you're going?”

Whatever mood Victoria was in prior, it had immediately soured. Malleus Draconia came into view at the turn of her head.

“I'm leaving.” It was an answer, simple as that. It didn't warrant any other explanation; the festivities of Noble Bell had come to a close, and no matter the fireworks, the glimmering lights, and the enthusiasm of their schoolmates— none of it mattered.

It would all become a distant memory, one way or another. Maybe it would be something she could look back on with fondness.

Or maybe she'd forget a moment such as this. Just like so many others that came before it.

Her response made Malleus appear all the more displeased than usual. “Already?”

“It's past midnight, Draconia.”

“And I thought the festivities would finally get you to loosen up, Shard.”

“What point would there be in doing so?” So you could hold it over my head and mock me? She sure as hell wouldn't allow that.

“It's rare for you to not be so… yourself.”

Malleus didn't know how else to phrase it, it seemed. Even the sound of his voice bothered Victoria, almost as much as looking at him and his emeralds for eyes.

“... You're not in your masquerade garb,” Victoria acknowledged. Now all the prince wore was his Diasomnia uniform— complete with the boots and, in Victoria's humble opinion, equally ridiculous hat.

“Is that a problem?” he inquired. His stance militaristic, arms behind his back, head held high like any awaiting king would.

Oh, how Victoria yearned to knock him off that pompous throne. To be the one wearing the crown and staring him down, watching as he groveled.

Well, Victoria, you can't have everything, she told herself in mild disappointment.

It was already late into the night, and the bell at the top of the tower had ceased its ringing when Midnight struck. They shouldn't have been here, near each other, looking at each other.

Malleus spoke again, the bastard. “And what of you?” His hand lazily motioned to her. And for the slightest moment Victoria wished there was one more garment she could wear as a barrier between him and her.

She refused to let that show. “What of me?”

His eyebrow arched. “So late into the night, when everyone is tucked safely into their sleeping quarters…”

“And yet here you are: all dressed in white like a bride left at the altar.”

“Like you're any better,” Victoria shot back with a sneer. “You fancy an unchaperoned midnight stroll, Draconia?”

“The stars are of better company than the likes of you, dearest Shard.”

“How flattering.”

“I should hope so. It's probably the only genuine compliment you could ever get.”

Her eyes narrowed down into slits, her lips pressing together before she said, “Do not challenge my patience, Draconia.” Patience that was hanging by a very thin, very fragile thread.

But Malleus Draconia was a prince not so easily deterred. His eyes wandered. To the large stained glass windows at his right, the moon illuminating them in a strange yet no less stunning disposition of color.

His eyes focused back on her, raking over her from head to toe. How irritating that he remained with an obscured and masked face. Perhaps that was a blessing, Victoria wanted to convince herself.

“Would you care for a dance?”

The question came in a matter of seconds. Straight-laced, firm, not sounding even the least hesitant.

The hesitancy she expected radiated off of her, instead. He chuckled at the baffled expression on her face, his lips curving into the barest hint of a smile.

Naturally, Victoria wasn't quick to accept. She took a step back, one foot forward and the other backward, she folded her arms across her chest.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Then beg.”

“Don't play games with me, Draconia.”

“And what makes you think this is a game, Shard?”

“You don't have a reason to dance with me. Not willingly,” Victoria took another step, this time towards him. “Have you perhaps been spiked with some sort of hallucinating serum?”

Malleus scoffed. “Don't be daft…” yet he didn't say anything to what she'd said before that inquiry.

“Being daft is more in character for you,” Victoria said in a mockingly crooning tone, clasping her hands together and bringing them close to her cheeks, rocking slowly.

“You are crossing a line.”

“I've crossed many bridges, Draconia. All I've done after is watch them burn.”

“Do you only speak in metaphors?”

“Do you do nothing but annoy me for your entertainment?”

To which Malleus gritted out, “A dance is all I ask of you.” It seemed she'd done her job of tugging at his strings well enough.

Her lips curved. “And why do you think I'd agree to something like that?” They stared each other down, eyes blazing in intensity.

Malleus held out his hand to her, his eyes glowing under the darkness of the hall. There was a strange tug in Victoria's system, somehow urging her — convincing her — to take that step closer and intertwine her hand with his.

Malleus guided her to a vacant music room. It seemed to be lacking in actual use, all the inhabiting instruments covered in dust and stained with a spider's intricate cobweb.

Victoria sent him a look. He knew she was wondering how he'd come to discover this room, but he was better off ignoring the silent question for now.

Bringing forth a self-conducted orchestra was as easy as flicking Malleus' wrist. The instruments burst with life, floating mid-air and playing a tune for them to dance to.

With a turn of his heel, Malleus went back to facing her. Victoria, dressed like some ghostly bride, iridescent in a dress so white it bordered on blue.

He bowed, even if it struck a chord in his pride to do so. It was the gentlemanly thing to do, wasn't it?

He heard her release a huff. He kept his eyes to the ground, hand still extended to brush against hers when she finally gave in and reciprocated.

The ends of Malleus' lips ticked upwards as he pulled her close, his free arm snaking around her waist.

Victoria already held a deep scowl in her eyes. It only seemed to deepen in intensity once he'd made that gesture clear to her. “Draconia…”

“And what is it now, Shard?” said Malleus, far too smug for the better of others, or his own.

“Don't act sly,” Victoria sneered, synchronizing with his movements. “You don't look good when you're sly.”

He hummed thoughtfully. “So when I'm not, I do?”

She didn't say anything about that comment. When he felt a sting of pain in his foot, he knew that she stomped on it with her heel.

Malleus was more surprised about the lack of a puncture wound than the pain itself. With how sharp her heels were, he half-expected his foot to start bleeding.

But did that stop Malleus Draconia, prince of the Briar Valley abyss, to move forward and engage in a waltz with her? No. No, it did not.

There was little surprise in the way their movements synchronized; Victoria made for both a formidable academic opponent, so Malleus felt little shock with her formidability on the dance floor.

“You seemed to enjoy yourself,” stated Malleus, giving Victoria a twirl. “When the celebrations came, I mean.”

“Tsk.” Victoria's footsteps were hard against the floorboards of the music room. “What, did you expect me to rejoice when the crimson blossoms wreaked havoc?”

“With the kind of woman you present yourself as, I would hardly be surprised if you feigned outrage.”

“I don't need to feign it when all I have to do is look at you.”

“How flattering.” Malleus' eyes rolled heavenward. Why should he bother at this point? No matter what he did, Victoria Shard would not take kindly to him being… well, himself.

He jolted, his face grimacing with a sudden hiss of his teeth. Shard…

He looked down at her, at her sapphire-like eyes and the smug look on her face that dared feign ignorance.

“Shard.” Malleus glowered.

Victoria huffed, and he could've sworn she was trying desperately hard not to laugh in his face. “What, Draconia? Already so tired from our dance to forfeit?”

If this were a challenge, Malleus made the immature decision of stepping up to the challenge.

This woman— Malleus thought with gritted teeth after each hard, deliberate stomp Victoria performed directly on to his feet. More likely than not, he'd lost count at how many times she'd done it.

Perhaps at some point, Zenith would give him some sort of petty participation award. Preferably titled, Endured being repeatedly stomped in the feet by Victoria Shard.

“In all my centuries of walking this land, never have I encountered a woman as egregious as you.”

“Then I find myself lucky.”

“You simply can't help but make my blood boil, can you?”

“Oh, Draconia.” Victoria batted her eyelashes with a croon.

“It's my favorite pastime.”

How crude of her. Malleus felt his pride get struck by some arrow. Be it an arrow from Orion, or one by Eros, he could not tell the difference.

He wanted, so badly, to put her in her place. To set his foot down and speak sternly, warning her not to be so bold in any future interactions between them.

But it was difficult. Difficult having to deal with a woman so high on her horse that she's arrogant enough to try and kick him off his; Difficult to constantly maintain order when it became very clear that it was the very thing she didn't want out of him.

Difficult to know that— no matter what he did— he couldn't take his eyes off of her.

He dared stared longer than necessary; at her frame, the dress she wore, the choker around her neck, the color of her eyes.

Her lips.

Malleus came to an abrupt halt. In doing so, so did Victoria, as were the instruments that only played at his command.

Victoria nearly stumbled, but the arm around the small of her back kept its grasp secure to prevent her from truly falling, lest her pride be wounded even more after agreeing to this.

“Draconia?” She'd called out to him, with an arch of her brow and a honeyed edge to her voice that made him want to fall apart.

Malleus remained ever still, unsure of what to make of himself after thinking such accursed thoughts. He barely heard her.

“Draconia?” She could repeat his name a thousand times, for the rest of time, and the only thing it would ever do to him was make his heart melt because she was saying his name.

He wasn't staring at her. Not directly. Not at her eyes, or any of her accessories— but at her lips. His eyes locked on to them, his breath uneasily jagged.

A part of him wanted to let go. To give in. To finally reach out and indulge in something for his own sake, and not for the sake of his kingdom, no matter what consequences he may face in the long run.

But he didn't. Malleus was better than that— his pride was better than to stoop to the levels of some desperate loon.

Victoria grew restless, calling out to him once more. “Draconia, speak,” she demanded. “Say something, damn it. I don't care what you have to say, just say—”

A small yelp came out of her as Malleus pulled her closer, their noses brushing. Neither of the two tried to break the gazes they held— though in the case of Victoria, her eyes seemed wide in a manner that, to Malleus, appeared almost otherworldly.

The hand that intertwined with hers broke free of its own iron grip, soon making itself known by caressing her cheek. His thumb brushed over her lips, but this time his gaze never wavered while looking into her eyes.

That familiar, gorgeous ocean-like pool that he'd drown in, for as long as time would allow him to.

Seldom were the visions that plagued his mind. He shan't bring himself to indulge himself. For the good of his people, of his kingdom.

Of himself.

“Save your voice for after our waltz, my sweet villain.”

“... What the hell am I looking at?”

Miren rubbed his eyes a good three times, blinking all the while and even going as far as pinching himself. Anything to try and prove to him that what he was looking at was a dream.

Turns out it wasn't.

There he was, Malleus Draconia — prince of Briar Valley, ruler of the abyss — dancing with Victoria Shard.

“Well this just got interesting,” uttered Rosemi, lightly shoving Miren to the side so she too could take a peek through the barley open doorway.

Miren's eyes narrowed. “Rosemi.”

“Miren.” Rosemi’s voice remained perfectly pleasant, a tight-lipped smile on her face as she maintained her focus on the incredulous sight before her and not the glutton beside her.

“Oho, how scandalous, Miss Shard…”

Miren grimaced. Maybe it was the weird mumbling on Rosemi's part that was getting to him, but a part of him felt… bewildered? Regret? Whatever it was, Malleus and Victoria dancing was the source of it all.

But the moment looked — and felt — intimate. Peaceful. A calm before a storm that Miren didn't know when it could strike.

Yet Miren was no stranger to the obvious look in Malleus' eyes. His lips pursed, unsure of what to think.

Perhaps it was best to keep his thoughts to himself.

【 Taglist / Credits 】

↳ In order of Character appearances/mentions

Malleus Draconia

Victoria Shard — Me 😈

Zenith Devi — Also me 😈

Miren Lockhart — @authoruio

Rosemi Columbina — Also @/authoruio

@starry-night-rose | @jasdiary | @nem0-nee | @fumikomiyasaki | @sakuramidnight15 | @geminiiviolets | @valse-a-mille-temps | @hallowed-delights / @terrovaniadorm | @twistedsongstressofstarz | @twsted-princess @mystery-skulls-ghost | @absolutelyobsessedkiya | @lueerhythm | @cecilebutcher

[operator-report]

cw: ableism, Worm spoilers through Scourge 19.7

Thinking about Marissa Newland in the club tonight (Saturday afternoon). What a fast track for needing to go lie down.

Do you ever think about what it takes to be able to kill your best friend? What would your relationship with that friend need to be like? ("Sundancer spoke up, calling out, 'Remember the promise we made together.' Noelle didn’t reply.) How would you need to think of her? ("Hate these runs. People look at me funny when I bring a cart of meat and only meat.") How badly would you need to want to go back to your old life? ("How's life among the Travelers?" "Intense. Violent. Lonely.")

The Travelers entire team dynamic is a hideous torment nexus, but the collapse of Noelle and Marissa's friendship really gets to me. Going from Marissa always making sure Noelle ate to Marissa being ashamed of the food runs is agony. Marissa was Noelle's friend who cared for her, and cared about her, the most. Now, when Marissa talks to Noelle, she doesn't respond. Marissa can hold Dinah while she's sick in Noelle's cage, but can no longer reach out to Noelle. All care is completely cut off - Noelle is only a disease, who needs to be managed and grieved.

Marissa hates hurting people, but she can kill Noelle. Taylor just has to first tell Marissa that Noelle is no longer herself. (“She’s… she was my best friend.” “She’s not Noelle anymore.”)

Of course, it's so much more nightmarishly complicated than that. Marissa isn't a bad person, here - she's handling a horrible situation imperfectly. Marissa still loves Noelle. She insists to Taylor over and over again that Noelle is her friend, despite everything. But for one hideous moment, Marissa has to believe that Noelle isn't there, that the thing that Noelle has become isn't really her friend, isn't a person, before she can do the deed. And then Marissa goes right back to mourning.

It's awful. It's an incredibly well-executed tragedy. I don't really have much of a point beyond that, other than, damn. It really does suck that Noelle's friends - even her friend who best understood her struggles - no longer see Noelle as a person. Can't believe that's what killed her, in the end.

[moash]

this is such a good post and highlights something i find really interesting about brandon’s writing! this is a really good example of a writing technique brandon likes to employ called “bad writing.” writers typically use bad writing when they are incapable or unwilling to write something better. though the relationship was underdeveloped in wor, several characters in oathbringer comment on it being deeper and more intimate than any of the others that kaladin had. this is a brilliant subversion of the traditional writing advice “show, don’t tell,” where instead of showing us the relationship, brandon simply tells us it was there and mattered. he employs this subversion in a similar fashion when he states that moash was the only member of bridge four to treat kaladin as a man not a god, but he takes it a step further in this instance by having moash’s feelings later devolve into idolatry. since the previous treatment this change is meant to contrast is “told” instead of “shown,” we end up with another incredible example of “bad writing.” i find brandon’s use of bad writing to be really thoughtful and unique since he employs just enough “good writing” to keep your expectations up, so the full force of the “bad writing” moments hit to full effect! :)

[sunnyandflame]

Twitter

[thevikingwoman]

written for @idrellegames Wayfarer's 3rd anniversary!

Fandom: Wayfarer IF | Words: 608 | Read on Ao3

Vy Shard & Aeran Kellis | before episode 1 | gen Rating: Teen. Swearing, Vy is not having a good time, strained friendship, Rona being Rona, bronde Aeran

Rock Bottom

It’s raining. Again.

 Since they’ve arrived in Rona, Vy has counted more days of rain than without. Their hair is perpetually frizzy, its pearlescent waves impossible to tame. They prefer it short anyways, but since there’s no way they can disappear into a crowd, at least it would be nice to look good.

Rona is not a good look on anyone.

Case in point, Aeran strides through the door, water running down his face from his wet hair. It looks almost dark brown when wet, his curls pulled out except one stubbornly stuck to his forehead.

“Anything?”

Aeran grunts and doesn’t answer, shrugging off his wet coat. He hangs it on the rusty hook by the door. Then he shakes his head like a dog and runs his hands through his hair. It now sticks up in a mess.

“I ran into Oleander,” he says instead of answering Vy’s question. Typical.

“And?”

“He wanted the rent.” Aeran sits on the chair – the only piece of furniture in the room besides their mattresses and a rickety table, and pulls off his boots. “Had to pay him.”

“That was the last of our crowns, wasn’t it? A day early.”

“It was.”

“So – did you find anything.”

“The leads both vanished. Got someone else already.”

“Both of them? Fuck!”

They finally have been getting some jobs, and some good reputation, so of course two good leads evaporate. Just like theirs did.

“Mine was a dead end too. No longer a problem, apparently.”

It feels like half the time the jobs they hear about end up vanishing into thin air. Some days they wish they could too. Rona is a fucking nightmare. They should never have let Aeran convince them to come here.

They sigh, and gets up, crossing the small room to search the table. They rummage through the boxes and bags.

“There should be some bread,” Aeran says.

“It’s stale.” They purchased it cheaply as day old bread, but that was three days ago. And there’s only two slices left anyway. They toss one at Aeran. It’s hard. He doesn’t even attempt to eat it.

“A bit of sausage.” 

They find a knife and start slicing. It’s not much but it’s what they have.

“We could go to the soup kitchen,” Aeran suggests.

“No fucking way.” They hate it. The reminder of those years, before Cenric found them. Hungry, scraping by, useless and magicless, begging and stealing for scraps. They chop angrily at the remainder of the sausage. “I’m not going.“

“Well, maybe I am.”

Irritation has seeped into Aeran’s voice.

“You’re the one who spend our last crowns.”

“What did you want me to do, Vy? Tell Oleander to fuck off? The last thing we need is to be on the streets.”

“Fuck!” The knife clatters, and they instinctively stick their finger in their mouth, the sting of the cut pulsing. Sleeping on the streets of Rona – they don’t want to even think about it.

“Here.” Aeran hands them the medical kit. “It’s not going to come to that, Vy.”

They find a strip of cloth to tie around their finger. Half of the already meager pieces of sausage are covered in blood drops. Disgusted, they discard the whole thing.

“Let’s go,” they say. “Fucking soup line it is.”

“Maybe things will change soon,” Aeran says, pulling on his soggy boots again. “We’ll find a good job. Something that pays well.”

Vy snorts. “Sure. Maybe one of the Seven will hire us to guard and old lady for an astronomical sum.”

“Maybe,” Aeran grins.

Things better improve soon. It’s not like there’s any place worse to go from here.

[ruiniel]

yes i do believe Gojo would obliterate Geto right there in his own temple beneath those hanging scrolls. not in a fight

[evangelistofmurder]

Chapter 4 Musing + Bonus thoughts in tags

I've been thinking about this recently and realized: Yakou did have a chance of surviving the gas but made the deliberate choice not to:

[Solution Key - Toxic Gas Properties]

Yakou could have asked Desuhiko for a space suit; I don't even think the latter would question it either, this hammers more of the fact that the plan was a murder-suicide from the start. Though, this is the same man who takes dying over and over again in considering and still went through with it.

He really only needed Desuhiko's and Fubuki's fortes to enact the murder, but he brings Halara and Vivia to the lab as well. Yakou knows damn well the peacekeepers, especially Yomi will look for any excuse to arrest/execute the NDA. He brings Halara and Vivia to protect Fubuki, Desuhiko and Yuma; Yomi accuses the remaining NDA detectives for Yakou's 'murder' anyways. It was somewhat fruitless but the fact of the matter is to say even when lying to the others he did still care about them. Just as much as Yakou cared about the NDA the latter cared about Yakou just as much too. Yakou was really the heart of the NDA; Yakou just never took into account that everyone else would try desperately to save his life instead of just leaving him. (Going on a whim, to say he probably thought they'd just leave like how his former detectives left to join the peackeepers).

Yuma trying to beg Yomi to get Yakou medical attention, Fubuki using all her energy to rewind time in order save him, Halara administrating first aid after fighting the peackeepers, Desuhiko having to tell Fubuki to not to turn back time any further so the Chief can rest because it is too late and Vivia just standing there walking away since he doesn't know how to deal with it and express it directly. Hell, Halara was potentially giving CPR to his corpse in hopes that he'd stay alive after Yuma and Vivia checked Huesca's logs.

Finally, there's everyone's collective survivors guilt. It's safe to assume everyone knew what happened before Number One called in whether Yuma or Vivia said something; There's also Kurumi who wasn't even at the lab asking if they made a mistake by going.

In closing, it's a tragedy in every single way and I don't even think I hit everything in this musing; To me this is more focused on the NDA's perception of events

[I'd appreciate if people made responses to this by the way!!]

[eddith]

LOL This is me with damianfinch on ao3, i love their smutty fics so much and zosan are always so on point, the characterization goes crazy in their fics.