#way too blackened and vicious

[silviakundera]

today's random snippets of strangely established relationship moments in the Story of Kunning Palace novel. wherein our girl is grieving for You Fangyin.

//

But today, she didn't say or do anything, yet Xie Wei seemed to know what she was thinking.

She did want to talk to someone.

It's just that after realizing that he knew everything, she kept in silence, and it seemed that there was no need to say any more.

Jiang Xuening sat down quietly on the small wooden bench next to the stove, watched Xie Wei put the chopped diced into the ready-to-cook porridge, took a spoon to stir it slowly, and finally said: "I haven't really killed people."

Xie Wei stirred it well, and put the lid on the pot again.

He also sat down by the stove, next to her. His eyes fell on the red-hot coals, and he was extremely calm: "There is always a first time."

Jiang Xuening slowly hugged her knees, leaned down, blinked, seemed to be thinking more, and did not speak.

Xie Wei was beside her.

After waiting for a while, when the outside was completely quiet, he poured some porridge into a bowl and served it to her. The two of them didn't bother to move an extra table, they just sat by the stove and ate a half-hot bowl in this slightly cold frosty night.

Xie Wei sent her back to the house, knowing that she was not in a very good mood. He tucked her into the bed, kissed her on the lips, and said: "We won't practice the qin tomorrow morning, you can sleep late."

[... Some Time Later...]

Zhou Yinzhi gritted his teeth, stared at her, and his voice came out of his throat like dripping blood: "The girl promised! That letter! You clearly promised, as long as I am willing to help the insider, you will forget the past, forgive me."

Jiang Xuening looked at him with pity: "So you actually believed it?"

At this moment, Zhou Yinzhi's face turned ashen.

But Jiang Xuening just raised her head, looked at the city gate that had been opened wide, thinking that the world is ridiculous, and said slowly: "That's right, in the eyes of Mr. Zhou, a person like me is considered good and easy to deceive."

She thought, it's getting late, and it's better not to delay the army from entering the city.

So she stretched out her hand to the swordsman beside her.

Jianshu handed the sword to her.

She has almost never held a sword. The sharp long sword was pulled out of the sheath, as if the weight of human life was pressed on the blade, and it fell heavily on the human wrist. When the sky shone, the cold light glistened!

Zhou Yinzhi was struggling.

But there were soldiers on the left and right who came up and held him down.

Jiang Xuening was struggling to hold the sword.

Xie Wei stepped up, covered hers with his palm, helped her hold the sword tightly, only directed it towards Zhou Yinzhi's neck, and smiled softly: "I'll teach you."

[perlelune]

Oxytocin | Coriolanus Snow | i.

One act of kindness from a peacekeeper may be your salvation or your doom. Possibly both.

Warnings: NON-CON, Blackmail, District 8 Reader, Stalking, Kidnapping

This is a dark story. Heed warnings before reading under the cut.

𝖘𝖊𝖗𝖎𝖊𝖘 𝖒𝖆𝖘𝖙𝖊𝖗𝖑𝖎𝖘𝖙

Bitterness burns in your gut as you watch the yellowed pages of one of your favorite books curl and blacken amidst the weak flames of the hearth.

You want to cry. You really do. But it wasn’t the first and it won’t be the last. The winters of District 8 are infamously harsh and long.

You wouldn’t have survived it. So you stare with dry eyes and an empty chest as your childhood memorabilia turns to ash.

A wheezy cough tears through your melancholy. Panic rips through you as you get up and whirl. You dash to a small bed across the room and hunker down near your cousin.

You hold her hand, despising how tiny and feeble it feels in yours. 

It wasn’t always like this. She used to drag you around the cabin, eager to play, her high-pitched laugh bouncing off its molded walls.

Tears you managed to quell before now rush to your eyes.

You cup her face. Sickness has drained the color from it.

“You’re gonna get better, I swear.”

She gives a weary smile, but it’s interrupted by another fit of wet coughs that makes her entire frail frame shake. Your stomach plummets at the sight. Even you struggle to believe the words that crossed your own lips.

Everyday your younger cousin seems worse off than the one before it. Her medicine has long since run out. So has the food. Your modest wages from working in the factory won’t come for another fortnight. And there are little to no wares left to trade in the rickety wooden cabin. 

Nothing except you. 

The mere thought sends a shudder through you.

Though the virtue of some lowly district 8’s guttersnipe isn’t worth much, you bet you could easily find a buyer. A warm body is as good as any after all. Besides, you haven’t missed the lascivious glares wandering your way sometimes when you hasten through the streets of the city at night. 

You shake your head.

No.

While your virtue isn’t worth much in this awful world, you will hold on to it for as long as you can. Some modicum of dignity. Maybe it’s too much to ask for someone like you, too…greedy. But it’s the one thing you get in this life. Your one gift. You belong to yourself and no one else.

“Hungry…” your cousin whispers between pained exhales. The orange glow from the chimney outlines the sickly grayness of her skin and the sweat dotting her forehead.

You squeeze her hand, rubbing her fingers against yours. Maybe some of your warmth will seep into her. You can only hope.

“I know, Tilly… but there isn’t any food left anymore.”

At the mention of food, your shriveled up stomach reminds you of its unfortunate existence. Hunger twists your insides, vicious and relentless. As always.

Determination sparks inside you, tiny embers shifting into a furnace of iron hot will.

You rise to your feet. 

Tilly will not die. You will not die.

You plant a soft kiss on her forehead. Her eyes flutter closed as she drifts away, her glassy gaze finding the cracks and webs scattered across the ceiling.

She seems to look at nothing at all. It worries you. Tilly’s all you have left, the rest of your family having succumbed to disease, failed uprisings or some accident at the factory.

“I promise to bring food, and something to cure your cold.”

A cold. 

Another lie. For her or for you… who knows this time. Deep inside, you’re aware no common cold lasts this long or is this nasty. 

But you cling to the lie. Because you need it. Because without it you have nothing. 

Nothing to wake up for, nothing to go work another unending, grueling day at the textile factory, nothing to suffer another day in the hell that District 8 is. 

A few minutes later, you’re at the door. 

Outside, the winter winds swaddle you in their cool embrace. White clouds surround you as you unleash a deep breath. Through the thin soles of your shoes, you can feel the icy stones with each step. You slither through the narrow alleys, hood low on your brow as you ponder the plan you hatched less than an hour ago. 

It’s beyond stupid. You could get thrown in jail if caught. Or worse. 

But what else is there to do? 

You’re past the age to sign up for tesserae, and you’d never subject your cousin to the disturbing possibility of being chosen in the next reaping just to fill your stomach. 

You finally reach the grand marketplace. It’s crowded with folks, like every morning. You remain hidden by a brick wall, a strategic spot where shadows engulf you, where you can survey the place as you wish. The perfect way to begin enacting your stupid plan. 

Anticipation has your fingertips twitching against the stones.

You note how easy it’d be to mingle with the crowd, how some of the merchants don’t keep a perpetual eye on their wares.

And most importantly, you note the lack of peacekeepers. You squint, seeking a glimpse of the terrifying blue uniforms. Disbelief flutters through you at the realization none of them is here.

Such a chance never presents itself…yet it’s prancing right before you today. 

As your eyes land on a luscious spread of colorful fruits sitting on a stand a few feet away, your mouth waters.

How easy it would be.

When’s the last time you ate anything solid? You can hardly recall.

Slow, ginger steps drag you right before the stand. Busy chatting with a customer, the merchant doesn’t see you. 

Hope blooms inside you. This is your shot. You just need to be quick, so quick he won’t even notice before you’re long gone.

Your tremulous hand creeps out of your coat. The uproarious drumming of your heart fills your ears, louder as your fingers get closer to the tantalizing skin of the fruit.

Just a few inches. 

“What are you doing, little bird?” 

Startled, you release a sharp breath. Long, pale fingers cinch around your wrist, causing you to drop the fruit. It hits the wet cobblestones with a soft thud, sending your hopes crashing down alongside it.

You whirl to the stranger beside you.

“You little thieving whore…”

Numb with fear and shock, the merchant’s irate curses dwindle to a faint echo. 

The stranger’s towering frame forces you to lift your gaze to the sky, and you are met with eyes bluer than its expanse. 

Lost in his unsettling stare, you take entirely too long to notice his uniform. The gear is unmistakable. You have threaded your fair share of the fabric over the years, sewn hundreds of uniforms just like the one before you.

A peacekeeper. 

A wave of snow ripples through your back. 

Your entire body turns to stone in his grip, your eyes as wide as plates.

This is exactly what you feared would happen. And now it has.

As stormy irises take you in, you see your miserable life melt in a smoldering sea of blue.

Run.

It’s the only thought in your head as you jerk your hand away from his fingers.

Your body leaps into action, adrenaline pumping through your veins. White puffs of your short breaths flow around you as you dive into the nearest dark alley, hoping to disappear through a drain hole and lose your pursuer. 

But you don’t get far. 

Only a few minutes into your panicked race, the hard sole of a boot connects with the back of your knee. A shriek of pain tears from your throat as you tumble to the floor. 

Wincing, you lift your head.

The tall, lanky figure of the peacekeeper looms over you. Your chest seizes. He holds up the bright red fruit you tried to steal in his right hand. Sunlight limns his frame, threading silver in his white hair, making him appear almost angelic.

How deceptive when he is your doom.

If it weren't for him, you’re convinced you’d have gotten away with it. 

“Hey, I think you forgot this,” he deadpans.

Your brows knit at his casual tone. You wonder if he’s toying with you.

“Please, I… I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to…”

Mirth illuminates his cerulean gaze as he scoffs, “So you meant to pay?”

Unsure what to respond, you choke on your words.

“I…”

Silence expands, its oppressive weight clogging your airways. 

You could lie, or try to. But he saw you, stopped you. He knows exactly what you attempted to do.

So instead of stating your case, you bolt to your feet. Ignoring the needles pricking at your knee where he kicked you, you attempt to flee again.

This time it’s barely seconds before he catches you.

He picks you up and slams you against the wall with frightening ease. Fighting him would be for naught. There is no strength left in you. Still, you try.

The pitiful attempts to claw at his bicep leave the peacekeeper unfazed.

His deathly grip on your neck doesn’t relent.

“Where do you think you’re going, birdie?”

“Please, my cousin needs me.”

He studies you and your stomach sinks at how empty his eyes are. An errant tear makes a slow descent down your cheek.

He plucks it, the soft pad of his finger tracing the salty trail.

“Stop crying. I’m not like them. You can trust me.”

“You’re a peacekeeper,” you retaliate, forehead creased in confusion. Peacekeepers exist to enact the Capitol’s will by any means necessary. Their name couldn’t be more misleading, as peace is rarely how they go about solving an issue. 

The blond’s cheek flares ever-so-slightly.

To your utter shock, his hold on your neck slackens.

You gulp a wide lungful of air, rubbing your throat where he held so tight. It’s sore. You wouldn’t be surprised if it were to bruise the next day. 

“My name’s Coriolanus. What’s yours?”

While he backs away, he’s still crowding your space in a way you don’t like. 

Stubborn lips remaining sealed, you glare at him. He steps away from you.

“You don’t want to say?” The corner of his plump lips twists upwards. “I’ll keep calling you bird then, since you keep trying to fly away from me.”

You gasp when he suddenly tosses the crimson fruit in your hands.

“Eat.”

His steely inflection is more order than suggestion. You scowl down at the fruit. Every cell in your body longs to take a bite of it…but you don’t.

“What?” you reply dumbly.

It has to be some kind of trap. Is the apple even safe to eat? Maybe this peacekeeper is the sadistic type and he wants to watch you wither in agony for his sick pleasure.

Still, the longer you peer at the luscious, colorful flesh of the fruit, the more your stomach growls, begging you to just take a bite even if it means running headlong towards your possible death.

Coriolanus heaves out a deep sigh.

“I can tell from the way you were eying that apple earlier that it’s been a long time, right?” he guesses, all too accurately for your liking.

His gaze holds yours.

“I know what it’s like to be hungry, sweet bird…” You go statue-still as he bends over to whisper in your ear, “So hungry, you’d do anything for it to stop.”

The faint scent of roses tickles your nose. You smelt it once before, on a lavish dress you spent hours sewing meant for one of the fancy ladies at the Capitol. You recall shoving the tiniest piece of the silk in your pocket and smelling it every chance you got. But the nice scent quickly faded.

Yet that same scent, that crisp, delicate, slightly dizzying aroma…It clings to the boy in front of you.

You glower at him.

“How would you even know? You’re one of them.”

His jaw ticks as his eyes flicker.

“Eat,” he insists, this time more firmly.

Your insides wrench. You could fight him on it, again. But you have an inkling that this boy, this Coriolanus, usually gets his way.

So you bite into the apple.��

The sweet juice that coats your tongue and chin afterwards is heaven. The savors explode in your mouth. You could weep. It’s been an eternity since you ate something this fresh and delicious.

But once you realize his curious stare is on you, you stop eating and hastily wipe your mouth and chin. 

“See? Isn’t it better?” he inquires smugly.

You don’t tell him how good it felt, especially after so long. Days, maybe weeks. You don’t know anymore. Every day tends to blend into the other here.

Instead, heated words pour out of you.

“Why are you helping me?”

He shrugs. “Why not?”

You don’t like his cryptic demeanor. Nor his nice smell. Nor his striking eyes. Nor his sharp, handsome features.

Everything about Coriolanus seems so out of place in District 8.

After a few minutes of silence, he nods and walks away.

“See you around, sweet bird.”

A shiver travels along your spine.

You wish for the opposite, to never ever see him again. And though the words never escape the confine of your lips, it’s as if he could hear the unspoken venom sizzling the tip of your tongue.

Coriolanus smiles at you as he leaves.

[hereforthehitsbaby]

Hoodie | Cooper Adams/Abbott x F!Reader

Gif Credit to @billy-crudup

Synopsis: I can't keep your love / I can't keep your kiss / Gave you everything and all I got was this

Warnings: She’s angsty babe, Mentions of Murder, The Butcher Mentions, Mentions of Suicide, Cheating/Infidelity, SWAT, Guns, Reader 100% is down bad for Cooper even with what he did, It’s giving Stockholm Syndrome but the reader isn’t captured by him

Rating: PG

Word Count: 4.6K

Author’s Note: You know, you can thank my manic episode for this. Also I know the song has a totally different meaning but, my brain took over and who am I to stop her?

If you would like to be tagged, please fill this out

You'd probably think I was psychotic (if you knew) / What I still got in my closet (sad but true) / I slip it on over my shoulders / Something I'll never get over / It makes me feel a little bit closer to you

Loss; the fact or process of losing something or someone. No one knows how to properly process loss – though there are no guidelines on the correct way. It comes in various shapes and sizes – not always as transparent as it is expected to be. That’s what makes the human experience so different across vast networks, everyone processes emotions in ways not one human can comprehend. It’s the equivalent to time, there are so many seconds whirling by, impossible it is to grasp how many different processors truly run for one emotion. Some cry, some wither away to nothing, some lash out, some lose their sobriety. A slim majority does not react, because to them – why would anything good stick around? Why do they deserve it? Abandonment is a fickle bitch, and something you got too used to knowing.

Learning that people weren’t a permanent staple point in life was the worst thing for you, because then you started to expect everyone to leave, at one time or another. Maybe that was the countless times it has happened to you talking but, it’s a feeling that never leaves the back of your mind. It sits there, claws at parts of your brain you’re not supposed to use, sinking deeper and deeper into every soft part of flesh until it blackens. The rot taking over, making you feel helpless until pulling away is the only option. It’s a vicious cycle that you can never seem to break, no matter how hard you try. Which sucks, expecting the worst when you more than deserve the best. And the best came in the form of an amazing, well educated, humble man.

I can't keep your love / I can't keep your kiss / Gave you everything and all I got was this

You never anticipated falling in love with Cooper Adams, or Abbott as he is now known. But sometimes you cannot anticipate destiny, but only let her play out. All it took for you was a kitten stuck in the stone foundation of your home, coming to find out four different litters were calling it home. Cooper was the one to find them, rescue all fifteen of them, and even adopt one for the station. He stayed with you as he helped to clear out the deceased bodies, as you cried holding their little forms for feeding, and as you nursed them back to full health. He was never without you, only living two houses over. Never would he lie about where he was, his wife knew all too well – but refused to get in the way of Logan and Riley seeing the kittens. She suspected, but never could find reason.

All it took for you to realize Cooper was your person, was when you were ready to leave for work and found him under your car, jacked up and tire freshly replaced. You didn’t even realize you had a flat, Cooper saw it before he was about to leave for work. He knew that your car was your lifeline, working over forty minutes away. He wouldn’t let you suffer like that, out in the cold and all, freezing your ass off with cold fingers. No, he tossed on a hoodie and cap, put himself to work and was rewarded with the promise of dinner. He held you to that, to the kitchen table, to the kitchen island, to the couch, the stairs, and lastly the bedroom – all in one night. You both knew it was wrong, but he couldn’t lie to himself; What he and Rachel had was over the second Logan turned four. They were coexisting in the same house, playing their parts to a tee without any hesitation. They kept to themselves, saying goodbyes and I love yous in front of the kids – but they knew it was done. It was you who made Cooper feel alive again – made him feel loved. He had lost that so long ago he wondered if it was real for him anymore. You’d do anything for him; Lie, hide, and even believe.

It was obvious from your fourth month into this affair that Cooper was The Butcher – an accidental slip up of coming back to you smelling of cleaning product. It was only obvious from the slight chemical irritation on his forearms, the small hives a clear reaction. It wasn’t a firehouse cleaning product but more of a hospital type – meaning that he got his hands on heavy duty stuff, which he could’ve only gotten without being suspicious through your account. Working in the medical field was a blessing but, in that moment you thought for a second it was a curse. You could see the glimmer he had for you brighten with the inclusion of tears welling, heartbroken you’d have to be his next victim. But that all changed once you held Cooper’s face in your hands, rubbing back and forth on his cheeks as you smile proudly; “I accept you, my love. We can manage, I won’t tell a soul.” If he had been honest, Cooper didn’t trust you at first. But when days turned into weeks, and those turned into months with no one coming after him, he knew he hit the jackpot.

I'm still rocking your hoodie / And chewing on the strings / It makes me think about you / So I wear it when I sleep / I kept the broken zipper / And cigarette burns / Still rocking your hoodie / Baby, even though it hurts / Still rocking your

Tonight, Cooper was supposed to come home to you after taking Riley to see Lady Raven, something she worked hard for over the course of six months to go. Cooper was so proud of her and the great report card she had gotten, you were proud of her as well. Lady Raven was her idol, someone she found solace in when her preteen angst was acting up. Cooper wanted to do something special for her; A night she would never forget for the rest of her life. You remember Cooper saying he visited the box office at the arena right before they closed, buying the last floor seats – the closest Riley could get to Lady Raven. It was everything he could’ve hoped for and more – though he wished he remembered to remove the receipt from his wallet, hiding it in case Riley found out. You knew he wouldn’t come over automatically, he still needed to keep the façade up, act like he was still a family man even though all he wanted to do once the kids fell asleep, was be with you.

With the concert starting early during the day, you knew Cooper wouldn’t come back to you until later tonight, around ten or eleven depending. But you missed him; The warmth of his body as he hugged you from behind, the weight of his arms against your chest, the soft feel of his stubble scraping along your cheek as he nuzzled your neck. You both were in a completely different world when you were together, at the door was his first life – with you was his second. Cooper was always adamant on the two lives not touching, which you could understand. But sometimes you wished they did, wished you could be involved in his first life without the repercussions, it was a fucked way of thinking but, nothing with Cooper made you feel rational. It made you want to be the only one – though that could never happen. At the end of the day he was coming home to you, not Rachel, and that would have to do.

The brisk October air flowed through the open living room window so quickly you didn’t hesitate to wrap Cooper’s hoodie around your torso, taking in the musky smell of his cologne and the firehouse. Cooper loved seeing you in his clothing, how happy it made you, how the gleam in your eye shone brighter with every second you wore it. When the first feel cold breeze of autumn rolled through your house a few weeks ago, Cooper quickly discarded the hoodie he had recently gotten from the firehouse, marking the eighteenth-year anniversary that he started. No effort was wasted when he came up behind you, sliding it up your arms and zipping it up neatly. For a few seconds he patted the shoulders down over your form, seeing how it hugged you beautifully. In that moment you saw it in his eyes; Love, he was in too deep too. From that day forward, you never stopped wearing it when he wasn’t home, needing to feel closer to him. To be one with him.

I used to put my hand in your pockets (holding on) / The smell of your cologne is still on it (but you're still gone) / I slip it on over my shoulders / Someone I'll never get over / It makes me feel a little bit closer to you

Grabbing at the shoulder of the hoodie, you brought it to your nose for a deep inhale – smiling softly as you smelled Cooper’s cologne, fresh from the other day. Bergamot and pine invaded your nose, causing your eyes to roll back. There was something so intoxicating about his scent, it drove you silently mad in the best way possible – you didn’t want to let that go for anything in the world. It was your way of feeling like he was with you, when he couldn’t be. Your way of grounding yourself in the moment, planning on what you two would do when he came over. Deep into the fantasy you were creating in the moment, you didn’t hear the racing sound of sirens coming down the street – see the bright flashes of red and blue lights flowing through your home, or hear the screaming until it was too late. “Logan, don’t forget to turn in your science project!”

Your ears perked up at the sound of Cooper’s voice, growing giddy at the fact you were going to see him so soon. Opening your eyes you were met with the flashes of police lights coming from the open curtains, your stomach dropping as you heard the garage door close a few houses away. Cooper. Running from the living room to the front door, you slid on your boots quicker than you could have ever guessed, slamming the door open against the wall. With Cooper’s hoodie still wrapped around your body, you walked quickly down the sidewalk where there was a small crowd gathering, seeing a limo, Rachel, Logan, Riley, and even Lady Raven standing outside of the Adams residence, SWAT officers with their guns drawn as they secured the perimeter of the house. You didn’t know what to believe or ask what was going on. But as soon as Riley and Logan ran past you to another woman’s car, you got your answer.

Rachel turned around in slow motion to see Logan and Riley off, in the midst of it all catching your eye in the crowd. Tears were welling in the corners for you, as hers were bloodshot from crying. Her arms wrapped around herself as she let her eyes roam over your torso, seeing the firehouse symbol with the big 18 in yellow font. Her slack face drew up in confusion, then to realization. Your heart was in your throat as you slowly backed away, trying to get a clear angle in the house to see what Cooper was up to. It was only then that everything caught up in your mind. They found out. They all found out Cooper is The Butcher. Your hands grew clammy, starting to shake at what this all meant. If I am ever found out sweetheart, the only way out of it is to kill myself.

I can't keep your love / I can't keep your kiss / Gave you everything and all I got was this / I'm still rocking your hoodie / And chewing on the strings / It makes me think about you / So I wear it when I sleep / I kept the broken zipper / And cigarette burns / Still rocking your hoodie / Baby, even though it hurts

A sob trickled out of your mouth without you realizing, tears falling heavily as you spun around to face your house. No one was giving you any attention as you cried, all probably thinking someone had died. But to you, he was close to it. With shaky fingers you managed to grab your phone out of the hoodie pocket, unlocking it quickly with your passcode. The first number up in your latest calls was Cooper from earlier today; How excited he was to see Riley so happy, how he was going to make her year with this, how did things go so wrong? Clicking on his name, you brought the phone up to your ear, hearing the three rings before it went to voicemail. “Fuck,” you whimpered, sniffling back a sob you could feel at its crest. Swallowing as you clicked his name again, and again, and again, and again, all until your phone screen went black. “Fuck!” You yelled out as you started to make your way back towards your home, but not before someone caught your arm, spinning you around in place.

You could feel how warm your face was from crying, how the salty tears dried against your cheek uncomfortably. You were shivering but not from the cold, from fear of losing Cooper. Blinking the unshed tears from your eyes, you let your pupils focus on who spun you around, being met with the dull eyes of Rachel Adams, her face stoic, yet scared. “How long?” She whispered, afraid to speak up louder. There was only one right answer, yet you couldn’t muster it out of you. Your mouth fell open to respond but, nothing came out. “Please,” Rachel sighed, her lip in a small pout for a moment as she tried to regulate her emotions. A sad smile came across your lips as you reached forth with your empty hand, holding her hand softly. “I think you know, Rachel.” It was better than giving an exact timeline, and enough to where nosy neighbors didn’t have to know either. Rachel let out the breath she was holding, a fresh wave of tears coating her eyes as she tightened her grasp on your hand. It wasn’t out of malice or anger, but closure. Giving you a smile that matched your own, Rachel rubbed your hand in both of hers, nodding before she walked off to the house.

Still rocking your hoodie / And chewing on the strings / It makes me think about you / So I wear it when I sleep / I kept the broken zipper / And cigarette burns / Still rocking your hoodie / Baby, even though it hurts / Still rocking your

It was time for you to do the same; Needing to charge your phone in case Cooper called. You were hoping he didn’t do anything stupid; you were hoping he was okay. “There’s a tunnel to the neighbors yard, he’s not here!” That was the last you heard before stepping back inside.

-----

Nightfall was upon you, the darkened sky matching your mood as you laid on the couch, phone on the coffee table as the news silently drones on in the background. Your eyes were fixated on the TV, fresh tears you had not been aware of were falling, covering the pillow under your head. It had been over two hours since Cooper was found out to be The Butcher. Every new channel was running the story, posting the clips from the venue of Cooper with Riley and Lady Raven. Reporters were outside of the Adams residence, covering every new detail that came up. You were sure that was highly illegal since it was active scene by the FBI, but you couldn’t find yourself to care. Not when your whole life had just been turned upside down. Your boyfriend found out to be a murderer, his wife knowing he was having an affair, everything was a mess.

Any little sound you heard coming from your window you jumped at, hoping it was Cooper. But alas, it was just another reporter staking themselves out on your lawn, wanting a hit of the newest story from this scene. You needed to see the house, everything. You needed to know if this was all real or a bad dream. Laying around on the couch was only going to get you so far – this would give you closure if he was captured, or if something else had happened. Standing up from your position on the couch, you felt yourself getting lightheaded for a moment, shaking off the imbalance for a moment before moving. As you stretched upwards to cracked everything in you, a visceral scream could be heard around the neighborhood – one full of rage and fear, one that made your hairs stand on end. You didn’t think before your feet took off, tripping over your coffee table as you scrambled out of the back door, not caring that it was left wide open. You were taking off quickly down a few houses to where a bigger crowd was starting to form, everyone in their bathrobes and jackets, trying to get in on a piece of the action.

From your angle at Cooper’s house, you couldn’t see what was happening inside but could see multiple SWAT officers going in and out. One of them had long chained handcuffs in their hand, the ones that were attached to the waist and ankles of the prisoner. The clanking of the chains was muted now by the chatter over the radios, quiet enough so not everyone could hear but, if you focused hard enough you could make it out. “The Butcher has been captured. He’s being cuffed now.” In a way you were happy to hear Cooper was just captured, and not dead. You knew how good he was on his word of suicide, not thinking twice about it but, you didn’t want to live without him. The whole life you two wanted to build together, it may not come true now but – that was okay. There was nothing stopping you from visiting him in prison, having conjugal visits – you’d do anything for him.

If you want it back / If you want it back / I'm here waiting / Come take it back / Come take it back / If you want it back / If you want it back / I'm here waiting / Come take it back / Come take it back

The large presence of officers coming out of the house caused you to focus back on the front door, pushing your way to the front of the crowd to see what was going on. Wearing a blue and red flannel, was your Cooper. Not the clean-cut Cooper the forehouse saw, that his family saw – the one always put together and smiling. No, this was your Cooper; Disheveled hair, manic look in his eyes, a smirk that could light the whole world on fire. He was in his true form, not the fake mask he put on for his family. Seeing that gleam of rage in his eyes made you smile softly, knowing exactly what he was capable of. As Cooper walked out of his home and down the front steps, he stopped halfway down the path, turning to face where you were standing. The SWAT officers had AK’s trained on him, threatening to shoot if he tried anything, but you knew they wouldn’t.

Cooper’s gaze fell to Riley’s bike on the lawn, tipped over from all the commotion. Needing to right this wrong, Cooper knelt to pick it back up, running his thick, calloused fingers over the tires, knowing he may never see Riley grow up. It killed him to think about it; He wanted to take this moment in for as long as he could. You saw the trepidation in his eyes as he stared at the bike, running his fingers over the spokes. It’s when his gaze shifted up to you, that you saw the darkness layered – the glimmer of sinister intentions, one that made your lower stomach ignite. “I love you,” Cooper silently said, mouthing to you as your eyes caught his. All you could do was smile, biting your lower lip as the tears sprang free again; Your arms wrapping around your shoulders as you hugged his hoodie tighter to your body. “I love you so fucking much, Cooper,” you whispered back, causing his own eyes to glisten with tears.

I'm still rocking your hoodie / And chewing on the strings / It makes me think about you / So I wear it when I sleep / I kept the broken zipper / And cigarette burns / Still rocking your hoodie / Baby, even though it hurts

Behind you a car pulled up quickly to the scene. Quickly jetting out of the van was a curly, blonde-haired girl – who you knew was Riley. “Daddy!” She sobbed out, running out of the woman’s arms into straight into Cooper’s, his hands chained in front of him. Riley didn’t waste a second to hug Cooper tightly, pressing her tear-stained face into his chest. It was a bittersweet moment; From what Cooper always told you, Riley was his little girl, always valuing his opinion on topics and learning the ways of the world from him. He was wrapped around her finger, and silently it was killing him that this may be the last time he was ever going to see her. Cooper leaned his chin against Riley’s head, kissing the top softly, savoring the moment before it was ripped away. “Riley, come here sweetie,” Rachel called out, causing Riley to pull away as she ran. The SWAT officers hands tightened against Cooper’s arm, he spun around to stare at his family one more time before being loaded into the paddy wagon.

Before that door shut, Cooper held your gaze with a primal glare, causing your heart to quicken. A smirk lined his lips as the door shut, only able to see him through the small window of the wagon. You didn’t feel upset or scared that Cooper was going away, because you knew it was bullshit. That look told you everything you needed to know, and it made you excited. Throwing the hood of Cooper’s jacket over your head, you made your way back to your home, locking the back and front door – closing and locking the windows, heading straight for bed.

I'm still rocking your hoodie / And chewing on the strings / It makes me think about you / So I wear it when I sleep / I kept the broken zipper / And cigarette burns / Still rocking your hoodie / Baby, even though it hurts

-----

Time ticked away as the lights started to die out; The warmth of your salt lamp omitting off cozy energy. Snuggled beneath the comforter, you watched as the last of the police officers and journalists left. The neighborhood had enough craziness for one day, to hear utter silence put you at peace. Everything felt good again; No animosity lingered in the air. But things still felt off, not having Cooper by your side. Watching him get taken away by the police made you sad – but seeing how he said he loved you, made everything so much better. You would wait for him, no matter how long it was going to be. If you had to wait eternity for him, you’d wait two. Cooper was everything to you, and you knew you’d never find love like him again. Even with abandonment heavy on your mind, this time felt different. It wasn’t a slow pullback like everyone else does. No, this was so much less. The look in Cooper’s eyes was a guarantee that he would be with you soon enough, and you’d wait forever to have that.

You felt yourself drifting off to sleep at the thoughts of him, how the previous night he held you close to his chest, playing with your hair as he hummed softly to you. It put you at great ease, feeling so domestic for the first time. The way his right hand boxed you into him, laying right against your stomach. His left was tucked under his head, his chin perched on your shoulder. It was almost as if you could feel the warmth of him now, holding you tightly, peppering kisses along your hairline. His hand snaking its way under your shirt to touch you, rubbing little hearts into your flesh as you sink deeper into him. His broad chest your safe haven, his lips your solace in this dark world, as they move their way down your cheek, to your bare shoulder. “You’re never getting rid of me that easily, princess.” Cooper whispered into your ear, causing your eyes to fling open.

Cooper could feel you tense at the realization he was here, with you, instead of locked up. The excitement vibrating off of you as he helped you turn around. Even with the low light of the lamp next to your bed, you could make out every single feature of Cooper’s face. The lines around his eyes as he smiled at you, the creases of his mouth as his grin grows wider, the softness in his irises as they track a path over your facial features. “I will never leave you, sweet girl. I am with you forever.” Cooper’s voice cracked with emotion as his tears started to fall, the sob slipping from your lips evident enough. Perching against Cooper, you let your lips collide with his in a heated manner, feeling the ever-growing love between the two of you blossomed. The world was gone, silent compared to the beating of two hearts. The autumn light turning into tendrils of golds, browns, and silver cascading through the air, glittering with every touch Cooper laid upon your body. He was your home, he is your safety. He is your world, and nothing could take him from you. “I’m here to stay.” You knew he meant it too. Cooper Adams was a thing of the past, a monster that the media wanted to portray. Cooper Abbott on the other hand was a family man, who was desperately in love with his girl. Philadelphia is where you two made your home, but your true adventure starts with the move to Minnesota. Your future now getting started.

Still rocking your hoodie / And chewing on the strings / It makes me think about you / So I wear it when I sleep / I kept the broken zipper / And cigarette burns / Still rocking your hoodie / Baby, even though it hurts / Still rocking your hoodie

Tagging Taglist: @rubyfruitjungle @cherryinterlude @lilly3434 @amethystblackkchaos @rosaleelovesdilfs @babygorewhore @dirtylittlefairytales @redpillbluepill @strangererotica @minedofmoria @hibiskooks @fore45fore @lustskitty69

Cooper Adams: @lunaluvsu @rplver @kissofdawn666 @rottenangel

[tititilani]

I am the biggest fan of whump and self esteem issues ever in fic but you know what I would love to see? An "I believe in her (him)" moment. (dw fans ifykyk)

Just imagine it.

Some monster of the week is wrecking havoc. It feeds on sadness, terror, all the bad stuff, and it has found a feast in Edwin. All of that pain from seven decades in hell marinated in his hell-tempered soul means that it can feast on him for a long time already without worrying about its meal dissolving from the stress.

It snatches Edwin in the middle of them trying to vanish or destroy it, whisks him away over the crumpled body of Crystal, of Niko, of Charles. It straps him down with manacles of iron and Edwin stares it down without flinching even over the loud sizzling and pops of his own skin bubbling. But even if he's stoic, his pain is still delicious.

"Your friends are dead," it hisses to him with a vicious chuckle designed to make a shiver race down Edwin's incorporeal spine. Which it does. "They never cared about you. They never wanted you, probably were thankful I took you off their hands."

The thing is, Edwin has no way of knowing if it's telling the truth or not. His friends could be dead, had been left lying limp there on the ground, or worse in the case of Charles, who is already dead.

It has him at its nonexistent mercy for hours, poking at his weak spots both physically and mentally. Physical pain, it finds out, doesn't give up much of a meal, though the particularly distant look Edwin adopts is fetching. It doesn't do any significant damage because it wants this meal to last but Edwin has still resorted to his death state when it changes tactics.

Emotional pain, it knows from plenty of experience, can be the most delicious pain.

"I think that friend of yours - the one with the earring - probably was thankful I took you off his hands," it says offhandedly, tone almost too casual for the vicious words it's spitting. "Do you think he started celebrating immediately or maybe waited a few minutes?"

But it doesn't work the way it's intended.

Edwin, bloodied and vulnerable in his nightclothes, pushed past a point most ghosts wouldn't have been able to handle without breaking, looks up at the thing. His wrists have been bound this entire time, the skin around the manacles blackened and oozing ectoplasm, and he looks vulnerable.

But the look he gives the monster is not.

Edwin's gaze is vicious, the normally warm green replaced by shard of green glass, and the monster can see the strength and resolve in his eyes and realizes it may have miscalculated.

"I have seen the worst of people, and monsters," Edwin says with every ounce of scorn he can summon. "I spent seventy years in hell surrounded by them and I do not believe in much anymore. If there is one thing I believe in, I believe in him."

Cue Charles smashing his way in ten seconds later to save the day, looking at Edwin in awe, like he is seeing him for the first time all over again, faced with the steadfast faith Edwin has in him even when he has been given no reason to still.

[milksnake-tea]

━━ homecoming.

He was always your favorite, ever since the day you'd found him. But you knew you couldn't keep him forever. One day, he would have to leave.

merman!blade x gn!reader

contains: fluff, hurt/comfort, a smudge of angst, blade is a little shit, reader is a scientist, potentially ooc blade, a hint of abandonment issues, making out (but nothing suggestive), not edited we die like jing liu, written before version 1.1

word count: 1.7k

a/n: posting this on the last day of mermay because ofc i am (im pst so shhh its not june yet). anyways merman blade is the most genius thing i have ever thought of no one will convince me otherwise

Your research facility was unlike any other in the world.

The hallways were enshrouded in darkness, with the only light sources being the illuminated tanks that lined the walls. They varied in size and shape, some cylindrical, others rectangular. Some tanks were lucky enough to have entire biomes in them, ranging from gorgeous coral reefs to murky kelp forests, and some had nothing in them at all. But what every tank had in common was an eerie glow of cyan that pulsated throughout their waters.

As you walked past the exhibits - your footsteps echoing loudly throughout the empty halls - your specimen began to unravel to life.

Electric eels sparked with lightning as you passed, and beside them, gigantic sea serpents hissed and coiled. Grindylows peeked from behind their forests, and jellyfish of all forms drifted aimlessly through their tanks. An eye the size of a soccer ball watched you from the largest exhibit of all, the giant squid thrilled to see its master.

This institute was home to mythology and biology alike, where fables rested alongside common knowledge. Here, in the middle of nowhere, with no land in sight, you were in the eye of the storm - vulnerable to the truths behind old sailors’ tales.

Despite this, you loved your job more than anything. These creatures that you studied, that you nurtured and raised, were like your children. Even the various hippocampi (who you didn’t have the heart to keep within your walls), were dear to you, and you to them.

Yes, there was the occasional sea monster that you had to shoot down. Yes, there were the occasional sirens who would try to lure you to your death. Most of the ocean’s creatures were dangerous, and well aware of it. Unfortunately, you were too smart and too stubborn to die.

A sharp tap on glass snapped you out of your thoughts. Smiling knowingly to yourself, you walked up to a cylindrical glass tank that spanned two stories tall, encircled by spiraling stairs.

“Hey, Blade. Missed me?” You greeted, placing a hand on the glass.

Out of all of the creatures that you held within your home, he was your favorite.

He really was a beauty. Gifted with a slender black tail, seared with a vicious red, the merman swayed gently in his tank, sleek, almost sharp fins flowing around him. Blackened scales gave way to fair skin, scarred with scratches and bites from previous battles. His hair billowed around him like a dark cloud, fading from black to a soft maroon.

You'd found Blade a few weeks ago, bleeding out in the coral reefs surrounding your little island of a facility. He’d likely gotten into a fight with other merpeople, as the more territorial ones tended to do. Even now, the wounds hadn’t completely healed, with bandages still wrapped around his abdomen.

Blade’s ever-cold face barely budged at your greeting. The second your hand met his tank, he backed away, swimming up towards the top of his tank - naturally expecting you to follow. You sighed, shaking your head knowingly.

By the time you had climbed the staircase to the top, Blade was already lounging on the stairs leading into his waters. His wet hair clung to his body as he watched you expectantly, his tail flicking small waves into motion. Sunlight cascaded over him from a glass ceiling, bathing him in a gentle light.

“You’re late.” His eyes never left your body as you neared him, eyeing you like a hungry predator.

You dropped your bag off some counter lining the walls. “I was dealing with the new shipments.”

“Oh? Am I finally getting some company?” Blade asked sarcastically, stretching like a cat in the warm sun. You don’t think it was an accident that he rolled over, shamelessly showing off his sculpted abdomen.

“Like I could just order a merman off the web,” you scoffed, sitting next to him and dipping your legs into the tank. “You’re just a special case.”

He didn’t respond to that, merely watches you with an emotion that you can’t quite pinpoint. Knowing him, it could be anything from warm affection to a mischievous desire to inconvenience you by the slightest amount. He was petty like that.

Briefly, his tail came to brush against your legs. You giggled at the action, the thin fins ticklish against your skin. A flicker of a smile flashed across Blade’s face, gone just as fast as it had appeared.

“How are your wounds?” you asked, your hand absentmindedly coming to pet his head. Where Blade would have bitten anyone else, the merman keened at the touch, closing his eyes briefly.

“Better.” His voice was barely above a whisper as you threaded your fingers through his wet hair.

“That’s good. No pain?”

“None,” he answered. As you removed your hand, for a moment, he chased it, before he met your teasing eyes and remembered himself. Coughing, he quickly turned away, refusing to meet your amused gaze.

“At this rate, you’ll be leaving sooner than expected,” you hummed. Blade’s eyes widened at your words, an unfamiliar pang hitting his chest. “I’m sure you’ve been missing your friends.”

Blade scoffed at the notion, rolling back onto his chest to stare at the floor. “Hardly.”

“Well,” you shrugged, kicking up some water. “At the very least, you’d miss the open waters.”

That, he couldn’t deny. But even still, the thought of finally leaving the facility had become foreign to him. Three weeks prior, he would’ve jumped at the opportunity to get out of this place, this tank. But now, he wasn’t so sure.

“Hey, chin up.” Your hand cupped his cheek, bringing him to look up at you. “It’s not like you’ll never see me again. You can always visit.”

He doubted that. Out in the ocean, he had little free time to himself. He would spend his days constantly on the run from various mermaid kingdoms and tribes, and if not that, he’d be hunting, searching for his next meal. He journeyed the seas without end. Blade was a vagrant, a wanderer without a home.

But here, perhaps…

His body moved without thinking. Pushing himself up onto his arms, he leaned over you, water droplets falling onto your shirt as he caged you between his arms. His gaze had become hazy, his eyes lidded. His breath shuddered in his chest as he pressed his forehead against yours, drinking in as much of you as he could.

Blade didn’t say much, but he didn’t have to. You heard his words loud and clear, without him needing to say a word.

Stay.

It was unclear who he was talking to, whether it be you or himself. There was a subtle desperation in the way his chest heaved as he breathed, breathless without a thief.

Your arms, your welcoming arms, wrapped around his shoulders like a warm blanket, bringing him in for an embrace. Immediately, he latched onto the opportunity, gripping onto you as though you’d disappear if he dared loosen his grip. He buried his face into the crook of your neck, breathing in your scent, forever engraving it into his memory.

If only he was human, he’d lament. If only he could walk the lands like you did. If only the two of you weren’t separated by land and sea. If only - his grip became just a little tighter - he could stay like this a little longer.

You stroke the back of his head gently, feeling Blade shiver at your touch. He wasn’t crying - you didn’t know if he even remembered how.

Deep inside, you wanted him to stay. You didn’t want to let him go. It was an ugly, selfish part of you that wanted to keep him for yourself. But you knew you couldn't keep him here. He had to return to the ocean, where he belonged.

He pulled away from you, yet still held onto your arms like a lifeline. You never thought you’d describe the stoic merman as desperate, but there was no other word that could properly depict the emotion swirling in his eyes.

Your hands came to cradle his face gently, unable to say a word. Blade’s breath hitched.

His lips barely parted as he spoke, his voice raspy and low.

“Forgive me.”

That was the only warning you got before he crashed his lips into yours.

His kiss was unlike any other you’ve had. Whereas your previous experiences were tender and romantic, this was hungry, raw, depraved. Blade kissed you with the fervor of a starving man, as though you would be his final meal. He was aggressive with his affections, practically clawing onto your shirt as he clutched you closer to him.

Your heart raced in your chest as you met his violent dance, parting your lips for a moment to allow him to slip in his tongue. You welcomed him in, firmly holding his face. Emotions swirled in you like the blurred voices of a crowd, overwhelming and satiating you at the same time.

To say that you were surprised by his actions would be a lie. You’ve known his feelings for a while now, and had plenty of time to accept yours. It was obvious, in the gentlest touches, in the way he could make you smile just by being around you.

You’ve avoided acknowledging these feelings for the longest time, and so did he.

When the two of you finally parted, a string of saliva connecting the two of you, the only thing you could do was watch. You studied Blade’s face, clearly now, for the first time. Your fingers traced around his jawline, admiring how his cheeks had become dyed with a pretty red. You swiped over his parted lips, still catching his breath from the kiss. Your thumb rubbed just underneath his eyes, brushing away the loose strands of hair from his face.

You’ve always known he was a beauty, but in this moment, he simply took your breath away.

Blade covered your hand in his, nuzzling into your palm. He softly pressed his lips to your inner wrist, a stark contrast from the kiss he’d just ravaged you with. He kept his eyes solely on you as he did this, trapping your gaze with his stare.

“I’m not leaving.”

“Huh?” You blinked, trying to snap yourself out of your daze. Blade smirked against your palm, swiping out his tongue and dragging it against your skin.

“Come, now,” he mused. “You didn’t think you could get rid of me that easily, did you?”

reblogs w comments are appreciated !!

[starlightvld]

Bait & Switch, pt. 3

<< Part 1 // Part 2 // Part 3 // Part 4 >>

Based on "I wasn't in that tunnel."

Call of Duty, implied soapghost // CW: angst, hurt no comfort (yet), suicidal ideation, violent thoughts of self harm, MWIII spoilers

---

Everything is wrong — the dead bodies surrounding him, the strange hiss in his ear, the hateful expression on Ghost's face as he describes all the things Soap doesn't remember. 

All the ways he's hurt the people he loves the most.

No wonder Ghost is treating him like he's the enemy. It's because he is.

He sits back on his heels and stares at the blue sky he thought he'd never see again. The smell of death and human waste wafts through the broken-out glass of his helmet and sends him back to his hole in the ground where he would sit in a gut-churning mixture of mold, blood, and his own shit for the days and sometimes weeks between the ice cold spray-downs just before Makarov paid him a visit.

He's dizzy. Exhausted. Horrified.

And the inescapable hiss from his helmet makes him want to stab out his ear drums. The violence of the visceral thought sends a shiver down his spine.

Years.

Ghost said he's been trying to kill the 141 for years — months upon months of being nothing more than a mindless machine, a puppet for Makarov to pull the strings and make him dance. The implications of the broken out glass and the hissing are clear. Can he even trust himself not to turn again if he takes too big of a whiff of whatever is pumping out of his helmet?

He holds his breath. The longer he doesn't breathe, the more the world goes hazy. Vicious pain slices through his temples, and his lungs convulse, sucking in huge gulps of air. His vision blackens at the edges, the compulsion for violence rising higher—

Wind buffets his face, and the blackness clears away.

He supposes that answers that question.

He tries again to remove the helmet, but it seems to be sealed to his tactical vest — a vest that doesn't have any straps to loosen that he can see. Panic bubbles in his chest, and he struggles harder, desperate to remove the thing that tethers him to Makarov. The thing that made him kill for him.

"Stop," Ghost orders, the harsh tone grating like shards of glass over Soap's skin.

He stops, though the panic still simmers in his chest and tries to leak through his mouth as a whine. He can't bring himself to look at Ghost. Can't stomach that hateful look in his eyes.

Soap thought he'd never break. Thought he'd die before ever betraying his dearest friends and family.

Apparently, he was wrong.

What is left for him now if those he loves can't trust him? If he can't trust himself?

The memory of Ghost's scarred hands trailing over his bare chest jerks him from his spiraling thoughts, and he bites back a groan of frustration at his own coping methods, especially when the subject of his thoughts is sitting right in front of him, hating him.

During the time he remembers with Makarov, Soap used the phantom sensation of Ghost's hands on his skin as a distraction from the pain and torture Makarov put him through, telling himself he could one day feel those hands again if he just held on for another day. Back then, he believed without a doubt that Ghost would love him no matter what Makarov did to him.

Now Ghost won't even let him get close enough to touch.

He wishes he'd stopped fighting when Makarov first showed him that video, when the first wave of realization and despair rolled over him that no one was coming. Maybe he could've willed himself to die and saved the 141 at lot of pain and possible death—

Dread hits him like a sledgehammer straight to his chest.

"Price and Gaz... they're alive, right?" Soap croaks through a parched throat. "I didn't... I didn't hurt them, did I?"

"Hurt, yes. Kill, no... though not for lack of tryin'," Ghost growls.

It's the barest kind of relief, like a hot breeze on an even hotter day. 

As if he can bend nature to reflect his thoughts, the wind blows the fetid smell of some kind of industrial waste their direction. Soap grimaces at trading one foul smell for another. The chopper blades cutting through air grow louder, like an axe on a swinging pendulum, coming closer to cutting off his access to Ghost with every swing.

He's not stupid. Once he gets on that helo, he'll be indefinitely detained and probably never see Ghost again. He'll be lucky if Price and Gaz come to see him at all. The thought burns his throat like bile.

"I'm sorry," he whispers to the sky. "I don't remember. Please... please don't hate me."

Emotion builds in his chest like a bomb waiting to blow. All he wants is to be held. To feel a bit of the kindness and human connection he's been missing for so long. But he doesn't know who he is anymore. He feels like Soap, though clearly he hasn't been Soap for a very long time.

"If Makarov could make a man look and act like you once, he could do it again," Ghost rasps. "How do you expect me to... to..."

Ghost trails off, and Soap dares to glance up. He finds Ghost's eyes have mellowed into hesitant distrust, which is an improvement from blind hatred, but after imagining a warm welcome for so long, it's still a slap in the face.

He doesn't blame Ghost, though. He hates himself, too.

And he's right. It kills Soap to admit it, but he's right. It's possible that whatever Makarov did to the man he sent back from Siberia with the 141 has been done to him, too. It's possible that everything he's ever known or thought about himself is a fabrication built on Makarov's lies.

The rhythmic thrum of the helo gets louder. Bubbling panic turns into a cold stone in his gut. 

Even if he is the original Soap, he let himself get caught — wasn't good enough or strong enough to either avoid capture or escape later on. He's a failure in every sense of the word.

"Ye should probably just kill me now," Soap says, though he barely recognizes the strangely detached monotone falling from his lips. "I don't remember anything, and I'm only a danger to ye."

"I'm not... I'm not gonna kill you." Ghost's gaze sharpens. "Not unless you make me."

"Nae," he says in the same monotone. "Wouldnae do tha' to ye. At least... this version of me wouldn't."

He doesn't have a gun. If the amount of bodies surrounding them is any indication, he likely ran out of ammo and threw the gun aside in his pursuit of Ghost. The knife he dropped earlier, though... 

The blade glints in his peripheral vision, a siren song of potential relief. 

Ghost is hurt. He probably wouldn't be able to stop Soap before he could reach for it and stab himself in the eye...

Ghost might still try to stop him, though, and could hurt himself in the process. Soap can't risk that.

Or maybe he just can't stomach the idea of dying knowing Ghost did nothing to prevent it.

The helo glides over the closest warehouse, sending dust and debris flying. Ghost waves to catch the pilot's attention, and it descends, hovering as close to them as it can get and less than a foot from the ground. Soap reaches over to help Ghost up—

Ghost smacks him away again. Soap can barely hear him over the sound of the helo, but it's clear as a bell in his mind all the same. That growl. That hateful tone of voice.

His chest cracks open. The knife gleams in the sunlight.

"Let's go!" Ghost yells over the noise as he reaches the aircraft and grasping medic hands pull him inside.

And even now, after everything, Soap is helpless against following Ghost's orders. He pulls himself into the helo, leaving his last hope for a swift death glinting on the pavement. A medic slams the door shut with a finality that makes him shudder.

The medical staff are already stripping Ghost's gear to get at the wound. Soap moves toward the back of the helo to get out of the way, the sense of detachment growing stronger and the stone in his gut heavier as the helo rises into the air.

He's traded one prison for another, one torture chamber for another. He's seen too much during his time in the military to hope that the government won't treat him just like Makarov did — strap him to a chair until they're satisfied they've bled him dry.

And he's seen too much hate in Ghost's eyes to hope that his one-time lover will save him.

Not that he deserves to be saved...

The medical officer in charge comes at Ghost with a syringe likely full of a local anesthetic, but Ghost catches his arm and points at Soap. "I can wait. Sedate him first," he orders.

Shock clear in his expression, the officer looks between the two of them and opens his mouth, no doubt to protest. Soap beats him to it.

"Do it. Please."

The idea of sedation is a welcome one. His despair is too potent to take much more of the distrust bleeding from Ghost's mask-shadowed eyes. 

The medical officer shakes his head but does as he's ordered, setting side the syringe for Ghost to prepare a different one while his subordinates clean and stitch up Ghost's injury. A raised bag of blood hangs on the ceiling, already draining into Ghost's body to replace what he's lost. It must have been a lot for him to need a transfusion so immediately. Soap bites his lip, a thread of worry weaving through the numbness.

Was he the one that shot Ghost in the first place? It kills him that he doesn't even know.

The officer pulls off as much of Soap's outer gear as he can — the tac vest is a mystery to him, too, apparently — and eventually cuts off the arm of Soap's shirt to get at his bare skin.

The prick of a needle and the cold slide of drugs into his system sends him spiraling.

He remembers the sensation. A crack opens in his mind, and memories slip through — a thousand jabs to the neck followed by the paralyzing cold intruding in his blood stream.

And as much as he dreads that distrustful look in Ghost's eyes, for the length of time it takes the sedative to take effect, he keeps his gaze fixed on Ghost... if only to remind himself of where he is and who he's with.

Ghost is here.

Not Makarov, but Ghost.

Perhaps it's the drugs. Perhaps it's his own mind playing tricks on him. But as he slips under, he swears he sees a flash of longing replace the distrust in Ghost's eyes.

He clings to it as oblivion sweeps him away.

<< Part 1 // Part 2 // Part 3 // Part 4 >>

[bitterkarmaa]

“Just looks like Moon to me.”

Eclipse quirks a brow, his canon counterpart standing idly at his side. Or, canon in way of the show, he supposes.

The Moon look-alike grits their teeth and slams their fist into the barrier once again, white eyes bloodshot with rage. Eclipse crosses his arms and taps his shoe against the floor in a show of disdain.

“Well…he is. Sorta. He’s, like, what was left after the original was wiped, I think? Or something like that?” The other Eclipse adds with a dismissive shrug, seemingly more annoyed over this alternative Moon’s behavior than anything else.

“And you told them you were staying here? Do they know you dragged this rat along?” The more dapper of the two questions, glancing at the other with a slight tilt of his head.

“No. They don’t know where I am, just that I left. They think I went alone.” Canon Eclipse reaches forwards to tap mockingly on the barrier, a sly grin spreading across his faceplate as the night-themed jester growls on the other side.

“Don’t they want him gone, too?”

“Hm. I’m not quite sure. Earth has defiantly thought better of him…but that was before he tried to vaporize her.” A vile edge slips into his tone, disgust clear on his face as the Canon Complacent Eclipse lifts his lip into a vicious snarl. His rays retract, clicking softly to the tune of the clock that sits on the wall behind them.

The Scarred Eclipse casts a one eyed glare in “Moon’s” direction. “After all she’s done for him…how cruel.”

“Exactly.”

Both Eclipses scowl silently at the Moon beyond their magical barrier, pacing around their half of the room with quiet mumbles and fidgeting limbs.

“When DS comes to get me, you’ll BOTH be screwed!” They shout with a cocky grin, but it falls off their face the moment the well-dressed Eclipse begins to stalk forwards.

“Let your ‘friend’ come as they please. I’ll be waiting, and I’ll be ready.” His mouth contorts into a sharp-toothed, maniacal grin that stretches from one half of his face to the other, a challenging glint alighting in the depths of his functional eye. The other flickers, hints of orange pressing past the precipice of blackened, empty glass.

The Alternative Moon takes a step back.

“Dark Sun isn’t coming to get you. You’re on your own here, Moon.” Canon Eclipse slinks forwards, standing just behind his more powerful counterpart.

“I’m not Moon. I’m Nexus.”

The two Eclipses pause for a moment, then one lets out a snort of laughter, the other breaking down not long after.

“Nexus? Nexus? You…you are so edgy!” The scarred Eclipse cackles, earning another fist charging towards his face, only stopped by the barrier. It cracks this time around, forcing both Eclipses to begin calming down.

“You know nothing! You have no idea who or what I am!” Nexus spits out, their rabid demeanor only enhanced by the crazed look that dances in their eyes.

Neither Eclipse is impressed.

“Who the hell is that?”

A new voice, yet still alike to the two already in the room, joins them. The scarred Eclipse turns, smoothing out the front of his vest as if using it as an outlet for his tremulous emotions.

Veil blinks owlishly up at him.

“Nexus, apparently.” His father responds distastefully, turning his head to glare over his shoulder at his uninvited guest.

“He looks like Moon.” Veil responds, then glances over to Canon Eclipse. His expression immediately brightens.

“You’re back!!” The smaller version of the other two grins excitedly, scampering closer to give Canon Eclipse a hug. The eternally exhausted animatronic manages a small smile.

“I’ll be staying for a while, too, little pest. You can show me around in the morning. For now…” He motions over his shoulder at Nexus. “I brought a problem with me.”

Ignoring Nexus’ shout of offense, Veil peers around his look-a-likes, his expression deadpan. He looks the Moon-counterpart up and down a few times before shaking his head.

“Nope. Take it back. We don’t want it.”

His father chuckles. “I’m afraid it isn’t our choice.”

Veil gives him an odd look. “What do you mean?”

“It’s up to them.”

Eclipse looks at you.

“Should Nexus stay?”

[bonesofapoet]

even dragons must yield

[ aemond targaryen x you ]

author’s note: literally just a stormy atmosphere and aemond flailing around like a fish out of water bc What The Hell Is Healthy Communication when ur family is Like That??? a bit of hurt/comfort. language.

word count: 2098

The afternoon air was thick with tension and dripping destruction, though you seemed to be none the wiser. So swept up were you, in the beauty of deep blue skies and the path of charcoal gray clouds as they passed by on the warm wind. The parchment balanced on your knee was half forgotten, the pot of ink and writing quill sitting on the windowsill as a mere figment, now. A storm must be brewing over the sea, and you wondered if you would experience it before night fell and sleep welcomed you with wide open arms.

Prince Aemond was many things, on many occasions, for many people. He was calculating, yet tempered. Unforgiving, attentive. Impulsive, and intelligent. He was wild, yet subtlety - veiled or otherwise - had proven to be a quality that he had shown little interest in practicing. It was something he never seemed to regret, even if it meant spiraling petty feuds into further disarray, or simply tugging on fraying threads during family dinners that lead to hurled threats and slamming doors. It was a little cocoon of his own making, this calmly crafted life of controlled chaos.

Yet you were the exception - both you and Heleana - until, of course, it was only you that remained shielded no longer.

You were oblivious, in your daydreams, to the chaos raging fierce and strong in your own home - until the door to your rooms flew open to crack sharply on the wall behind.

Aemond didn’t expect to find you here. With the evening promising rain and fury, he assumed you’d be enjoying the fresh air as long as time allowed, but. He had come here to breathe, yet the irritation simmering slow and hot and vicious under his skin craved a release of any kind, as it always does. Regret was hardly an intimate word for Aemond, yet it lingered, unyielding, clouding his mind once the red melted from his vision and his blackened heart returned to gold. 

The way he’d allowed his lack of care to send you slamming the door to your apartments as you left him - fuming, in the wake of your own reciprocated wrath - well. It left him feeling anything other than comfort.

It was a whirlwind in the flesh, truly, the tense words he had flung to bite at your heart. Cold, calm fury battered them aside, broke through the weakening shield Aemond held fast around himself in an excuse to project without circumstance. Without consequence. He hadn't been able to draw blood of course, you knew him too well to know it wasn't you that had cracked his everlasting dragonskin.

You, however, had always been a different story.

Armed to the teeth with words that would puncture, pierce, cut to bleed and twist, when pushed too hard, too far; a cloak of blame had been settled upon your shoulders, and it was not yours to bear. You tore it off with a simple tug, flourished the fabric in such a way that it clung to the Prince himself, the villain in this particular instance, but not a villain at heart.

Aemond was left staring where you had once been; a window that was open, brilliant view of the darkening sky echoing behind you, the sole outlet for the latest qualm that had been one push, one prod, one irrelevant instance too far - because, well.

As collected as he usually was, there was always something that would push anyone over the edge.

Regardless, he had never once abandoned the training grounds to take his ire out on you. He sought only your company after all; a sun, a saint, an equal to temper what always tried to break through the rising tide.

Seven fucking hells.

It wasn't a surprise, when he did not follow you through your rooms, or down the glowing hall.

Sconces were being lit as a false twilight fell, the sweet, early arrival of blue hour inspired haste in the servants lighting your way to the library. The shadows were chased away, one by one; yet the shadow that still enveloped your path was not of nature's doing, nor was it your own.

Wooden doors loomed before you, bracketed by torches bright and warm and welcoming. You had stalked all the way here you realized, swift and mindless in where your feet had been taking you. Anger still burned through your veins, when you pushed the door open with your whole body. Hinges groaned with the sudden movement jarring them awake.

Silence engulfed you once the door fell shut. Familiarity took you into its arms under the soft light of candles guttering in the fresh stir of air - rarely, did anyone come here at this hour. The knowledge that you wouldn't be disturbed tempered your fire.

The sigh that left your lips was ragged. Shaken. Hurt.

This was something new from Aemond - something that made you wonder what in the seven hells just happened.

Your feet carried you to the nearest window, and the breeze that met your skin was a soft caress tasting of salt and comfort - probably - since that was something you would not be receiving anytime soon, you imagined. Not from the one you wished, at least.

He made that quite fucking clear, actually.

The drawl of distant rumbling welcomed you as you journeyed farther into the room, fingers trailing along the old wooden tables in your wake. The emptiness was peaceful, the candlelight warm and soft in stark contrast with the scene you just left to simmer. You went to the windows, drawing them in tight, before the rain could intrude where it did not belong.

Anger was a fickle thing, you thought, turning a corner. The goal was to become lost in the maze of shelves piled high with long forgotten crumbling volumes. To find a tome that caught your eye in the looming shadows, then settle in with it while you tucked yourself up into one of the few window seats with the raging sea below as your steadfast companion.

You’d stay here with your false peace until your eyes drifted closed and your head leaned against rain spattered glass. Unless, of course, you were confident that retracing your steps to venture back wouldn’t reignite what brought you here in the first place. Perhaps then, you would be cooled enough to seek each other’s company, as your heart so longed to do, even now.

Even so, the distant rumbling grew louder with each page you turned. Rain crackled into the glass as the wind whipped past. The more you read, the pages became even more brown and stiff as they slowly shared with you their age.

The storm, once far out of your sight, seemed to be right on top of you now as it unleashed its fury hard and strong and fast as it battered itself again and again and again against the city below, and punished the castle walls themselves.

It was because of this, that every sound coming from within was, of course, as good as silent.

“I thought I’d find you here.”

His voice filled what little lull a storm of this magnitude could give. It slid over your skin, soft as silk, slipped in through the little cracks along with the rain and wind and thunder alike.

Prince Aemond stood in the glow of torchlight, illuminated wholly in the warm caress of flickering flame. He remained some distance from you, mindful of the space you held both for yourself, and, more pressingly - the distance you created when he pushed you oh, so splendidly away earlier that evening.

“Well,” your eyes slid away from the prince, to instead find the paragraph they had been pulled away from. Your next words were spoken idly, if not with remnants of ferocity coating them as you resumed reading. “You do know where I like to hide.”

Aemond shifts his weight - it’s caught out the corner of your eye - and a shadow promptly slips across you to blanket the words on the pages. It was, by design, a darkness you weren’t able to see through, not with the storm outside batting aside the sun’s dying rays with its gray clouds and veils of rain.

Intentional.

“So you are hiding from me.”

“‘Hide’ is not the word I would use.”

“Isn’t it?”

The book snapped shut in your hands on a sigh dragged from the weary depths of your heart. They were both, unfortunately, swallowed by another rolling volley of thunder. The timing was so dramatic, so absolutely you, that it wasn’t Aemond’s fault when it inspired a harsh roll of his eye.

He could be dramatic too, if only to distract you from the way his lips quirked, the flash of a smile threatening to show itself in the darkness, or in the shine of the firelight still kissing fragments of his skin. Aemond knew this wasn’t the time for jokes, yet even he could appreciate the irony of the trap he laid, and, quite gracefully, stepped right into.

Lightning forked through the sky on another crash of thunder, the flash cold in contrast to the warmth of the library. It was jarring, how the harsh, white light exposed everything, always, quickly and quietly before it melted back into the safety of blowing rain and raging waves.

And yet, it was enough. Enough to see the tension weaving its way through Prince Aemond’s jaw, and the set of his shoulders. How he hid his hands behind his back, no doubt clasped and curled in an unbreakable grip. Aemond clearly found no comfort here tonight. He held himself wound tight - even more so, almost, than he did when all the eyes watched him while at court.

You, on the other hand, were relaxed, given the circumstances. Lounging comfortably in the window seat while allowing the peace and the stillness to wash over you in the place you felt safest in all of King’s Landing.

Guilt, you realized, still sitting in his shadow. This was what his guilt looked like.

You had wondered if Aemond could even feel such a thing.

“No,” you answered his question slowly. Let the bite fade from your voice and fall into the storm. Let it melt back into nothing. “I believe I would choose ‘isolate'. I assumed neither one of us wanted that conversation to continue while clawing at each other’s throats, as we were.”

Aemond took a breath, inhaled loud and sharp in time with a sheet of rain being pushed against the windowpane. He looked away as you watched him, your feet uncurling from their place on the seat, the volume slipping through your fingers to rest beside you.

“No,” he says, “I suppose you’re right.”

You stepped from the shadows and went to him, still hiding in the safety of the dark. He longed to reach for you, longed to feel your skin, warm from the fire, warm from the peace you always seemed to carve for yourself - but his fingertips were cold from the time he spent solitary in your rooms after you had gone. The fires burned to ashes as he tempered himself, once again, into honed steel that the prince sheathed - if only so he could see you again, without drawing blood once more. Now that he found you, he feared you would find only ice under his touch, instead of comfort.

It made his heart ache.

And you -

Aemond shouldn’t have been surprised, when he found his fingers threaded through yours. A hand glided up to rest on his jaw, guiding it gently to face you. The fire was gone from your eyes, tension nowhere to be found in your body language. He could see in you, just how much you could read him, even when he said so little. Even when he said everything he didn’t mean.

“Come on,” you took a step backwards toward the entrance, tugging on his hand as you did so. The corners of your lips quirked, the prelude of a small smile illuminating the shadows Aemond still hid in. “Let's go brew some tea and. . .maybe we can talk.”

His head dips in agreement, oddly silent since he last spoke. It was almost as if. . .as if he wasn’t sure the words that wanted to spill out would be the right ones. Kind ones. Instead, his chilled fingers finally curled gently around your own.

All he can bring himself to say is, “Lead on, darling.”

So you do, leading him through gloomy shadows deepened by the storm, to hallways illuminated by torches, by lightning, by you. 

[found-wings]

"Sorry, I‘m not really good at this fine tuning stuff," Phil apologises with a chuckle, head slightly lowered to get a better look at the small wires.

It made him wonder a little on why their communicators were this cheap anyway - obviously the Federation had a lot of resources, he‘d assume that they could give everyone at least communicators that didn‘t burn through their wiring after too many crashes.

"What? What are you talking about? You‘re doing great!" Etoiles almost offended voice speaking back makes Phil giggle. "Stop putting yourself down for something so small. Look at your skill!"

Phil hums in response, being as careful as he can. His hands aren‘t that shaky, so that‘s not really the issue. Anything that had to do with fine tuning and detailing just wasn‘t his strong suit.

"‘S a bit hard to work in small scale when you feel nothin‘, y’know?" He mumbles, connecting back the wires before closing the metal back up. Phil tightens the band of the communicator back around Etoiles‘ wrist and turns it on.

It takes a few seconds for it to load up. Phil encourages Etoiles to try and use it, prompting for the taller to send a test message in their whispered chat.

Phils communicator lights up in return, causing a smile. "There we go."

Usually in these situations, it ended up in Etoiles talking about how amazing Phil is at this - he often in response denied those compliments as it really was nothing big he had done - and thanks him for patching up his communicator again.

Etoiles voice upon speaking up again is lower, sounding softer than his usually contrasting light and bright, begging for a fight behaviour. It makes Phil feel safe, in a way. "You said you feel nothing. Do you have tough, uh- skin, or feathers on your hands? Like you do on your face?"

Yeah, that was to be expected. Etoiles was one of the few people that actually paid attention to his small, hushed words.

"Eh, not really. The black spots on my hands are actually from overuse. ‘S numbing, y‘know," he explains. Phil squeezes his hands into a fist, eyes catching Etoiles gaze, who was curiously glancing at the blackened fingers and then back up.

He already knows what Etoiles is going to ask before he even does so. "Overuse? Overuse of what?"

Phil averts his gaze from Etoiles and instead decides to stare into the horizon.

For a brief moment, his thoughts wander back to a frozen wasteland of snow, a big and mighty kingdom raising from the ground. Adventures and missions filled with the smell of copper, a cloud of smoke and black dust rising from the vicious skeleton beasts.

"Withers," is all Phil responds with and Etoiles nods.

At last, they understand - Phils tainted hands of the Wither and Etoiles tainted arm of the coded shield.

[bellatrixobsessed1]

I Am Blackened Bones (Part 29)

The spirit, Azula finds, still speaks to her. Speaks not as a separate entity but as an extension of her own thoughts. Mostly it does so when she finds herself confused or reluctant. It is a small portion of her mind—the portion that acts on impulse and spontaneity. The portion that would probably be called an intrusive thought if the thought was something vicious. These thoughts, while still semi-intrusive, compel her to kiss Katara for no reason or to throw herself into a pile of snow just for the sake of experience. 

She ignores them mostly. 

She is, admittedly, somewhat afraid of them.

Or afraid of what people would think of her if she acted upon them. 

Katara doesn’t seem to mind. She seems to rather enjoy the surprise kisses and the random gifts. Even if the random gifts are just dumb doodles burned onto slabs of discarded firewood. “I didn’t realize that you were an artist.” She says of her newest gift. 

“I’m not.” Azula replies. “I’m mostly bored.” 

“Mostly bored?”

Azula nods. “I swear that it didn’t take this long to make this trip last time.”

“Last time you were in and out.” Katara reminds her. “Time tends to pass quicker when you aren’t there the whole time.”

“Right, yes.” Azula flushes slightly. That was a silly thing to have forgotten. Katara chuckles and Azula would like nothing more than to take a miniature retreat back into her own mind. Evidently she would very much like to sleep through the entirety of her homecoming. Not that she wishes that her spirit self could do it for her. The spirit would have made her look like a complete dolt. She feels as though she will accomplish looking like a fool well enough on her own. 

Katara squeezes her hand. “They’re going to love you Azula.”

“How do you know?”

“Well the Fire Nation seemed to adore you before you left.” 

“I believe that I have fallen out of favor with the general public since Zuzu has taken the throne. Traditional values and beliefs are on a decline.” 

“It’s a shame that you don’t have any way of showing that you don’t exactly subscribe to traditional beliefs anymore.” Katara kisses her ear. “If only you had a beautiful waterbender to date.”

“Yeah, I only have the moderately visually appealing if you squint hard enough waterbender.” 

From her corner of Appa’s saddle, Toph gives a snort and a laugh. 

She wishes that she could laugh too but the truth is that she is…intimidating. Her stomach has been tying itself in knots for the better part of the morning and each passing minute presents her with another opportunity to find something to fret over. 

She and Zuzu hadn’t parted on terrible terms with each other this time around. But they certainly hadn’t had any meaningful discussion while she was occupied with fighting to stay present in her own mind. She isn’t particularly keen on digging up old fights and picking at old wounds. But she is just as dissatisfied at the thought of not confronting her past. 

Franky she isn’t sure why she is so worried, so far her attempts to face herself have all been successful. And the stakes had been just as high, if not more so. And yet this is the thing that worries her more than any other.

She tries to remind herself that Zuko had been the one fighting for her, the real her to come back. 

But it creeps in that maybe he won’t be satisfied with the results of winning that fight. She wonders if it will be strange for him to see her on good terms with everyone else. It will certainly be jarring; he hadn’t been there to witness the full evolution. 

Azula, of course, had been there and it is still jarring when she reflects upon the changes within herself. Both the large and small changes. Somehow those subtle changes are more startling than the more overt ones. She sighs. 

It seems like it had only taken the duration of the one exhale for the Fire Nation to appear on the horizon. It was certainly longer, much longer. But not nearly long enough. Seeing the volcano jutting towards the clouds stirs the butterflies in her stomach into a frenzy.

It is almost instinctual at this point, to see the Fire Nation and feel dread. Even knowing that firebending no longer hurts her doesn’t prevent her from bracing herself for that pain. Her chest constricts. She wishes that she weren’t so accustomed to hurt that she is suspicious of its absence.

She feels Katara’s arms slip around her middle and her chin on her shoulder. Azula hates that she still stiffens at unexpected touches, even the loving caresses and embraces. She resents that she can’t love as effortlessly as the spirit had. Resents that she has to remind herself that she and the spirit are the same and always have been. That they were never opposites so much as twin flames that have come to combine into one brilliant blaze. Hates that she has to actively think about and remember how it feels to live unhurt. How it feels to have been so innocent and trusting. Loathes that she can’t just carry on that way. 

Carefree and open. 

Unguarded. 

So maybe she hasn’t changed all that much. 

Maybe she is the same person that they all hate. That…

Katara kisses her neck. “Don’t do that.”

“What?” 

“Do that thing where you overthink things and upset yourself.” She pauses. 

“If you expect things to go wrong then they probably will.” Sokka comments unhelpfully. “Like a self-fulfilling prophecy.”

“What he’s trying to say…” Aang clarifies. “Things will go just fine if you let them happen naturally. If you try to plan every little detail, you’re more likely to get frustrated and upset when things don’t go your way. And then that frustration will make things worse. That’s what usually happens to Sokka. It happened with Zuko a lot too.”

“I guess.” Azula mumbles.  It isn’t just Zuzu that she is worried about. It is Mai and TyLee too. It has been so very long…

Katara moves to massage her shoulders. If it were TyLee doing the massaging she would surely be on the receiving end of another lecture about how much tension she consistently holds. “How do you think spirit Azula would handle this situation?”

“By completely ignoring Zuzu to marvel at how big and shiny the palace is.” Color blossoms back on her cheeks once more as she imagines some goofy, wide-eyed version of herself bouncing around the palace, inspecting its every nook and cranny. “I would look like a complete idiot if I followed that line of thinking.”

“Well you could ignore Zuko.” Toph shrugs. “And pretend to be very invested with the new furniture.”

“New furniture?”

“Oh yeah.” Sokka says. “He added some new decorative vases and got rid of one of them.”

“The one that he got stuck in as a child?”

Another snort sounds from Toph’s corner of the saddle. “He got stuck in a vase?”

Azula nods. “It was not a very good day.”

“Wait, are you implying that you were in the vase too?” Sokka quirks a brow.

“It was a very large vase and it was surprisingly easy to climb. I could probably fit myself into it without much effort.”

“Oh man, I know how we’re spending your homecoming day!” Toph shouts. 

“Except that he got rid of that vase.” Aang reminds her. 

“I’ll find it.” Toph declares.

“You probably won’t. It has probably been destroyed.” Azula replies, perfectly content to have something else to think about. Indeed, she decides, it is better to think about something else entirely lest she give herself an opportunity for some admittedly destructive overthinking. 

“I’m going to find it.” Toph promises. “And if I do, you’re going to get in that vase.”

“I mean, you won’t find it so I don’t have anything to worry about.”

“Great so, it’s a deal then. If I find the vase then you’ll climb into it.”

“And if you don’t find it?” 

“Then I’ll pick my favorite of the new vases and crawl into it.”

“I suppose that I will accept your terms. But only because, in the Fire Nation, we tend to repurpose things that we throw out. The vase is probably part of a tank or an air balloon now.”

“Spoken like someone who is about to get stuck in a vase again.” Sokka mutters to himself.

“I’m sure that, that will earn me the respect of my people and won’t give them grounds to think that the jungle has left me completely uncivil.”

“The people of Omashu love Bumi and all of his quirks.” Aang points out. 

“Caldera City is a bit more…proper. Rigid. Dancing is frowned upon…”

“Not anymore.” Aang says. “You’ve been so focused on how much you’ve changed that you forgot to consider that The Fire Nation might have changed too.”

“Has it?”

“Almost as much as you have.” Aang replies. 

She isn’t sure if that makes her more or less anxious. But she doesn’t have much time to decide. The palace is within eyesight and phantom tickles dance up and down her arms. She closes her eyes and takes a few deep breaths. She isn’t on fire. She isn’t burning. The prickles that she feels are all in her head. The product of anxiety more than anything else. 

Katara assures her that she is going to do just fine. 

A little voice in the back of her mind tells her that it will be just another adventure. That she should, maybe, be excited for it.

Excited for the chance to rise from the ashes that she had been burning to and blaze more brilliantly than ever. 

[anony-mouse-writer]

Okay okay okay. This is literally gonna chew on my brain, so.

Here I list the tenets that guide the blooded sword:

I. May all that you face have a fighting chance. Any sword raised to the innocent or unarmed in cruelty is blackened by its shame.

[If he won’t move, move him. This must be done.]

[He could shove Tanguish back against the wall, stun him with the blow, and his sword would be in his hands before Tanguish knew what happened.

II. May your wrath be stoked only by the Saint's wrath, tempered by the Saint's fire, and quenched by the Saint's blood. A fool are they who, gifted the Saint's power, use it in wrath or malice alone.

His body still shook like the innervated sparks of a kicked campfire, but the parts of him that mattered, that controlled his voice and his will, felt so near to nothing it was startling. Transcendent. There was just a simple surety: he was going to make Wels pay for this.

[Do something.]

III. May you meet every adversary with honor, nor despise them for their challenge. May every battle prove your glory, and every accepted challenge prove their equal.

“He’ll make you kneel like that t-too and he’ll kill you, and you won’t be able to do anything to stop him!”

“Then I won’t give him the chance to command me.”

IV. May you be steadfast and know no retreat, for the back turned is once wounded and twice deserving. May every wound won show no proof of running.

V. May you meet every obstacle with courage, for just as all that emits light must endure burning, all the courageous must make a brother of their fears.

Helsknight felt his breath begin to heave, the silent determination of his wrath giving way to something nastier and more desperate.

VI. May your word be law, as binding as chains, and as chains may it drown you when bound in deceit.

“I didn’t promise that.”

“You did!”

…

“Then it's a promise I’m breaking.”

VII. May you seek the counsel of your elders, those more versed in the order and its ways, and respect their word once given, for their communion with the Saint is long, and their wisdom earned.

VIII. May you persevere to the end of any enterprise begun, for the folly is theirs that, through unfinished business, never gain wisdom from deeds done.

“You said we were in this together,” Tanguish said quickly. “Keep your promise and stay.”

IX. May you respect the honor of your fellow helsmet, that none may know you cruel or slave to vice. For no creature, be they sibling of order or beggar or king, is ever deserving of dishonor or pain.

Tanguish was so small, and so fragile. And he was so scared of pain, maybe all he really needed to do was turn around and grab the knife off the table, and then Tanguish would run.]

X. May you treat all siblings of sword and order as your own, held accountable as you would so hold yourself. A villain are they that stray from their tenets, and a villain they that allow it.

- Redstone and Skulk, @silverskye13

…

okay, so now that we’ve gone through all the ways Helsknight broke his tenets this chapter, lets talk about the WoG confirmation that the red text is the will of the his Saint and his accusation that Tanguish is twisting his tenets.

…… yeah I mean, he kind is. He’s admitted to it in the past too.

Like, obviously I am deeply unwell about this series in general, but Helsknight’s devotion to his Saint is so fucking fascinating to me personally. Holding to a code no one else has to is hard as shit and the Saint’s code is pretty vicious. But part of the code also addresses getting help from others and I don’t even know if there are others of the order?

BUT what there are others of, is the champions of the arena. And Helsknight has been forgoing their help for a while and the Hand calls him out on it. Helsknight just now realizing that he doesn’t have a lot of things grounding himself to him instead of Wels (and self-admittedly ignoring several of those things of late) isn’t healthy and he needs to reach out and he needs someone to hold him accountable, either to his tenets or whatever internal logic he decides to replace them with, and I don’t think it can be Tanguish, because I love him, but he’s absolutely a manipulative little shit who will use Helsknight’s code to his advantage in tense situations.

Hels doesn’t get much in the way of happy endings and I’m not entirely convinced that the ideal scenario for Helsknight to follow his tenets to the letter at this moment would be to muster up his allies and a battle plan and then march on hermitcraft to duel Wels or something. Which would be lowkey highkey horrible for everyone involved, not gonna lie. But I also have to wonder reallly strongly about how the red text of the Saint’s will directly violated several of the tenets and what that means for Helsknight going forward.

[simslegacy5083]

Not So Berry (Straud Descendants) Gen 9

Today's (9/30/2024) Episode: Raging Misfortune

Things had been going good for Luigi and his family, until one dark and stormy night life decided to turn the tables on them once again.

Luigi was looking forward to combating a raging headache with an iron rich late-night snack after putting Skye down for the evening. Heading into the kitchen he found his wife standing at the window looking worriedly out into the gloom.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, gathering her into his arms. “Have you seen Blossom?” she replied, “I can’t find her anywhere.”

Luigi thought for a moment, “Actually no, I haven’t seen her for awhile. You checked all her favorite hiding spots?”

Noemi nodded “She’s nowhere in the house, and I’m really worried she got disoriented in the storm and can’t find her way back home.”

Luigi spun into his everyday clothes and grabbed an umbrella, grimacing at the pounding in his head. “I’ll go look for her, but can you fix me a snack while I’m gone? I already took my supplement and some aspirin, but my head is still killing me.” “No problem.” she nodded “I’ll have something tasty waiting for you when you get back. Good luck and be careful out there!”

Luigi huddled under his umbrella in the pounding rain, calling out for his feline friend: “Blossom! Where are you girl?”

He’d only gone a short distance from the house when a fierce gust of wind turned his rain protection inside out. Dropping the now useless tangle of twisted metal spines and fabric, he squinted into the dark night. Quickly soaked through and seeing no sign of his furry girl he was contemplating turning around to hightail it back inside when he spotted a gray blob dashing for cover up ahead and heard a plaintive “meow…”

“Blossom!” he cried “Its OK baby, I’m coming” He ran towards the tree but only got a couple steps when he was suddenly lifted off his feet, thousands of volts of electrical energy coursing through his body as he was struck by a vicious bolt of lightning.

For a moment Luigi was completely disoriented, his head aching more than ever and every limb tingling… except one.

Just like when he’d been shocked at the park on their honeymoon Luigi’s mousing hand was completely numb. “It’ll be fine” he muttered, doing his best to push that concern to the back of his mind as he stumbled over to where his cat was hiding, soaked and shaking.

Clumsily scooping Blossom up Luigi cradled her against him and headed back towards home.

“What happened!?” Noemi cried as Luigi stumbled inside, awkwardly holding their fur baby, his body blackened; eyes slightly crossed.

“Well… the good news is I found Blossom” he began, plopping her down on the counter and practically falling onto one of the barstools “The bad news is I got struck by lightening in the process. I’m seriously dazed, my head feels like its going to split in two, and I can’t feel my hand… again”

“Oh honey.” Noemi whispered “Stay right there. I’m going to get someone to come over and watch Skye; then we’re taking you to the hospital. Here…” she pushed a plate of spinach salad topped with grilled salmon towards him “get this into your belly while I make some calls.”

Unfortunately, the smell of the usually delicious dish turned Luigi’s stomach. He dizzily pushed the plate away, opting instead to close his eyes and rest his spinning head on the table while he waited for Noemi to locate someone willing to brave the weather and the late hour.

A hand on his shoulder roused him from his daze, Bonnie’s familiar voice calling out: “My dude! You look like death warmed over.”

“Thanks a bunch, its good to see you too” he groaned back at his old friend, lifting his good hand and waving it vaguely towards her in greeting.

“Really, thanks for coming out Bonnie” Noemi interjected “Skye probably won’t even wake up, but I feel a lot better knowing you’re here if he needs anything.” Bonnie smiled back and promised to keep watch while Noemi took “their biggest baby” to get the medical attention he clearly needed.

By the time they arrived at the clinic and were shown to a room Luigi was feeling a bit less dazed. Unfortunately, that only gave him the mental space to start worrying about his hand, which still felt like a dead weight at the end of his arm.

His dismay only grew when the doctor declared his iron levels “lower than we’d like to see” and ordered an iron infusion to be added to the cocktail of IV fluids and pain meds he was already receiving. The only other time he’d needed an infusion it had left him nauseous and disoriented.

Still, he was happy to endure a bit more of that to get rid of his nasty headache. Even better, the strange contraption they wrapped around his hand to warm and massage it was finally beginning to bring some of the feeling back. It wasn’t much, but it was certainly better than nothing!

Just like before the doctor told them that the electrical shock had likely irritated Luigi’s Carpel Tunnel. He was ordered not to attempt any strenuous activity, including computer work, involving his hand until he regained full feeling.

When pressed, his provider couldn’t give them a timeline on when Luigi could expect to be able to resume normal activity. “There’s no way of knowing how much damage the wild current did to you. I put a referral to a hand surgeon in your chart. If you aren’t satisfied with your recovery in a few days, follow up with them about more invasive treatment options.”

When they got back home to Bonnie early in the morning, Luigi thanked her for her help before heading off to run himself a nice warm bath.

“Is he going to be OK?” his friend asked Noemi once he was safely out of earshot “I don’t know” she shook her head sadly “but I hope so. We just have to wait and see.” With a hug and best wishes, the pair parted ways to begin their day.

View The Full Story of My Not So Berry Challenge Here

[emilythescribbler]

When Snape Saw Lily In The Afterlife [WRITING EXERCISE]

It seemed to happen in an instant, he felt no pain beyond the initial terror inflicted by that great, vicious snake, which always stood by her master's side, always there as the deterrent it was, always there as the final puzzle piece to form a picture of fear Tom Riddle stood for. 

Snape recalled, as he stood in what appeared to be a great ball of light, expanding to fill the white space surrounding him, the confusion and sadness which filled those green eyes of his best friend's son, those same eyes she had carried with her her whole short life, and how he had loved them every day since meeting her, and every day since her demise all those years ago. He wished he could have done more, he wished he could've made up for all those mistakes, all those errors in judgement, to make up for all the regrets he held so close to his heart, and which blackened it so at the height of his anger, naivety and single-mindedness. 

Regrets, so many of them, and though he had wanted to tell Harry all he could, to prepare him in any kind of way that would have been meaningful, and though he did his best to give him that kind of power and autonomy, he feared it would be far too late to have any kind of impact at all. It was not a responsibility which was solely his, Snape had come to realise, and though he feared why would become of himself when his time came, he knew that, should war return to their doors, it would only be a matter of time. 

He felt as though his time had long since come and gone, that any time left to him after Lily's death, for his life had surely ended on that fateful night many years ago, was simply extra moments to complete what he should have then, what he hoped to achieve now. 

He opened his eyes and saw her then, as beautiful as the day he had lost her, and so he had returned, also, in a much younger form, at the age of twenty-one, with a perspective he had surely lacked when he had been that very age. He smiled and wished to rush towards her then, and while he considered composure, he decided to throw caution to the wind, reaching out instead to embrace her, to apologise and come to an understanding, for all they had been as children, as adults, and, now, in death.

But Lily's face was not a picture of relief and happiness to see her long-lost friend, nor did it appear to be solely, completely of anger and betrayal, as part of him had expected. He could see James standing just beyond, and when Lily stormed up to him, ready to shout and scream, berating him for how he had treated her son, Snape noticed how his former bully did nothing to stand in the redhead's way, simply looking on at his black-haired counterpart with a resignation he hadn't known James Potter to be capable of. He knew when to fight his end, but perhaps death had also given him a clarity Snape hadn't expected either, for, even though the pair were now perpetually ageless, stuck as their selves in their early twenties, it seemed it did not stop time from passing, and for the self to contemplate, for all the endless stretch of time which remained.

"How dare you treat my son like that? How could you possibly think that was okay?!"

"I'm sorry, Lily- I made mistakes, but I tried, can't you see?"

"Can't I see? Can't I see?!"

"Lily, please, calm down. Just let me-... Let me explain!"

"Don't you dare tell me to calm down, Severus Snape!"

Lily, after her shouts, after the strong bout of anger which overcame her, seemed to pause, as if forgiveness crossed her mind, holding back her frustrations, as her feelings were in conflict with each other. She had been hitting at her former friend, though not hard enough that he'd suffer any major or significant injuries. He took note of it, and though he didn't fight back, though he, too, carried with him that feeling of being at odds, pulled in either direction by your own mind, albeit for different reasons, though he tried to reason with her as best he could, he didn't hold her reaction against her. He just felt so happy to see her again, it didn't matter to Snape that she could only look at her former friend through glassy eyes. 

She held her head in her hands then, letting out a loud groan of upset, before she fell to her knees, allowing her tears to fall, for she, as James knew all too well, felt that, as much as she hated the man before her, knew that they weren't all that dissimilar. She blamed herself, she had wanted to do so much more, and she, too, questioned why, in the midst of war and death, they had decided to act so selfishly, to bring a child into this world, only to watch as she could no longer reach him, a ghost as her fingers slipped through his own, to reassure she'd always be with him, as he marched towards his own death?

Snape was unsure then what to do, for he wished to comfort her, to hold her, just as he had when he found her after her demise, s the guilt had overwhelmed him then, but knew now was not the time to act selfishly - if there ever was. James sensed his apprehension, and took a step forward, kneeling down beside his wife as she shifted in place, her head now upon her husband's shoulder, weeping into the crook of his neck. He soothed her then, hushing her as she cried, but did not take his eyes off Severus. James's  features carried no hatred, nor did he appear angry or resentful; his eyes appeared soft, empathetic, as Snape knelt before the pair and James reached for his hand, placing it upon Lily's shoulder as he gave his former classmate, the victim of his incessant bullying, and, perhaps, the true root of all which had transpired, an understanding nod. 

When Lily found the strength to stop weeping, she turned her attention back to her friend and husband, as her eyes shifted from James, to Severus, and then to the hand upon her shoulder. 

"Tell us your story, Snape, in your own words." James's voice was calm, inviting, and genuine. It hid no slights, insults and bad intent. "We want to hear all about our son. Will you do that for us?"

Snape paused, hesitant to respond, before he looked to meet their gaze and smiled, as he felt lighter than he had in years. He gave Lily's shoulder a light squeeze, as he nodded. "It would be my pleasure."

[psycheetamore]

Choosing to follow destiny

Chapter 5 – The only ways forward

Pre notes with this chapter: Yes, in this chapter I have spent > 1000 words on describing Feyd from the perspective of different people, in addition to the >150 words in the previous chapter. And, there is more to come in following chapters. T.b.h.: this entire story is just one big excuse to explore Feyd in all his facets, and to present an alternative reality that fits my personal needs. For everyone who came to here: thank you for bearing with me. First published on AO3

Tags: MDNI, Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen Is His Own Warning, the typical Feyd tags (smut, violance, non-con/rape etc), imaginary suicide, see for full tags: chapter 1 - the author regrets nothing

Word count: 1.5k

Link to previous chapter

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The Baron let his eyes scan Feyd-Rautha. Striking icy blue eyes, lying on a nearly white piece of canvas that was his skin. He was hairless, on his head and elsewhere, as the Baron only knew too well. A broad jawline that surrounded luscious, full and pouting lips from which a deep husky voice would come. Behind those lips lied yet another token of loyalty, in the form of blackened teeth. Despite it being an honour, saved for the best of warriors, it was a form of commitment as it could not be overturned.

Feyd-Rautha possessed a face, perhaps even an aura, that could darken from pleasant to vicious in less than a millisecond. He would clench his jaws, causing the joints to protrude, as a warning that all hell was to break loose. Vladimir had seen that happen more times than he could count in the arena, when Feyd-Rautha slayed slaves and drugged prisoners of war. His nephew had begged him to set him up with more worthy opponents, but it was still too early for that. The Baron did not want to risk it, not just yet.

His darling nephew had been training as a fighter ever since the Baron took him to Giedi Prime. These years of combat training allowed him to earn the sculpted body of a fighter. Whether he was fully clothed or not, whether he was in the arena or elsewhere: the Baron knew his nephew attracted attention and loved it. He especially bathed in the attraction he got from Giedi Prime's finest ladies, as well as otherworldly female visitors. This was not just the result of his physical imposingness, but also of how he held himself.

He was perfectly in control over his body and expressions. He could be a poised and charming politician and even a gentleman if he decided to be so. He was experienced in a range of fighting techniques, both physical and mental. Well versed in the old scriptures on warfare, politics and philosophy: another terrain where he could change from pleasant to vicious in no time. It depended on his mood, his need for a challenge, and was also influenced by his companion & surroundings at the given moment.

Whether he was dealing with the affairs of the Baron or his own physical affairs: everything was about power. Power to predict the next steps of the other person, to manipulate the next steps of the other person, to dictate the next steps of the other person.

Feyd-Rautha had a reputation. He did not make his favours within his own affairs scarce. Yet, getting such benevolence bestowed upon oneself was still considered a high honour, if only considering all the offers he got to curry his favours. He was seen as stronger, more vicious, more dangerous and more intelligent than anyone else on Giedi Prime. At the same time, he managed to hold himself more charismatic and seductive than the typical Giedi Prime man. With the help of the Baron, he was perhaps also one of the most handsome men, with a virgin skin. He did not have a lot to compete against, even at a tender age of nearly twenty-one. All traits making a man on Giedi Prime desirable, while proving irresistibly adventurous for otherworldly ladies.

Receiving his benevolence sometimes came at a cost. His mood could change, other desires could come up along the way. Having seen it all, having experienced it all: that did not sit well with a man needing continuous challenge. He was venturesome, which could proof challenging, and with special occasions even lethal. Not all his female companions wilfully returned for seconds.

The Baron knew about this. He felt it served the name and standing of the Harkonnen house. He allowed it. Sometimes, he would even task his nephew to seduce for political gain and leverage. Tasks his nephew all too happily obliged to.

Despite this, many hands continued to venture below his jawline, where the flawless sculpture that was called Feyd-Rautha began, or better said: continued. A neck strong enough to withstand the force of being choked, should anyone be able to get that close to him in combat. Shoulders that looked cast in iron, packed with muscles, to which powerful arms and hands were connected. Limbs that were befitting to both bring death and the little death. Arms with clearly visible veins, running up to strong and long fingers. Arms providing strength while not forgetting agility and the poise a gentlemen could only get from an athletic and lean body. Equally clothed with toned muscles on both the front and back of his torso. The well-built-ness of his back was visible regardless of how many layers of clothing and armour he would wear. The side and front of his core were at least as sharp as his jawline, tempting and screaming to be touched and adored.

His torso told less tales of his many fights than one would expect. Fights in the arena and fights outside of the arena. Fights where he secretly joined the squashing of uprisings in Giedi Prime. Fights as part of the ventures he sought in private, in the seclusion of his female companionship. His uncle would made sure that physicians would treat all wounds to prevent any scarring. He did not like looking at scars on that perfectly sculpted body.

Travelling hands would continue their journey and experience a sturdy rump. Perfectly carved yet plump, begging to be touched and caressed. The athletic legs, below a sculpted Apollo’s belt, were built for endurance. Endurance to run. Endurance to lift, walk and entertain companions without any effort. Smooth, soft, strapping.

Some ladies, who were educated on what remained from the old cultures, recognised in his body the godly figures sculpted by artists. Even the pale colour of his body resembled the marble of which such statues were made. This was as close as they could get to a divine being, unfortunately sometimes with all its unprovoked and sudden wrath.

It was clear from looking at him that no muscle was untrained; that every muscle had been trained deliberately a million times. Each part of his body had a function and was chiselled to fulfil that function. The man has transformed his body into a weapon.

A pure physical example of his dedication, sacrifice and perseverance. It was not something that anyone would be able to achieve without hard work. His body was not only the example of his physical capabilities but also his mental capabilities. Even all the torment the Baron succumbed him to, did not make him waiver. This made him a worthy adversary, coveted game, perhaps even a worthy heir.

After these thoughts passed the Baron's mind, he said: “You are going to Arrakis.”

+++

Bakyi did not share the concerns of Yaina. As he grew up with the Fremen, his trust in his fellow warriors was deeper than hers. “You know I have fought in several squads. You have only fought with me, with my group, that is now under your leadership. You will need starting trusting more, if we ever want to win this battle.” Yaina nodded, but replied: “And still, I feel he needs to earn us, he needs to earn my support. I will not challenge him in our traditional ways, as we should not waste potential. But I need to be convinced.”

“I understand what you are saying Yaina. You are looking to gain trust. What if we say we organise a match. A match that tests both the trust of the fighters in their leaders, as well as the leaders’ prowess?” Yaina raised her head and nodded Bakyi to continue: “I propose we organise a match throwing daggers, one of your favourite weapons, at a board.”

“How exciting is that?” she said sarcastically. “We could be at it for days before one of us makes a mistake.”

“A board held by a fighter” added Bakyi.

“What is the challenge in that? Surely both of us are good enough that we will hit the board and not one of our own?”

“While after each throw both of you drink a glass of spice beer.”

Her eyes grew: “but Bakyi, that is unsafe. Our people could get hurt!”

He looked her deep in the eyes: “only if one of you does not know when to stop, or if you lose the trust of your people. If that happens, you know that you need to decline the offer to join Paul.”

Yaina called her squad. She presented the proposal of Paul and the solution of Bakyi. Some fighters were more reluctant, while others valued the benefits better. Each fighter agreed to the match. But not before declaring their loyalty to Yaina, whatever the outcome may be.

When learning about the proposal, Paul was surprised. He was also persuaded after the thought about it. He recognised how not the dagger throwing but actually other elements of this approach were the true. He saw the hand of Bakyi in this, and knew he did not only want to have Yaina but also Bakyi in his group. He approved of the approach.

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Link to next chapter

Post notes with this chapter: I had so much fun writing this 😉. It is like having my two best friends (Dune & Empress Ki) meet and hit it off.

[mumms-the-word]

Slayer

Day 26 of the BG3 Fic February Challenge

Hoo boy am I behind anyway have a hastily written Freyr-and-Minthara-are-a-little-too-into-the-slayer-form fic for you bye

Check out my masterlist of BG3 fics!

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26. Using a new power for the first time

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“Minthara!” Freyr shouted, his stomach dropping as he saw Ketheric swing his hammer right toward Minthara’s skull. She deflected with her shield, but only barely, the force of Ketheric’s strength driving her to her knees.

Freyr swung his greatsword wildly at Kar’niss, cleaving off two of the drider’s spider legs in one go, rolling out of the way of the drider’s other legs as he screamed and lashed out. He had to get to Minthara before Ketheric could hurt her. He refused to let that rotting corpse get the better of him or anyone else with him.

His human form was too slow, too weak. If there was ever a time to test the limits of his Father’s gift—whoever his father was—it was now. Freyr flung his sword aside and called to the beast that lay fretfully dormant within him. His body bent and twisted, bones snapping and lengthening, flesh ripping and stretching. It was painful and delicious all at once, this transformation. Scales and leathery skin replaced his human flesh, spikes forcing themselves outward from his spine, horns from his head and his jaw. Two completely new arms erupted from his sides, tipped with lethal, black claws. He arched his back as the transformation ended, screeching with a new voice, his face a wreck of needle-sharp teeth and vicious mandibles.

Ketheric would die this day. He would die for good this time.

Freyr leapt across the roof of Moonrise Towers to land just behind Ketheric, lashing out viciously with his claws. Sparks flew where his claws met the metal of Ketheric’s armor, but they caught death-taut flesh, too, ripping into it and leaving deep gashes that oozed thick, rotted, blackened blood. Ketheric stumbled out of the way, turning to face this new threat.

If Freyr’s face were capable of grinning, he would. His entire body sung with zealous bloodlust, even as the battlefield around him offered very little for actual bloodletting. No matter. He would grind the bones of these necromites beneath his taloned feet and rip Ketheric into so many tiny little shreds that he would never be able to reform again. Freyr practically salivated at the idea. 

Ketheric bared his teeth at him and readied his shield but Freyr swatted it away with ease, unbalancing him. Ketheric responded with a heavy blow to Freyr’s side. Freyr felt his new ribs crack under the blow, but he barely felt the pain. This new form, this slayer body, was capable of handling so much more than his weak human form did. He screeched again, his voice reduced to banshee cries and guttural roars, and once more attacked Ketheric, driving him back toward the center of the roof.

Ketheric leapt back, out of reach of Freyr’s claws, and glared at Freyr from across the platform. “My Lord beckons me,” he said. “You have no idea what you’re meddling with. You’re a pawn—a slave—to forces you cannot comprehend. Even this mangled form is a testament to your ignorance. No more.”

He lifted his hammer. The entire structure of Moonrise Towers seemed to shudder and shake under the force of a new entity, until at last one of the smaller towers erupted in a shower of stone and brick, a colossal tentacle curling out from within. It bent closer toward Ketheric, snaking its way toward him.

“I am the Chosen, and you are nothing,” Ketheric said, taking slow steps backward. “Follow. See.”

The tentacle brushed against him and soon both disappeared in a flurry of black ash.

Freyr growled, as much as his slayer form could be said to growl. Behind him he heard the death rattle of the drider as someone, either Seraphine or Astarion, dealt the final blow against him. Around the roof, necromites collapsed in a clatter of useless bones. There was nothing else to shred or claw anymore.

Except…

Freyr shook his large, monstrous head quickly, banishing the frenzied thoughts. He refused to hurt Seraphine, Minthara, or Astarion. Well…maybe Astarion a little bit…

But as he turned to contemplate how much he could draw blood from the pale vampire, he found himself facing Minthara instead. She stood before him, splashed with blood both black and red, her own, Ketheric’s, Kar’niss’s, Freyr’s. Behind her, both Seraphine and Astarion stood, looking warily up at him.

“Gods above,” Astarion said. His expression seemed both impressed and deeply perturbed. “Look at you…”

“Since when could you do this, Freyr?” Seraphine asked. She tilted her head, frowning. “Assuming you’re still in there?”

Freyr rumbled, the closest approximation to a chuckle he was capable of, and gave a nod. Astarion suppressed a shiver at the sound. 

“As charming as you are, just make sure those claws don’t come anywhere near me.” He smirked. “But I must say, you do make quite the pretty pitfiend.”

Freyr growled. The temptation to swipe at Astarion was only growing. He fought to keep it down, turning his attention again to Minthara. She had yet to speak.

He cocked his head at her, trying to ask her what she thought without words. She gazed up at him, her red eyes staring unashamedly and without judgment. It was difficult for him to read her expression at first, but after a moment, her lips curled into a smile.

She reached out a hand to brush her fingers down the length of his arm, taking in the leathery skin, the new bumps and spikes. She hooked one finger around a long, curving claw, examining it with fascinated wonder. When she looked up into his face again, her smile only grew.

“You are exquisite,” she murmured. 

Freyr bent his head down, crouching his body slightly, bringing his face closer to hers, but she didn’t flinch. They regarded each other curiously and silently, Minthara drinking in every detail while he stood before her, breathing in the scent of her through this new form’s senses.

“Hm. It is almost too bad Ketheric fled before you could unleash the full might of this new power against him,” she said at last. “We shall have to rectify that.”

“Ah, sure,” Astarion said, lifting a finger. “Except that Ketheric seems to have fled down a big fleshy hole—and not a fun one, either. Can that new beastly form of yours even fit?”

Freyr lifted his head to regard the destroyed tower that the tentacle had emerged from. Astarion had a point. It would be very difficult to climb down after Ketheric in this form. With some reluctance, he relinquished his control over the slayer form. His body twisted and crunched inward again, another round of pain and pleasure, until he was at last standing before his companions again as a man and not a slayer. 

He flicked slick blood from his fingertips casually as he reoriented himself in his original body. “I’m glad you approve of my new gift,” he said to Minthara. He smiled darkly, rolling his shoulders. “I can’t wait to see what else it is capable of.”

“You will have your chance soon,” Minthara said. “And I will grant you many more chances afterward. But for now, we pursue Ketheric.”

Freyr gestured for her to take the lead. “After you, Minthara.”

Astarion groaned and rolled his eyes. “Oh get a room, you two. Bloody psychopaths…”

[8bitsupervillain]

Higurashi When They Cry Hou Ch. 2 Watanagashi pt. 11

Getting into the real nitty gritty about Watanagashi.

A quick summation of this part.

This part in addition to being an interesting interpretation of what words can mean is also funny to me because of how hard Keiichi is arguing that the curtains being blue doesn't mean anything. If you'll forgive the brief digression into basic literary discourse. Also I switched to the remake art style for a minute because I like the way Takano looks in that style better than the console art. Lack of different facial expressions notwithstanding.

Sort of curious how this looks with the remake/original backgrounds.

Does the anime show the ritual dance Rika does? Will the game itself later on?

Everything can be a cooking utensil if you're brave enough.

Truly one of the sentences of all time. Right up there with the components for chess would let you play chess, people die when they are killed, or I farted from my poop hole.

Dig into any country's history and you will find some extremely horrific stuff that was done. Every country always has some extremely vile and vicious things they've done. Guarantee regardless of where you live you could think of your own country's history and think of at least one atrocity that was committed.

Takano seems just a little too into this. This is just a few steps beyond scientific interest and is slowly veering into fetishizing the nightmare.

The what now? Incidentally I looked this up to see if there was anything like that in recorded history. The closest thing a cursory search brought up was the Chichijima Island incident where a group of American fighter pilots got captured in Japan and were tortured, killed, and cannibalized by some of the Japanese officers. One of the pilots who escaped the fate was future president George H.W. Bush. Can't say you never learned anything from me and my random let's play.

This sentence amuses me, because I've read about medieval torture museums so I don't doubt people have said sentences like that with genuine earnestness.

Well that's not a sentence that could get misinterpreted.

I get the feeling these lines will be reused in a much darker context before all's said and done.

The political angle of ritualistic murders and cannibalism.

Probably not the attitude one should have when discussing having found the corpse of a murder victim that has been burnt to a blackened husk. But then again I'm not a police detective so who knows.