#we are given bits and pieces of who he is but never the full picture

[mint-is-here]

i love reading about the uncanny because the whole thing of it is everything seems fine, but there's just something that's not quite right, and i love it.

example, once of my favorite characterizations of The Mayor from LMK in fics is in Sunbreak. He looks like a normal human, but his smile is a bit too wide, the skin around it a bit too white because of how strechted it is. He moves a bit too stifly to be considered normal and there's just something not quite right about the way the talks. Sure, he looks human, but there's so many little details about him that makes he look just a bit off. Just enough to make you unsure if he actually is a human or something else.

[yandere-wishes]

⋆｡˚ ☁︎ ˚｡Acolyte⋆｡˚☽˚｡⋆

𐙚Yandere! Qimir/The Master x Reader

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ Plot: Your loneliness is suffocating, engulfing. Qimir is the only one who seems to subdue the pain. But every forbidden fruit has its price.

⁀➷Warnings: Yandere behavior, gore, angst (at the end), author having an anxiety attack over this fic  

🪐Note: Why is the longest thing I've ever written for a fandom that barely exists? Anyway, here's the long-awaited Qimir piece!

⁺₊𝄞₊⁺ : Disturbia - Rihanna, Dark Vacay & Motion Picture Soundtrack - CAS

⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆🍓⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺

Your master's anger is tangible. You harbour it stubbornly on your tongue. Relishing in the frustration. You aren't sure how many times you've cut out your soul to place at a master's feet. Gnawing on perfect lips to keep quiet during another scolding. Your new master's disappointment reverberates through the room. Thick and oozing like an infected wound.

You messed up again.

"We do not injure other padawans during training. We do not lash out and attack, especially when your training partner has fallen. How have you trained for so long without comprehending these basics?"

The rage that boils inside you is not Jedi in nature. It's something else, a bizarre second, something ancient, ghoulish. An all-consuming fire that burns inside your veins. It shouldn't feel so welcoming, so familiar.

You roll your eyes.

"With all due respect master. How is one to win, if they do not strick when given the opportunity? That too should be a basic notion, no?"

You see the anger snake across your master's face. A defeated, disgruntled, glance that you've become a bit too acquainted with. This is the look that all your previous masters give you. And yet none have yet to master its eeriness quite as well as your first master. Master Sol.

Your master sighs, a piercing noise, deflating every ounce of his willpower. You are exhausting to be around, his annoyance is becoming discernible. "Master Sol is coming by the temple to check your...progress. He's requested a few items to take back with him. Please go fetch them from the apothecary."

Progress is a gentle word and Jedi love using gentle words. It's easier to say than the full truth. Sugar-coated things always taste better.

But the sugar refuses to stick to you.

It burns away in your bitterness.

Coruscant is a distant memory, it was never your home to begin with. But the high bustling volume is something that is hard to forget. Here things are quiet, you slip through the bazaar undetected. Small basket clutched tightly. You wonder what's dragging your former master halfway across the galaxy. You wonder if it's really just to see you.

You gaze blankly at the holographic list. A few rare herbs and some medical roots. This planet grows them in abundance, and the local apothecary carries more than its fair share.

The apothecary is an old, disheveled thing. The older Jedi say that its presence is as old as the temple itself. Odd how some things have a will of iron. You gently rap at the worn metal door, waiting for an invitation to enter. The hinges cry as the door opens ever so slightly. You squeeze in, surveying the cluttered den. Careful to avoid the half-empty bottles and neon puddles scattered across the floor.

"Excuse me" your voice holds an urgent annoyance. Where is the pharmacist? What kind of store owner abandons their shop in the midday? You run your fingers across the strange bottles, letting your nails pick at the murky glass. The colors flash, begging to be freed, strange space pinks, and summer oranges all trapped inside square prisons. Baby poisons dying to taste the world, burning it if they must, but experiencing it nonetheless, tasting their own form of freedom. Funny, they almost remind you of yourself.

Trapped and fatal.

"Hello?", the voice behind you is languid, dozy. Mirroring a late afternoon nap. When the man next speaks you notice a lyrical lint "What brings you here little lady?". You turn to see it, the voice, or rather the man harboring the voice. He's loosely robed and shaggy in the way that only the most spirited vagabonds are. He smiles tenderly upon seeing your face, strange red fruit caught between his teeth. "I um...I" you click your tongue anxiously against the roof of your mouth. Feeling around for those pesky words, in the end, you just shove the hologram holder forward, hoping he'll understand.

"Oh, I see, out here doing some chores?" You nod, mind preoccupied with the otherwordly fruit. "what's that?" you ask, schoolgirl curiosity lacing your voice. "What, this?" he asks holding the freckled thing between his fingers, it's only in the mild light that you notice the shimmering gold scattered across its red skin. The stranger laughs, walking closer, he places the hologram base on the black table, clicking it on as he studies the list. "They're called strawberries. They're from the forest planets, not many grow here in the mid-rims." He's nimble as he packs the herbs and roots, fumbling with the straw ties. "care for a bite" he asks, handing you the bitten fruit.

Hesitantly you bite.

Letting the sweetness erupt on your tongue.

"Thank you" you mumble trying not to moan at the foreign taste. The stranger laughs, it's a cheery noise like birds chirping in first bloom tress. "you're a Jedi, aren't you?" he asks stepping around the table, eyebrows furrowed, caught in a dream he doesn't seem to understand. You choke on the rogue static as he steps closer, eyes half-lidded dreaming of nothing. "Here..."

"Wha-" your voice catches in your throat, it's getting harder to breathe.

"Your supplies" He hands you the brown paper bag, motion a little too phlegmatic to be right.

"Oh, right...thanks" You anxiously shove the bag into your basket and scurry out of the shop. Holding your breath.

"Come back soon." the voice chirps behind you.

Your old master arrives by spaceship, a newer, albeit worn model. The landing pad ejects to reveal a small escort.

Master,

Knight,

Padwan,

Apostate,

You stand still watching as they descend. Bits of envy bubble in your throat watching your former master and his band of little heroes. You wish you had their belonging. Forgoing the loneliness to find kinsmanship with your coterie. You swallow down the bitter thoughts as they finally approach you.

Master Sol's smile reaches his eyes. Gentle and wise. The true epidemy of a Jedi in every sense of the word. Funny how he now has two failures under his belt. None of which are capable of scratching his shining repute.

His hands are on your shoulders, bright smile. "My padawan, it's been too long." You try to bow, awkwardly and stiffly. "Mater Sol, I'm grateful you've come to asses my progress". If he hears your doubt he doesn't show it. Instead, he reintroduces you to Yord, Jacki, Osha.

You try to be polite. Gulp down the awkwardness

You imagine the taste of strawberries on your tongue.

Remember their stiff sweetness and prickly tasteless freckles.

You smile. Easier this time.

They'll stay here for some time. Hunting assassins and documenting progress in their free time. Jacki seems more invested in your training than you are, trying to teach you everything she knows. At least she doesn't mind the rough play, the violent strikes, and sloppy prideful defenses. She speaks in pointers and parries. She's the one to drag you along these assassin hunts. Welcoming you...or at least trying to.

But there is something else at play. Darker, broader, Sol and Jecki welcome you into the fray. Yet you still feel your old master's hesitance, he's still wary of you. Worried about your anger, your defiance.

The distance grows, some icy void.

Sol used to tell you fairytales. This was back when you'd been young and bright-eyed. Freshly welcomed into the order and still overflowing with artless hope for a colorful future.

But even back then, he had known there was something wrong with you.

Looking back it was evident.

Every story started and ended the same. Little princess against the big bad world. Holding out until her prince came along. Only problem was the morals never registered right in your little messed-up brain.

Why didn't the princess fall for the dragon, the wolf, the tyrant king with a crown of bones? Why didn't she swoon and sigh over someone rousing, compelling? A paradox wrapped in black ember? Why settle for a sun-painted prince, with no complexities, no mysteries to unravel?

You would have married the dragon, or the wolf, or the tyrant king with a crown of bones.

Even back then, it was evident something was wrong.

The temple's roof isn't restricted per se.

It's rather abandoned as opposed to forbidden.

Maybe that's why you find solace here. The abandonment feels familiar, similar. The chipped cement kisses the soles of your feet, you imagine it's something like walking upon the rough terrain of a star.

You breathe in the night air deeply.

Expecting the fragile scents of moonshine and star glitter.

Instead, you choke on heavy mist and blood-drenched air.

The thing standing in front of you isn't human. It can't be human. It's created from the blackness, ebony in all the ways a living thing shouldn't be. For a second you think you're staring at a black hole. No doubt this creature crawled out of one.

What sheer willpower one must need to drag themselves out of endless nothingness?

"Little Jedi should not brave the night alone."

It speaks

"There are far too many monsters roaming in the dark"

Its face never moves, statue in all the ways the figures towering over the entrance aren't. This statue is something else, a lost page to some forgotten epic. Carved from gems born in darkness. Evil and rotten.

"What are you?" your voice susurrate, quivering in this surreal scene. The air is thicker now, overflowing with raw static.

Your fingers itch for your saber. Only when the cold metal kisses your palm do you regain some semblance of reality.

The hiss, the green light.

The figure chuckles.

Its voice bouncing from every direction. Everywhere all at once. When it speaks the air cackles, raining as if it were a frightened child.

"I am something akin to you, another child of the force" His voice comes out distorted, uneven in tone. "I am what's birthed when one learns of the true strength of the force."

Your body moves on its own, feet kicking the ground sprinting faster and faster before the final leap. You aim for the helmet, for the morbid toothy grin permanently etched within steel. In a flash the word stills, floating around you like fluorescent bubbles, the rain tumbles around you, curving and diving for the wet ground. It dares not land on something within his grasp.

You feel the slithering across your body. They start from the ground, summed from the unknown depths. Clinging firmly to your ankles before inching up your knees, your hips, your neck.

long, slipper tendrils curling around your body. The figure watches, bare arm outstretched. You should probably be focused on how the unseen things are inching closer to your mouth. Not on the toned muscles and limber fingers of the monster. Not on how, for a fraction of a heartbeat, his smile appears genuine, caring, aimed straight at you.

Only You

They finally reach your lips, prying your teeth ajar and flooding your mouth. Sinking deeper and deeper into your soul, your mind, you.

The smile grows.

In a blink you're suspended in the space between worlds, dark damning thing cradling your body.

"The dark side once belonged to the Jedi, yet they chose to discard it. Deeming it malignant, ungovernable."

Your weightlessness unnerves you. You're malleable in this void.

"Those few who embraced its calling were dubbed Sith." He says the word with such fervent pride. Devoted to it's weight and all it carries. You try to roll the word off your own tongue only for it to burn the roof of your mouth.

The stranger stalks closer, lethal and lithe.

The void vibrates, the darkness bends to his will.

He reaches down to cup your face. His fingers feel warm, welcoming. You nuzzle into his palm, fighting the urge to kiss each finger and suck on the dark force they emit. "You..." he starts, his voice shakes you to the core. Its horror amplifies with the proximity. You wonder if it'll cut through steel, armor, flesh.

your flesh.

"You aren't like the other temple dwellers. You have potential."

His thumb presses your lower lip, demanding entrancing. You comply, needing to feel something solid.

Something you've been denied your whole life.

"They keep you locked away. Trading you between craven masters. Seeing who can tame you first."

He nicks his thumb on your teeth,

Pressing bone into dentin.

His essence drips into you.

He tastes of power.

Of dark, dreadful things you can not name.

"They do not know how to train you. How to use your power..."

The world crumbles, ebony midnights giving way to reality. You feel yourself fall, plunging through the air like a comet bent on destruction.

"They only break you further"

Your knees collide with the harsh ground. Skin splintering in the aftermath giving way to bruises and bloodmarks.

The ground feels too solid beneath you.

A poly, a ruse.

You all but expect to melt through it. Slipping and falling into the vacuum, into him, once more.

He hovers above. Absolute in his strength. You're beginning to believe that blackholes birth divinity. Eyes shimmering with fanatic fidelity, staring up at the holy creature commanding the storm.

"Teach me..."

You've never begged for anything so terribly in your life.

But you need this.

this power

this control.

him.

Sol never told just how the princess met the villain.

He never said it wasn't love at first fright.

Sol insists that the local apothecary knows the truth behind the Jedi-killer. Definite that the unseemly man can tell you something important. He sends Osha inside to play Mea. To get the man to talk.

You crowd around the communicator urging back giggles. Yord's chin is placed upon your shoulder and Jecki's cheek rests against yours. Their touches come so early. And yet they are utterly alien.

"He will be so pleased." No sooner have the words chime from the corroded speakers that Sol is ushering you all towards the small metal hut.

Yord entwines his fingers with you as he runs.

Jacki wraps around your arm.

You feel at times they are trying to tame you.

Befriend the feral puppy they found in the backyard.

The apothecary's face is utterly stunned. He's stammering over his words fear glistening in his eyes as he stares at Sol. "Please, please don't wipe my memories. Or whatever it is you Jedi do." A rosy blush colors your cheeks, at his terror. It's terribly amusing seeing someone so carless, anxiously list off everything he knows. You almost feel bad for the poor scared man.

There isn't anything important here. But Sol decides that you will all return at midnight. The Jedi-killer will be back. Apparently, Qimir -that's his name, that the strawberry-eating, disheveled pharmacist's name- is holding something of value for her.

There's a tug on your wrist as you go to follow the others. Gentle and firm as he pulls you to his chest. "Come by tonight. I'll have some strawberries waiting for you." why does he feel too genuine? When you turn to look at him, he's painted in his usual sweet carefree smile that tugs at your heart.

He looks so innocent...

Starlight really brings out his eyes. He's laughing with a nervous smile,

School-boy crush on full display. You're licking strawberry juice from your hands as you listen to him talk. Backs pressed against the rusty wall and bodies half sprawled in the dirt. He's telling you about the first time the Hutts made him retrieve a plushie for their son from another solar system.

Qimir's voice feels like rose peddles melting into your skin. Sweet, jejeune, free. You offer him a berry from your pile. Watching tentatively as he submerges the red fruit into his mouth. Missing your fingers by an inch. He's laughing after the fact, head thrown back as if he's about to engulf the stars. You decide to laugh too.  

"Are you really that lonely," he says in a voice that's almost not his own. You're not expecting the invasive question, although you guess he means well. The words still cut deep. Piercing through the laughter, stunning you for a breath too long. "No...I'm a Jedi, we do not-"

"Form personal connection. I know...But you just look so lonely." He shuffles closer, the dirt particles almost look celestial in this light. Your fingers pitch a civil war. Pinching and clawing at each other. "No, yes. I don't really get along with the others." He rolls his eyes, bored and amused in the same breath. "Yeah, no wonder your money." He's picking at another strawberry, letting the crunch fill up the silence. You're beginning to think he just likes having something to chew on. Gulping down the anxiety with something toothsome.

He's a little closer now, fingers gingerly tucking back your hair. His fingerprints reverberate across the shell of your ear. Lips gliding against yours. You swallow as his lips fall across yours, pushing sweet stars past parted lips. He tastes of odd things, whimsy things. Everything you'll never come to understand. Xeno fruits and asteroid fields. His fingers glide up your arms, leaving moondust in their wake. He slowly parts, holding you softly with his soulful dark eyes

"You taste so sweet"

Strawberry, Starberry, You kiss him a little too deeply.

Maybe your new master is right.

Maybe there are other ways of being a Jedi.

The movie playing is doused in shades of rose and lilac. Gentle in all the ways. Everyway. The twi'lek girl is in love with the zabrak boy and their families do not approve. You think you remember Sol telling you a similar tale.  

The makeshift auditorium is cozy. Brown couch housing the three of you and your armada of blankets and popcorn buckets. Jacki's head is in your lap, you're playing with the end of her braid imagining the hair to be the lace of a Love-sick girl's ballgown. Yord's arm traverses the length of your arm, absentminded as he studies the motion picture, poking holes in the lose rose-tainted plot. Your head rests against his broad shoulder taking in his new cologne.

Maybe you really did miss them.

Jacki reaches for the popcorn, offering you some before shoving a handful into her mouth. You think the little symmetry-less kernels would taste better with a strawberry glaze. Qimir flashes across your mind, smiling sweetly as he tilts his head.

You think you're a little too similar to the star on screen.

Pinning after forbidden love,

Forbidden power.

Master Sol is growing acutely aware of your drastic improvements. He's noticed the betterment in your offense, your defense. To the way, you wield your saber, your techniques, and yourself. There is esteem in the way he smiles. In the words of praise, you've longed to hear. But you notice the lingering glances, the undertone of skepticism and worry when he asks about practice. He doesn't need to know of the black-glad creature that trains you in the unholy hours.

He doesn't need to know how beautifully your new master sculpts your rage into lessons. Teaching you how to wrangle the force and control it. How to use it to make the world bow.

These things will remain secret. For you fear Sol and the others will strip them of you. Strip them of the new master you've come to worship.

"Do you think people glow when they fall in love?" Jacki's voice is filled with sleep. Eyes closed as she murmurs remnants of movie memory. "No, I don't believe they do" you answer. "too...bad" There was a yawn there darling and vigorous like the rests of her. She looks so sweet like this, infantile in all the ways she can't be. Little girl dreaming of something impossible. You wonder if Sol's told her the fairytales too. You kiss the crown of her head, your baby sister you think. And big brother Yord, snoring with his head thrown back.

Maybe you should test her theory. rising softly from the couch you make your way to the door. Throwing one final glance at your sleeping siblings. Before going to find Qimir.

His lips ghost over yours, spilling star-clad secrets between each kiss. The apothecary has never been so dark, so secret, so secluded. Qimir's lips glided across your neck biting the flesh and licking the little diamond droplets of blood. Your nails rack across his spine, the wool of his throw-over itching the backs of your hands. "So precious" he mumbles, voice ridden with want, need. it's criminal how desperately he needs to feel you. You writhe under him, "Qimir, kiss." you whine. His lips feel like a lifeline, something keeping you sain. He pushes fireflies and lava pearls inside you, carving you open and enjoying you

He always enjoys you.

It's foggy outside when his tongue clashes against yours. A thick unsettling mist banging against the darkened window. "You're custom-made for me" Qimir mumbles against your lips. "Custome tailored" you boldly correct. "ummm, sure" his hands pinch at your hips, clawing mindlessly and leaving tails to your thighs. But the sensations are growing distant, you hear the heavy hum of saber activation. You psyche cracks

The world is dark,

He alone is absolute.

Your master's mask flashes dangerously across your mind. "Master Sol would be disappointed". You've heard that line a million times. Still, the words cut a little too deep coming from your demiurger. "Gullible" you don't understand, what have you done to earn his rage? He's gone, leaving you in the emptiness, you taste the charcoal from the landscape under your tongue.

Still, you long to call after him.

"Master"

The darkness subsides with the feeling of softness across your muscles. A breeze stirs you from the clutches of slumber. "Good morning" Qimir chirps, soft smile greeting you as you open your eyes. "Qimir, when did I?" he laughs, it's such a pretty sound this early in the morning. Sweet like caramel tea. He kisses your forehead. His quietude is commendable, he tries to calm you with feather-light kisses. You laugh pushing the covers away and still. Frozen.

What's this

The nightgown is lacy and short. It drapes expensively against your skin. Marring it with its tenderness. "Qimir, what's this!" he chuckles, "I couldn't let you sleep in those robes, they looked uncomfortable." You want to argue, to scream, and be angry. But the rage boils down slowly as you notice something dangling around your wrist. A bangle, and an anklet you notice later, black and gold entwined in patterns mirroring lighting stricks. "They're from Korriban, I had some relatives there." oh, why does that planet sound so familiar? "Thanks, but ask me next time before you go playing dress-up doll with my sleeping body" He pouts and can't help but trail a string of mouthy kisses across his neck. Qimir shuffles pulling you onto his lap. Pushing his nose under your chin. His eyes are honey-deo, adoring and scheming. "But you're mine." The possessive ness that flesh across his face is alarming. So is how tightly he grips your waist. It's only in this state of half-undressed that you begin to notice the taut muscles of his arms.

During your most recent lesson, your master gifts you a ripe juicy strawberry. He says it'll focus you, replenish your wither strength. You eat it a little too quickly, forgetting to savor the pink blush within. You believe too ferociously in everything your master says.

He can never be wrong.

You love the way your new master splatters blood across your sleeves. Be it yours or his enemies. He's started taking you out on his kills, having you watch as he hacks and mauls. His enemies must die, no one who doubts such marvels should be granted the privilege of life.

He's only ever spoken in half-riddles.

"Unfortunately legacy is a fickle thing. Tenacious, fervent, yet frail and erratic. No matter how hematological, we all read our bones differently."

The rain falls to your ragged heartbeat. Fast one minute and slow the next. You stick out your tongue desperate for a few drops. Your body is on fire, every muscle pushed to its limit. But the Force is screaming inside you, thumping dangerously between your fingers. You're ready for the next round. Saber ready and only half mesmerized as your master pulls out another blood-red saber. You charge, rage pumping deliciously through your body.

You forget to ask him where he got the berry from.

The next Jedi to die will be Kelnacca. That's why Sol is dragging all of you to the forest planet of Khofar. You think the name is utterly hilarious, the others don't understand the mirth.

Between briefings and Jacki and Yords packing quarrels. You sneak out to say goodbye to Qimir. Scribbling a half eligible not to leave for your master. But the apothecary is deserted upon your arrival, only a taped note on a half-full mortar.

'Gone to get more Strawberries.

Be back soon.'

You wonder if Khofar has strawberries.

Strawberry, Starberry, you're falling between the cracks of so many.

The Sun on Khofar is red, barely breaching the thick canopy. Maybe it's for the best. This scene is not one to remember, but how can you make yourself forget?

Death looms.

Permanent, Eternal

The fighting began in twilight.

The sky has grown two shades darker since.

He had floated in from the high reaches. You'd almost called out to him, 'master', the words die bitterly on your tongue. His saber ignites in the carnage, light growing redder after each kill. The bodies fall haphazardly stirring the quiet night.

Your saber falls onto the woodchip ground. No sound. He has followed you here. Yet it is not you, he seeks. Your master mask is haunting, in the dark the silver mouth glows bright white. Even against a massacre

the smile never relents.

He twirls the red saber with lethal accuracy, red arc severing another life. 'Take the right!' Jacki screams through the force, her eager voice bouncing inside your cranium. 'Don't' you scream but she's already attacked.

Saber sings saber.

Golden light flickers.

Forward. Backward. Lunge. Parry. Flunge.

Just like you practiced. Back in the quiet of the training room. Is it too late to return to the matted ground and wooden swords? Too late for safe comfort?

You won't take it for granted this time you swear.

Your master attacks with vicious zeal, cutting through the light. His black robes bleeding into the night. Jacki, scurries backward, trying to block with every ounce of strength. In one swift move, she spins freeing herself and assaulting his head with the metal of her weapon.

The mask clutters to the ground.

You scream.

He looks every bit the villain here. Blood drenched, water drenched. Smiling like the wolf in a child's picture book. Qimir's face stares back at you, hair matted to his forehead. He's panting, spent. You've never seen him toil. Dreaming him incapable of harm.

Yet he stands above the corpses. Wolf's teeth bared as he slices through the little girl.

It's been years since Master Sol tucked you into bed. Years since he's read you a story and listened to your baseless questions about romances.

You've finally gotten your answer. Painted in a shade of red indistinguishable from black.

Because the villain is too vile to be loved.

You run, catching the limp corpse before it joins the rest, you cradle her close. Tears landing on the orange of her face. There are no strawberry romances here. No sweet forbidden fruits. Just pain, hollow, empty, rotten. "Jacki" your voice muffles into her robes, rain-soaked, tear-soaked.

"Was that its name?" his voice doesn't sound right. No cheerful hellos or drowsy laughs. It's all menacing now, grating and hollow lilt. "Qimir" you wail, sob half caught in your throat. "It can't be you." He shakes his head, smile crooked and maniacal. "I'm afraid so, little one." The force pushed you up, pulling you to him. Qimirs head tilts, his fingers dancing around your throat. Squeezing squeezing squzing. Your glossy eyes take in his unruly appearance. Even now your master looks utterly perfect. Muscles relaxed as he steals your breath. "Master" you whine, your heart shouldn't be hammering like this, leaping through beats like something lovesick.

"(Y/n)" golden light fills the clearing. Yord runs, Prince Charming in every way you should have loved.

Qimir releases you, only to nestle your neck in the crook of his arm. "Don't worry darling. I'm almost done." He blocks the first attack.

Second, third. Yord scrambles to pull you away, missing each time. "Let her go" The urgency in his voice rattles you. He did love you.

Little sister, little princess.

Why is only starting to make sense now?

There's a crack, so loud it echoes across the woods.

"NO"

Yord's body joins the rest.

no no no

"Where were we?" Qimir is every bit the villain.

The dragon, the wolf, the tyrant king with a crown of bones.

"You lied to me, you killed them. Why, why would you do this."

"Because the Jedi say I can not exist." Sith, right those things were supposed to be evil. Hailing from Koriiban, the evil Jedi forced to flee. And here you were having so readily given yourself to the enemy.

The blood flows free in the rain. Dozens of bodies drained.

There's a river of blood. You kneel by the holy thing, dipping your cupped hands into the crimson. You drink deeply from the massacre thinking it'll taste sweet. Qimir pulls you in holding your throat as he submerges you.

Baptized in blood

The world flashes red.

It feels so free here. Floating weightless, letting everything be. The rage can not find you in these depths. Free like an adrift astromech. Free to float amongst the stars.

When you emerge again. The world has grown brighter. You see the wide-eyed bodies, even Sol is among the dead, you swear you see disappointment in his lifeless orbs. You gulp, swallowing the euphoric faint. You see your new master before you. Swimming to him carefully, following the gentle tug of the force. Prey meets predator. Qimir chuckles, the water is shallow by the banks. He sits awaiting, on his makeshift throne.

There is no sympathy here you should know better

"You took adorable" Qimir rasps. Hot breath fanning your ear. "Master Qimir" you mumble shifting as he pulls you onto his lap. He laughs this is submission, a breath away from grasping his desire. He cups your cheeks, drifting his hands to your shoulders. Pulling you closer, bodies melting into one.

His kisses still taste like strawberries. Sweet and metallic. All possession and domination. Biting lips and tongue and flesh. Spilling fresh poison with each snip of your neck. He licks the blood from your fingers with feral pleasure. Swirling his tongue around each digit and pulling it further down his hungry mouth. You swallow the darkness from his tongue, letting him snuff out the little embers of light. The stars are burning away bit by bit. He pushes you under again.

Mornings on Khofar are dark, caught in a perpetual twilight. Qimir wraps his robes around you letting the midnight sink into your bones. "The ships a bit of a walk. But we should be there before noon." You paddle after him. Fingers lashing awkwardly at his hand. He turns and offers you that tilted smile once more, mask bouncing in his free hand.

"Master qimir" you confess, it feels so light on your tongue. Like clutching dying white-dwarf-stars behind your teeth. He chuckles, snapping a berry from a nearby bush. His smile sings of triumph, victory, earned in blood. He places the fruit amongst your teeth. You, his little war prize.

"My little acolyte"

ᯓ♡ : @feedmestraycats @moonlovefairy  @wicked0clouds @phoenixes-and-wizards @peridedarling @morax-on-my-mind @magikmaik @lov4gor3 @manchuria @bucksdonkey @embersofimagination @hauntedhedgehogs @peter-laufeyson @papitas-con-sal @f0odie @boredtone @bluechissbrain @yourfilthydevil @n0t-skywalker @xsister-serpent @gabriqllas @zionysuss @i-love-my-babygirls @pagingoswin @jxp1ter @faebirdie @deezhutts565 @thesithdiaries @pagingoswin @hauntingwolf @scentedbanditlampwobbler @uwingdispatch @mask-knife-is-buggys-girl @lunarsvertigo @scintilla-morningstar @carpinchootaku

[halcyone-of-the-sea]

He'll Follow me Down Every Street, No Matter my Crime

PAIRING: John 'Soap' MacTavish x F!Reader

SYNOPSIS: You had an affinity for shiny objects. This time, a sting of pearls locked away in a mansion calls your name through the crowd of a party - only trouble? You have a hunch the man you help at the front door isn't all who he says he is.

WORDCOUNT: 11.9k

WARNINGS: Guns, blood, death, gore, heists, theft, suggestive mentions, mentions of sex, heavy flirting because reader's a tease, propositions of sex, drugs, the reader is loosely based on Cat Woman from DC, etc.

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

You wouldn’t call yourself a good person.

Life had given you the short end of the stick early on, taking what little you had in your grubby hands and shoving it into the ground, making you watch as they stomped on it until all that remained was a remnant of hope. Like a shard of glass, you held it even as it cut your palms open. But there was only so much that you could hold until you longed for more of it—until you wanted to take the broken bits and try and form a mosaic out of them. 

It started as petty crime—the theft. 

You got good at it. Very good.

You remember the first time you tried to pick a man’s pockets; aged fifteen with a switchblade in your pocket that you had never used before, bought off a man in exchange for cigarettes. When you’d been caught, the man—looking quite like Albert Einstein, mind you—had snapped your wrist so far back you heard it snap in two places. It still aches on cold days. 

In that moment, a firm resolve had taken over you. A rabid understanding.

No one was ever going to do anything for you, and if you can’t rely on your skills to get you through, then you only had yourself to blame when it all went bad. 

As you said, it started with petty crime. Then it got a bit more serious. 

You dabbled with blackmail and multi-level schemes that involved all sorts of money and luxurious items. Extortion.

You considered yourself quite the salesperson, admittingly.

But personality-wise: arrogant, prideful, and vain. The list went on and with no near end in sight. It was life, was it not? You were finally able to live it lavishly even from the time you’d just gone past the border of the drinking age.

But the best part about it was that you were entirely alone. Alone in every sense—not even a cat or dog to your name, much less a person to care for or about. It was perfect. 

Years of this went on, and you mean years. This was a job to you, and as you slipped into the hugging form of a deadly red dress, and rubbed your lips with the exact same shade—#4A0000 Oxblood—it was enough to make your pulse thump with excitement. The thrill of this made you want to never let it go; adrenaline junkie down to the jitters in your fingers when you first got the invitation. 

‘On behalf of Victor Lawson, you are formally invited to his mid-autumn get-together at his estate. Enjoy such finery as a five-course dinner, open access to his ballroom and gardens, and the pleasure of the host himself who’s eager to have you over. This invitation is viable to bring a plus one. We look forward to having you. ’

It was perfect. Perfect.

Chuckling under your breath, you think of the items that Victor had in that mansion of his—the jewelry and the raw cut gems. Your particular interest was a set of pearls that his mistress wore, well, wife now. Affairs are such messy things.

Slipping into black heels and looking into the full-length mirror, you smirk slowly at yourself, glancing up and down. You were the picture of elegant perfection—like a woman born and bred into money. Your penthouse was layered with the remnants of your spoils, stories on every counter or vanity; engraved into the pieces of fine metal and stone you wear on your wrists and neck. Bleeding wealth. Everything you have you had lied for, but did lies not take more practice than truths? 

You consider yourself an artist. 

“Perfect,” you clip the heavy earrings to your lobes, seeing the skin droop at the weight of rubies. Brushing down your dress, you hum, clicking your tongue at the thought of how pearls would better compliment the outfit. “No,” you grumble, frowning in disgust. “Nearly perfect.” 

Walking out of the fabric curtain you have to block off your room, your heels click against the marble floors, creating a large echo over the vaulted ceiling; the place had a coldness to it, really. A separation. 

Not that you cared.

Grasping the modest wool dress coat from the coat rack, you slip it on with a huff and fix the collar; hand moving into the pockets to take out your silk gloves and move your fingers into them. Last was the purse—a small black leather handbag that you let hang off of its strap on your right shoulder like another limb. The invitation was kept safe inside of the wool.

One last breath to try and keep your cool and stop the constant smirk that tries to force its way onto your face, and you call the elevator to your floor before stepping into it. 

“The pearls are in the office,” you say, inserting your key and pressing the button for the lobby. “His wife leaves them in the glass display case if that maid’s words are anything to go off of. And tonight,” you hum, finger grasping your phone from your purse and pressing into the front to unlock it. A social media profile pops up and you stare, eyes half narrowed in lustful pleasure. “She’ll be wearing her sapphires.”  

Victor’s wife is pictured in blues and silvers, and you had to admit, it wasn’t the correct color scheme for a mid-autumn ball. But you supposed she wanted to be the center of attention anyway, so her plan if that was the case would pan out perfectly. No one wears a blue that shade this late into the season. 

You drop your phone into your coat pocket and shrug, blinking slowly as the small waft of the elevator music is interrupted by the ding of the doors; that sudden lightness to your head shows that it has come to a stop. Stepping through the opening, you wave to the doorman and plaster a sickly sweet smile on your lips. 

“I’ll be back soon,” you explain. “Don’t miss me too much, then.”

He grins like an idiot. “Yes, Ma’am! Here,” the man scrambles, “I’ll get the door for you.”

“Oh, lovely, thank you, Dear.” Outside is a nice chilled breeze, leaves moving over the street only a small distance of concrete away—your driver is waiting patiently outside of it, the tinted windows up and the engine already running. 

Your body moves to it. 

“Ma’am,” he nods.

“Hello there, Buck,” you blink slowly at him, politely reaching out an arm and squeezing. “So good to see you again—and the Misses?”

“At home resting, thanks to you.” You hum, dismissing the comment as the man pulls at the car handle and moves to the side.

“It was the least I could do. Such a horrible feeling,” your lips mutter, “getting sick. If I only have to throw some of my money to get people to listen to their patients, it’s money well thrown. Do tell her I hope she feels better soon.”

“Of course, Ma’am.”

“Wonderful.” Sitting down on the seat, you carefully tend to your dress so it won’t wrinkle, picking at loose bits of wool from your jacket and gazing at your reflection in the glass. Such a vain little creature you’d grown into. Your eyes trail down your nose, lips, down the swell of your neck, and the bones of your face; running a finger over your cheek and trying to stop itching at the makeup you already long to take off.  

But beauty takes time. 

You’d look better with those pearls. 

Buck gets into the car and locks the doors, and soon the entire vehicle is speeding off into the darkening sky. Your skin tingles with anticipation. 

You enjoyed making those who’d broken the backs of others see a bit of your power when they realized you’d won, but the instances when you could go in and leave without a trace made you feel on top of the world. A woman with such a desirable position; an unforgettable ease of mastering a conversation. 

It was addictive to watch them fumble around like idiots. Go crying to authorities about things they could easily buy again and again. It makes you want to never stop talking. Your fingers twitch at it—your heart pounds. 

A sly fox’s smile comes to your lips, and you hum under your breath as the car brings you into the lion's den.

—

“Well,” Johnny grumbles, voice gruff. “I don’t understand why it needs to be me. Gaz looks better in a suit and everyone knows it.”

“Damn right I do,” the man in question replies, tossing a belt the Scot’s way, to which Johnny catches with no problem, slipping it into the loops of his dress pants with a heavy hand. “Don’t forget it.” 

MacTavish's throat echoes with an unimpressed grunt, side-eyeing Kyle as he smirks. Grabbing the fly of his pants, the man runs it up, moving his feet to make sure he’s not stepping on any of the fabric. 

“Garrick needs to be nearby in case of trouble. He’s your oversight.” Captain Price leans against the far table of the hotel room, glancing at his watch. “Five minutes, Sergeant.” 

“Five bloody minutes,” Johnny groans, blinking as he tightens his belt. “Couldn’t at least have bought a bigger dress shirt? Suffocating over here, Sir.”

Ghost glances at him from where he stares out the window, arms crossed and fingers tapping his bicep. “You can blame Laswell for that.”

“Just make sure you don’t rip it in the middle of the party,” Gaz pats his shoulder, and Johnny glares, sighing out aggressively at the pull of fabric. The fellow Sergeant is smug and amused. “Can’t go in and bring you another.”

“Ah,” the Scot grunts. “Don’t worry, it’s just a little public embarrassment. Nothing I haven’t gone through before.” 

“Story for us?” Simon utters, raising a brow.

“Not one I’m willing to tell.

John interrupts the banter session easily with a sharp command. “Alright, you can trade stories all you want later, we’re short on time and the driver’ll be here any minute. Soap,” Johnny blinks over, buttoning up his waistcoat and pushing the blue tie under it. Price stares, raising a brow, but his lips pause for a minute. “...Why are you wearing a bloody blue tie, Son?”

“What?” Johnny’s face pulls in, stubble shifting the scar on his chin. The sides of his eyes crinkle in. “Why’s that matter?”

John’s eyelids close for a moment before he takes a long breath and looks to the side, shaking his head. “No time,” he utters before coming back to it. “Go through it again, Sergeant. Slowly.”

“Target is Victor Lawson’s computer—located in his office at the back of the mansion. Three rights and a left is the fastest way there, barring breaking down the walls.”

“Good,” John grunts, seeing Johnny’s smirk at his joke. The Scot goes and grabs his suit jacket. “And?”

“One gun and a knife, hidden in the back garden with a silencer near the fountain,” the man licks his lips. Gaz passes over an earpiece which he hooks into his shell, clear and nearly invisible against his skin. “M9 with only one magazine. Fifteen rounds.” 

“You don’t have to use it,” Simon weighs in. “In situations like these, opt for a knife. Less mess to clean up if you do it right.”

“Don’t want to think about the types of parties you go to, Lt,” Soap sends a sly smile the Lieutenant's way. “Think I’d shit my pants if I saw you at one. Mask or no.”

“I like parties,” Ghost says blandly back, blinking at him slowly. “They don’t skimp out on the appetizers.”

“Why am I not surprised,” Johnny mutters, moving back and hurriedly flattening out his suit. “Right! Time to get this over with, boys. I’m goin’ in—don’t miss me too much while I’m away.”

Price’s hand goes to rest on his shoulder, moving him out of the door as Kyle calls his good luck to him. The Captain moves a hand in emphasis on the words he ends up speaking. 

“In the inside pocket, you have a USB,” he says, and Johnny’s blue eyes stare at him, serious with his lips flat. “We don’t need the entire system—just plug it into the box and let it do the work.”  

“Rog.” Soap asks, “Anything I need to expect from this Lawson fellow?” 

John grunts. “Negative. Man’s a drunk who likes to flaunt wealth, he’s in the background of his practice; has others do the dirty work for him. But we need his intel.”

“Then I’ll get it,” the Scot assures firmly, steel determination in his gut. “M’not so easily distracted, Price. It’ll be like takin’ a walk through the park.” 

—

“I’ll be back soon, Ma’am,” Buck comments as he opens the door for you, sticking a hand out to assist you out to the red-carpeted grounds. “Call if you need to.”

“Thank you, Buck, I will,” you chuckle, nodding. 

Walking past you run your hands over your jewelry, slipping your fingers up the inside of your wrist until you grasp the sleeve of your coat and pull it down more. It was growing colder out, and it was best to get inside the party as soon as possible. Already the air was thick with the noise of music and small talk, properly illuminated by lights that spilled out like water from a river. 

Around you, the front entrance was guarded by the tall sentinels of rose bushes; decorations in the form of strung lights and pumpkins placed and carved to immaculate detail. The mansion itself was the biggest on the tree-strangled street, and cars were coming and going quickly; lights moving through the dark trunks. 

Looking and walking slowly down the red carpet to the front entrance, your shoulder is lightly grasped. 

“Ma’am?” You startle, head whipping around to the sound of a deep Scottish accent. 

Your eyes lock with cobalt blues, a large man behind your form holding a piece of paper in his hand. You look at it quickly, the calloused and firm fingers extending the item.  

He was in a black suit, and while you fight to raise your brow at the deep shade of blue for a tie, you find that the outfit suited his stocky build quite well. You could see the size of his biceps easily, and in the light, your face nearly went slack at them. 

Not even mentioning the thighs.

“Apologies,” the stranger breathes, backing up a step and releasing you with a soft smile on his lips. “Saw this fall out of your pocket. I’d hate for you to lose it so close to the door.”

Staying silent for a moment, you quickly fall back on your natural charm. 

“My pocket?” Your hand extends, brushing against the man’s own before lightly taking up the familiar shade of the invitation. You flip it over in your hands, eyebrows raising in slight shock. Your other hand pats down your coat pocket, finding no firmness besides the body of your phone. 

“I didn’t even notice,” you chuckle lightly, focusing on the man ahead of you. A small flutter of upset moves in your veins. “Thank you very much, Sir. That would have been embarrassing.”

“Ah,” he shrugs his wide shoulders. “Don’t worry about it. And Johnny’s just fine, Dearie.”

“Well, it’s very nice to meet you, Johnny,” you move up and lean forward, lips shifting to leave a delicate kiss on the side of his cheek. Hearing a slight hitch in his breath, you hide your smirk, leaning back fully to stare into Johnny’s slightly widened eyes and the reddish sheen to his cheeks. He clears his throat, mohawked hair shifting in the breeze as he turns his head to the side for a moment. “You’re a lifesaver.”

You tilt your head. 

“So, here for Victor’s party then?” 

“Ah,” the man recovers quickly, nodding as you turn and begin a slow pace. The both of you stay near each other as the stairs to the front door get closer. “Yes, Ma’am. Have you…been to one before?”

You humph, shaking your head. “No way, I only ever go to these things once. Waste of time, in my opinion.” Your eyes send Johnny a glance to find him blinking at you in confusion. “What? You thought I would be all snobby about it? Most of the people here can’t even take back a shot correctly.” 

A shocked chuckle exits the Scot’s lips, eyebrows raising on his face. A far more casual smile now takes form on his part. 

“What are you even here for then,” he asks cheekily. “If you don’t mind me asking?”

You smirk. “The spoils of war, of course.” 

“You’re strange, you are,” Johnny utters, but finds he can’t wipe the grin on his face for the life of him. In his ear, Price’s voice grinds through like iron. 

“Soap, stay on schedule.”

He grunts, rolling his shoulders. Johnny’s thumbs go to rest in his belt, looping the brown leather.

“War’s a big word, Bonnie,” his blues glint.

“Would you prefer quarrel,” you dart back, and your spirits seem to enjoy this conversation some. The man was…new, so to speak. There was something different about him that you couldn’t place; he felt more layered than the normal people at these events usually came. Like you could speak to him for hours and only crack the surface. But, even by just his eyes, you could tell that he was intelligent. Very much so. 

“That might be more your speed,” you end with a tilt of your head, jewelry lightly clinking against one another. 

“I think you’d be surprised.” Your chuckle is smooth and easy to listen to. 

“Perhaps.”

Johnny hums, smirking as he pulls ahead a tiny bit. “And what do I call you, exactly?”

“My name?” You find a hand in front of you when you make it to the stairs, and you mildly get thrown off by it. Blinking quickly for a moment, you recover and delicately place your hand into the Scot’s, smiling as he helps you walk up. 

His flesh is warm, and you can feel it even through your gloves as it bleeds into you. A warmth that pushes back the chill of autumn, sending winter scampering like a dog with a tail between its legs. You ignore how your breath hitches at that action.

“You can just call me Cerise.” Is what you say as the doorman draws near and as Johnny stares with an intrigued furrow on his brow. Before the Scot can speak, you’ve already walked away, heels clicking and your purse swinging; hand whispering out of his like it was never there. 

Blue eyes watch, but they quickly snap out of whatever trance was there beforehand. 

There were things to accomplish—adrenaline was already taking hold in Soap’s bloodstream, making his focus hone in. While your conversation had been…interesting, and you were quite the beautiful woman, of course, he had a job to do. 

But first, he had to get through the door.

As you were speaking with the doorman, easily handing over your invitation, the man slips his hand into his pants pocket to get it ready; voices from other guests all around.

But his hand touches nothing. 

Immediately, Johnny feels his stomach drop.

“Where’s the fuckin’ invitation,” he hisses under his breath down the line, trying to keep his voice low. Soap’s eyes darted about on the ground, thinking that maybe he’d done the same as you and just dropped it. But no, nothing.

John’s hurried voice moves through the earpiece.

“Sergeant, don’t tell me you lost the fucking invitation.”

“It was in my pants!” He growls. “Bastard things that are making my thighs go numb.”

You’re none the wiser to the conversation in the man’s ear, only pausing when you hear the implication of something not going right. As the doorman takes your invitation and looks it over, you turn your head to the side and watch for a moment in confusion as Johnny pats his thighs and backside, hands over the pockets and his body turning in a circle.

“Johnny?” You call, walking towards him. The man freezes, eyes snapping back to you. You grab onto the tips of your gloves and begin taking them off, stuffing them into your coat. “Are you alright over there?”

His jaw is clenched, eyes simmering with annoyance. “Just fine, Hen, no need to ask,” your eyes narrow, slowly dropping to where the obvious lack of an invitation sits in his hands. “Just…uh, seems I’ve gone and lost something o’ mine.”

He goes back to whispering under his breath, throat bobbing with irritation that could rival even yours on a bad day. Even his cheeks gained a sheen of red to them, and not from the wind. 

You blink, sighing under your breath. 

You weren’t a good person, but you weren’t heartless either. The man had been good company, the least you could do was repay him. A good conversation is so hard to come by these days. 

“Oh,” you play off with a chuckle, turning back around and speaking loudly. The doorman looks up at you quickly. “I’m so sorry, I forgot to tell you about my boyfriend, Johnny.”

The air halts, and wide blue eyes snap to the back of your skull.

“It must have slipped my mind in all the excitement, you can understand how such a magnificent property just takes all of my attention.” You chuckle, pushing an embarrassed sheen to your eyes and body—hunching your shoulders in, gripping by the elbows, even bending your spine lightly forward to lean closer to the man. “It’s so beautiful here, I was so caught up in the decorations. He’ll be my plus one for the night.”

The doorman chuckles with you, glancing at the Scot who quickly clears his throat; taking this blessing for what it is and ascending the last steps in record time. 

A hand hovers over the small of your back, a bulky body slotting beside your own. Your nose twitches to the scent of hair gel and…you pause, swallowing down saliva. Was that the tang of gunpowder?

“It’s just fine, Miss,” you blink back to the present. The invitation is put to the side. “You’re both welcome inside. Please, enjoy your time in Mr. Lawson’s estate.”

“We will,” Johnny grunts, nodding. “You have a good night, Mate.” 

You smile politely, the two of you walking through the open doors. A pair of lips moves to your ear, the words said with low reverence.

“I owe you, Bonnie,” he pauses. “Big time. Nearly scuffed the entire thing.”

“We can’t have that,” you ease, voice like water. “Quickly, what’s your last name?”

You both walk side by side, yourself only stopping for a moment to shimmy out of your coat. Hands move to the back of the collar, helping. 

“Last name?” Johnny asks, confused at the instant question. “Why?”

“They’re going to introduce us when we walk in—I need to know so I can tell the announcer.”

The Scot stares, holding your coat as you take your phone out and put it into your purse. He passes off the item to a man near a side door, who asks your name and scurries off when he has it.

“MacTavish, full first name, John.” He grunts, admitting, “There’s a lot more to this than I expected.”

“It’s all for show, Mr. MacTavish,” your hand moves to his arm, lightly taking him along with you and restraining the want to squeeze the muscle under your fingernails. The man was as built as an Ox—what did he eat? 

“There’s always more to things like this,” you chuckle. 

A small silence falls, but it’s broken when Johnny’s curious nature betrays him. The way you had lied to the doorman…it had been so natural for you it had made him pause now that he had the time to think it over. Hell, he’d half-believed you himself.

Price had even been silent in his ear since then, only a shocked grunt moving across the line. As you shift a hand-held mirror out from your purse and bring it up, looking into it, he speaks up.

“You were good at that,” the Sergeant mutters, looking around at the paintings and decorations in the hallway, hearing more people entering from behind. The noise echoes from ahead as well, the party in full swing. “It was quick-thinking on your part, any reason as to why you’d help me?”

A smirk flicks over your lips as you snap your hand-held closed, moving it back into your purse. “You’re asking if I want to get into your pants?”

Johnny nearly chokes. “N-no! Not at all.”

Your head tilts, side-eyeing him, heels hitting the floor and carrying your snake-like stride. Not once do you blink at him, studying; taking him apart. Johnny’s enamored by the way you do it. 

He suddenly knew to be far more cautious around you than he had been previously. His fingers twitch at his sides, and he goes to push back his mohawk with a run of his palm over his hair. He licks his lips and turns his face forward with a heat writhing under the skin.

“It’s alright,” you explain. “I wouldn’t be opposed, but, unfortunately, tonight I have other things to fuck than you, Mr. MacTavish. Perhaps at a later date.” 

The man is at a total loss, jaw as slack as a piece of paper in the wind.

But what shocked response he could give you is lost as you move into a far more open room, you both at the top of an overhang—pillars and a large chandelier, shining bright. Marble with real vines wrapped around banisters; tables full of food in such quantity it seemed excessive. But the people. Hundreds of them, all dressed their very best at the bottom of these double stairs. 

Soap’s eyes went over all of them, studying faces in an instant and memorizing them for later. No Victor from what he could see…he just needed an excuse to slip away when everyone was occupied. He had to get to the garden first; get that knife and his gun that had been stashed. If it all came to worse, he couldn’t afford to get caught without one of them. 

Gaz can only do so much as overwatch from outside.

You move to a woman at the left, smiling as you move to whisper into her ear your title and Johnny’s.

“Miss Cerise and her plus one, John MacTavish.” 

The woman nods, and no later does she call into the crowd, moving her voice above the bob and flow of the conversation waves. Many of the men in the crowd choke on their drinks—eyes snapping up—at the mention of your moniker.

“The Miss Cerise and her plus one, John MacTavish.”

“Johnny,” you call, and the man blinks, seeing and immediately moving out his elbow so you can loop your arm through his. “I am curious about one thing,” you say as the scent of gunpowder returns. 

“Yeah?” Soap asks, scanning the faces that now pause their speeches and look at the pair of you. He grows uncomfortable at the attention, but you seem to soak it up—particularly the glares from a few faces that you seem to be acquainted with. “What’s that then?”

“You’re not here for the party, are you?”

Bloody fucking Christ, who is this woman?

“What makes you say that, Bonnie?” He forces out, his muscles winding up; jaw working itself in a tight clench. The Scot’s stubble writhes with the force of it. Has he been compromised that quickly? Not possible. Johnny’s mind starts running, and Price gets into his ear to call a firm order to move away from you immediately. 

But that would make your unblinking eyes worse, and Soap didn’t want that. The hair on his arms starts to rise, spine straightens like a stick. You felt it, feet going down the stairs without having to look at them, your head is stuck gazing at him. 

“No offense, of course,” your voice even results in his feet wanting to disobey him, to turn your way. The way you spoke was hypnotic. A siren. Some womanly beast from long lost history, coming to haunt him when he had a job to do on a limited schedule. 

You continue. “But you’re not right. You don’t fit into this crowd.”

“What?” Soap tries to push a flat joke. “Did my hair give it away?”

You study him, smirking. “No.” There’s no other explanation beyond that.

This was supposed to be simple.

Give him a gun and he’d be the most experienced shooter in this room; a jumble of cables? He’d have a homemade explosive in minutes. 

But why the hell would they put him in a suit?

“Listen, Cerise, Hen,” Johnny levels, “I’d love to stay and talk, really, but I need to fuck off and find some of my friends. Thank you very much for the save at the door, but there are some things I need to take care of.”

“And here I thought I’d get to keep my fake boyfriend,” you pout, leaning into his side. He watches you tensely. 

Your lips move in a laugh like a ringing bell. “But, yes, you’re right. I also have to take care of my entertainment for the night.” You move up to his cheek again, placing a kiss on his stubble as you both reach the bottom of the stairs. You whisper into his ear. “It was very nice meeting you, Johnny. Do tell me if you’ll ever take me up on the offer I gave you.”

Disappearing into the crowd, it’s like you were never there.

—

Johnny grunts as he tries to bend down, the fabric around his thighs and arms pulling tight enough to stop the blood in his veins. 

“If someone doesn’t get me properly fitted,” he growls down the line, “you can find a new demolitions expert, Price.”

“I’ll keep that in mind, Sergeant.”

“It was short notice, Johnny,” a Manchester accent follows.

Blue eyes glared at the bag hidden beneath foliage, a hand snatching out and grabbing it quickly.

“Ghost,” Soap huffs. “Good of you to join us with our late-night heist.”

“Figured you could use the support.”

“Oh,” Johnny scowls, “always. ‘Specially when I have to get myself surgically removed from this piece of utter shite.”

“Now you’re just being dramatic.” With a shake of his head and a growing smirk, the Scot takes out the M9 and the combat knife. Moving to attach the silencer to the gun. Blue eyes scan the garden rapidly; on the lookout for any guests or guards walking near the fountain at his back. 

“Alright, I’ve got the gun.”

“Knife?” Ghost asks. 

“Affirmative, Lt.” 

“You’ll be smart to use it away from any prying eyes. Neck leaves too much of a spray—go for the gut and cover the mouth until they stop moving.”

There’s a moment of rustling fabric as Soap shifts the gun into the small of his back, the back of his suit enough to cover the grip but restricting the ability for a fast draw. Simon was right—the knife was the best option for him. 

“You are stone cold, Simon,” the Sergeant smirks, eyes gazing over grass and gravel as the knife finds a home up his right sleeve, resting against his forearm. “Price, has Gaz checked in?”

“Affirmative,” the Captain comes back on as Johnny stands, re-hiding the bag into the bush. “Says he has eyes on from the neighboring mansion’s roof. He’ll lose you when you go inside, but if you need any guards terminated, lead them outside and he’ll take care of ‘em.”

Soap nods, head swiveling and brushing down his front. “Copy. I’ll keep it in mind.” 

But as he’s walking, the Sergeant pauses, dress shoes getting brushed by the grass. A bead of silence lingers on him like a needle into fabric, a nagging feeling like an itch at the base of his skull. 

“Price?”

“What is it?”

“I need you to look into someone else at the party, calls herself ‘Cerise’.” Johnny can practically hear the confusion over the line and he moves on to explain as he walks farther into the garden. “See if there are any files with that name. I have a bad feeling, and I can’t place it.”

“The woman?” Simon’s voice enters his ear.

“Aye, her. The things she said…they’re stickin’ with me.”

“Hate to tell you, Soap,” Price sounds slightly amused in his dim monotone way. “But the things she says stick to most men.”

He growls, face going heated as his chest tightens. “I’m not speaking ‘bout any of that.” Johnny’s head swivels up to the balcony of the ballroom, trying to pinpoint his location from the maps he’d memorized prior. “I’m talkin’ about how she—”

Speech halts in a fast instant of a choked-off sentence. 

A flash of red catches his eye. 

“Johnny?” Simon asks over the earpiece, confusion in his tone. But with a slack jaw, Johnny can only watch in awe and shock at the woman currently breaking into one of the locked balcony doors. And he knew they were locked. The informant had said they would be. 

It was you. 

Red dress and moonlight over your flesh, you look around the balcony before bending and opening up your purse, fiddling for a moment with the contents inside. 

“Johnny, sit-rep.”

Unblinking, Soap watches as you take something out, moving closer to the door and inserting it into the door lock. 

“She’s fucking picking the lock,” Johnny breathes, his breath making a cloud on the air. 

“Who, Sergeant?” Price asks.

“Cerise,” Soap huffs, his jaw closes slowly, blinking as a hand comes up to rub at the back of his head. Only a minute or so later, you move back from the door swiftly, stuffing your items back into your purse and standing. Hand going to the handle, you push into it…and it opens with no trouble at all. 

Walking through, Soap gapes as the door closes silently behind you.

“She got in,” he relays, and he hears Price order for Simon to contact Laswell—possible hostile inside of the mansion. “How do I go about this, then?”

“We need that intel—neutralize her if she interferes.”

Something swirls in Soap’s chest, but as he hurries to the stairs up to the balcony after you, gravel stuck into the grips of his shoes. With a grunt, he says, “Copy, Sir.”

Reaching the very same door you’d just gone into, the man slips inside without a whisper, clicking off his earpiece.

—

You trail a hand along the wall at your side, keeping to the barrier and resisting the temptation to fill your purse with expensive pewter statues and whatever other bits you can fit. But you can’t fight off the feeling for long, and before you take a fast right on the way to the office, your noiseless hand snatches at a small statue of a knight and stuffs it into your bag. A low chuckle breeds in your throat. 

As you pass mirrors, you gaze at your neck, trying to imagine the glint of pearl and the way they’ll feel over your flesh; sitting heavy with wealth and dripping perfection down to the golden clasp. 

“Three rights and a left,” you go off the words from the maid, pausing when you hear the sounds of staff or security. Heels muffled on the thin carpet, your body slinks along like a cat, red dress trailing with all its dangerous intentions. 

You’re only one last turn to the hallway of the office when you’re unceremoniously grabbed by the scruff of your neck. 

Eyes snapping wide, a sharp inhale is muffled on your lips as a hand settles over your mouth, ripped back along the carpet and shoved into the wall with a rattle of picture frames. 

Ignoring the sting of your spine and the fingers that find purchase around your flesh, you blink away the sheen of panic and lock eyes into familiar cobalt blues. 

“Johnny?” Your voice is muffled behind skin, and your hand snaps up to his wrist when pressure is set over your windpipe. Shock flies to every other emotion available, confusion taking precedence. 

His face is rabid with anger.

“Who the fuck are you?” The words are snarled on his accented tone—lower than the bottom of a canyon. 

Physical interactions, in this sense, were never your strong suit, of course. You specialized in getting out before anything like this ever happened, not when a hand was around your throat and starting to put pressure. In fact, now that you thought about it, the man ahead of you would have absolutely no trouble snapping your neck in a second. Despite all of your pride, a bead of fear moved up your back. 

Yet, you still glare with all the venom you can muster over the barrier of Johnny’s hand. The weight at your neck stays, but the one over your mouth moves to lean into the wall beside your head. 

“Get your hands off of me, you brute,” your words are tight, nails digging into his skin and making indents. 

The man can feel your pulse under his hand, the thump of your blood as he looms, glaring heavily. He wanted answers. 

“I asked you a question, Bonnie,” his jaw clenches, eyes unblinking. “I think it’s in your best interest to answer it truthfully, eh?” 

“And what about you then?” You force out, “I guess my hunch was correct, you’re not here for the party.”

“I have a job to do,” Soap snaps under his breath, eyes moving the hallway as your free hand delves into your purse slowly. “I have a feeling you’re lacking in that department, Cerise, whatever the hell that name bloody means.”

“It’s French,” you snarl, teeth bared, and feeling insulted. “It’s elegant.”

“It’s a load of bullshit. That’s not even your real name, you minx.” His hand tightens even more, and your eyes gain a sheen of panic as your throat closes—his hold was unbreakable just as is, a trained and dangerous thing. Trained? Who was he? What did he want with Victor’s estate? 

Was he a thief like you, or hired security? 

“Answer me!” His face moves forward, nose nearly brushing yours and breath puffing your face. “Who do you work for?”

“Work?” Your voice raises, confused and angry. “I fucking work for myself, asshat! Do you think I’d waste my time doing this for someone else? Those pearls belong with me.” 

His eyebrows pull in, face tight.

You lash out with the pewter statue in hand, aiming for his head. Halfway there, the man’s limb beside your skull flashes out and you find your wrist captured, shoved back into the wall, and outstretched beside you. 

Gasping at the pain that ricochets your bones, your hand drops the item in an instant. Your brows go tight with old wounds, the memory of your first attempt at pickpocketing sparking up along with the pinch of marrow. 

“Not very bright, Hen,” Johnny’s voice is graveled, glancing at the statue as it bounces along the floor. His lips twist, expression shifting as he takes in your prior confession one word at a time. The attack hadn’t even phased him. The scar at his chin roaves, as he huffs out as the hold on your neck loosens, “Now what did mean pearls—?”

Your knee reems itself upward and connects with his crotch.

Balking back, Johnny’s spine bends, curling in as a long and loud groan enters the hallway—a curse hurled out soon after. Not planning on lingering, you bolt off, jewelry jingling, and lungs heavy in your chest. 

“What the hell,” you gasp, taking that last left and staring at the large wooden door at the end of the lineup; fancy gold handle. Fingers shaking and neck aching, you hear the sharp call from behind you as your body gets to the barrier.

Yet, there’s no time to pick the lock. A curt bark moves along the walls.

“Cerise!” 

“Fuck,” you draw the word out, quivering hand moving through your purse to find your picks. 

Johnny rushes the corner, one hand still on his aching lower body and the other pointing down the hall. 

“Get over here,” he snaps. 

“Fuck you!” You snap, glaring. “Stop acting like there was anything down there for it to hurt!” 

“I am five seconds away,” the man hisses, “from dragging you out of here by your arm and throwing you to the fuckin’ security. You’re a damn thief.” He says it with utter surety, knowing as he puts all the pieces together. 

“I am a businesswoman,” you back up a step as he moves even closer, the bulk of his body intimidating now that you know what it could do to you. “And, apparently, you think it’s acceptable to toss one around like you’re trying to have sex with it,” your eyes flare, back going flat to the window behind you. Johnny looms once more, arms caging you in as they go beside your head and the fingers curl. Both of you bark at one another with, at present, no bite.

“I’m not opposed to fun, Mr. MacTavish,” your smirk is venomous. “But I prefer to do it when I’m not on the job.” 

“Stop talking,” he snaps, eyes darting to your lips as your gut spikes with adrenaline. His front is nearly flush with yours. “This isn’t worth it—you’re wasting my time. I need to get into that office”

“Then let me go,” your lips are near his, brushing with every word. Now your silver tongue has something to latch onto. He wants to get into that office just as much as you do. “We can help one another.”

“You?” Johnny scoffs, tilting his head as footsteps echo down one of the nearest halls. “Help me? Sorry, Dearie, but after that stunt of kickin’ my fucking balls in, you’ll have to wait for ‘em to re-drop before I put any sliver of trust into you.” 

“Tempting,” you huff, both of your teeth bared like dogs—not once do either of you blink away. “But you can’t get that door to move without me.”

Johnny raises a disbelieving brow, and you elaborate.

“If the pins aren’t all moved in under ten seconds, and the door opened, an alarm goes off,” the man stills above you, and you smile in pleasure. “All security in the area will come rushing down on you and your horribly styled hair,” he snarls, eyes flashing, but you continue, face triumphant. “And I hate to say it, Mr. MacTavish, really I do, but I doubt you can pick a lock better than me.” 

Johnny glares still, and this time, it’s far more sharp. Something moves behind his blues; consideration or exasperation, you don’t know. Hell, you still don’t know what he’s going to do when he gets into the office. But this is an alliance between wild animals.

The man is about to open his mouth, jaw already loosening, when a loud, questioning, voice moves from the end of the hall. 

Both of you freeze, pupils going tiny from where they stare into one another's. Even the blood in your veins slows to a near stop; shock so potent it renders you speechless. Someone was coming down the hallway.

“Is anybody down there?” A voice calls, echoing off the ceiling. There wasn’t anywhere to hide. 

Johnny moves back immediately, a hand going to the back of his suit to try and grasp at something as you hurriedly blurt out, “Kiss me!” 

The man flinches, anxious eyes narrowed. He blinks rapidly. “What?”

“You heard me,” you snap. Footsteps get closer and the Scot looks at you like you’ve gone mad. 

“I am not fuckin’ kissing you, Bonnie,” he says bluntly, a chuckle on his lips. “No way on God’s green earth.”

“Do you want to get caught or do you want to play it off as a mistake?” Your hand moves forward and grabs at his tie, yanking him back to you. He barely budges, raising an unimpressed brow. “I swear to God, MacTavish, do not ruin this for me.”

The man glares, snapping, “I’m not the one that decided to kick a man in the dic—”

“Hurry up and kiss me!” No time.

Someone’s shadow cusps the visible part of the hallway, and you stare with a pleading expression, Johnny glances over his shoulder before he moves his hand away from the M9. With a deep grunt of disapproval, he leans forward swiftly and slams his lips to yours.

Gasping at the intensity of it, your face is smushed as the Scot’s hand comes up, grasping under your jaw and keeping you attached to him, the other stuck at your hip where it creases the fabric. 

For a moment you even forget why he did it, and your body melts slightly as he huffs through his nose—your fingers finding his waist. He shivers as they dig in, and he pushes you into the wall, making the dichotomy of warm flesh and a chilled window leave your eyes nearly rolling to the back of your head. 

When your tongue brushes his lips, soft smacking meeting your ears, he hums, leaning into you harder. Neither of you fight it when your lips meet again and again, this time making your hand go to the back of his head, greedy mouth opening when he growls into your flesh. It’s nearly feral with clacking teeth and a massacre of senses. His fingers knead at your jaw slowly.

“E-excuse me,” Johnny rips himself from you, whipping around with a red face. Keeping you in front of him, his pounding heart makes his eyes blur for a moment, attempting to focus. You peek over his shoulder, face burning like a million suns, but a smirk forcing itself forward.

The man behind the mysterious Scot is older, and not part of Victor’s security at all. Just a partygoer who had gotten lost along his way. How he even got back here through the main way without being spotted was something of an achievement, you supposed.  

He stutters into the heated air. “Sorry to…erm, interrupt, but I don’t suppose you two know the way to Mr. Lawson’s garden?” 

The both of you are brainless for a second, Johnny’s hand still on your hip. 

“Two lefts and a right,” you utter on swollen lips, eyes smug. “Door’s already open.”

He hurries off, without a glance behind him, and silence falls again. 

You blink at the man now suddenly unable to meet your gaze, backing off of you like you’re made of red fire. Your head tiles even as molten heat rages in your bloodstream, pounding in the base of your throat. 

“My, my, Johnny,” you draw out, leaning closer as he sends sharp glances. “I’m impressed, who knew you had that in you?”

“Stop it,” he ends the subject, voice fast and firm.

“And here I thought you’d be a bad kisser. Very attentive to a woman’s needs.” You smirk, slinking past him and muttering in his ear, “Gold star for you, Mr. MacTavish.”

“Get the door open before I change my mind!” He snaps, but you aren’t put off by the darkness of his eyes.

You raise your hands, tossing a look over your shoulder.

“How did I know you’d be so pushy?” The man’s jaw moves as it clenches, nose twitching. He runs a hand over the back of his neck and glares.

You kneel, opening your purse and snickering as you grasp the picks and twirl them between your fingers. They were metal—long and bent to be inserted into the lock and manipulated until you found the correct sequence of pins inside of the mechanism. Inserting the first pick, you take and turn the knob slightly to the left, keeping it like that as you hurriedly insert the second.

“Ten seconds,” Johnny utters, watching closely as his anger simmers down to annoyance with you. Yet, he can’t deny that he liked that kiss, either. “Bastard has a lot to hide.”

You hum under your breath, face close to the door and ear twitching with each click. “Not for long.”

White pearls glimmer in your mind. 

Feeling around, the pressure from one pin to another is easily definable to you—years of practice moving from brain to brawn flooding out. With every bit of loose metal identified, the handle is moved by the first pin to keep them from slipping back down. 

“Five seconds,” the man behind you forces out, looking back from you to the hallway, anxious about getting caught. 

“Do shut up,” you sigh harshly, head tilting. “Stop breathing down my neck and make yourself useful.”

“Doing what,” he grunts, blues getting stuck at the back of your scalp.

“Hand near the door,” your voice is easily forced to sound hurried. “You need to push it open, shoulder and all.”

“When?” He barks, already rushing to hover his large limb over your head. You finally get the small snap of all of the pins in place, a click of achievement. 

Your heart skips a beat, yet you say casually, “Now.” 

He nearly barrels it down, and your eyes widen as he moves through with the force of a bull, your left-behind form kneeling as the man’s shadow dashes. You blink a few times, brows pulling in with distaste.

While you should have been happy, all you do is stare with a raised brow at Johnny as he stops the inside handle from making a dent in the wall, head on a swivel.

“I said to push it open, MacTavish,” you grunt, standing. “Not bring it down, you idiot.”

He turns as you fix your clothes, taking out your compact mirror once more and running your hands along your neck; slinking into the office. Johnny huffs, rolling his eyes. 

“Forgive me, Cerise, if I didn’t want the entire bloody party comin’ to me.”

You wondered if now was a good time to tell him you lied about the alarm but decided it was better to hold off until you had your prize. The less he knew, the better.

“Yes, yes,” your voice is low, “are you going to tell me what you want with this place or am I going to be left in a well of intrigue?”

“You’re not gettin’ a peep out of me, Dearie,” he levels looking around slowly—always keeping an eye on you. Johnny doesn’t trust you, but, hell, you don’t trust him.

Shrouded in mystery. 

You shut the door behind you, gazing with glee at the expensive decor and knick-knacks. Was that a gold statue of a deer, you spied? Oh, that would fit just perfectly on your foyer’s side table. Pity you can’t just carry it out of here. 

“Such a tease,” you hum, sauntering like a fox over the hardwood. “But I have to admit, John, I don’t care a large deal. You’re not important to me.”

“Likewise, Thief,” he grumbles, eyeing the way your hips sway with every step. 

There’s the click of a safety going off, and before your fingers can card along the glass case set into the side wall, keeping velvet boxes in their clutch, you freeze. The door’s lock is reinstated. 

Eyes still, you stare at Johnny’s reflection in the glass, heart slightly pounding faster. His face is staring, lips pulling into a smirk. 

“As much as I’m just loving our little session, Ma’am, I just need you to understand something, yeah?” 

You don’t speak, don’t blink. You hate to admit it, but you feel a droplet of unease as it enters your bloodstream. Had he had a gun this entire time? Your eyes find it now, an M9 hanging from his right hand. It’s black body and the long silencer, an image of death if you’ve ever seen one. You’re not new to guns—no, no, not with how you’ve chosen to live your life; the world you’ve taken by the throat and throttled. But getting threatened with one never became easier.

“I think I understand just fine,” you say, smoother than you feel. Shifting your head, you look over your shoulder, raising a brow. “I have business to attend to, MacTavish. I suggest you do the same.”

“I can’t have witnesses,” you laugh, shrugging. Your hands go to the clasp of the glass cabinet, flicking it to the side with a slide of cold metal.

“And I can’t go without these pearls, do you expect me to care about what you can or can’t have? My needs outweigh yours.”

A low rumble. Johnny’s hips shift weight, and that gun still hasn’t risen from the side. He wasn’t going to shoot you, though you recognize that it may be a bit of a shock to him as well as to yourself. 

“I very much doubt that,” enters the air with an accented drawl.

“Doubt it, then,” your bluntness is cold and precise, attention already taken as you move to grasp one of the jewelry boxes, pushing the top open with a squeak of the tiny hinge. A silver sigil ring meets you, and your lips twitch at its shimmering material. “Just stay out of my way.” 

“Bloody fuckin’ bastard,” the Scot utters under his breath, shaking his head harshly before his feet take him to the desk set near the back. He allows you to stuff your purse to your fancy, even as his mind screams at him to just put a bullet in you and end this—there wasn’t time for games. Certainly not ones played with a damn fox like you. 

The memory of the kiss still sears the man’s brain, until Johnny thinks of every interaction you two had had over this fast-paced and stressful night. 

But now it was time to hone in. Clean-up later. 

“Price, I’m in the office,” Soap mumbles through the line, clicking his earpiece back.

“Good,” the reply is swift. Johnny ignores your small intrigued look, not commenting on the amount of valuables you suddenly have bulging out of your purse. Like a kid in a candy store. The sight is almost enough to make him smirk at you. “Insert the USB and let it do its work. Should take a few minutes—hunker down and assess the exits. There are three floor-length windows behind the curtains; if it comes to it, break through and drop into the pool below.”

“Swimming lesson?” Soap jokes, patting his inner jacket pocket and producing a small black USB stick. 

“Eager, are you, Sergeant?”

“Not particularly, Sir.” 

“Coulda fooled me,” Ghost joins on, dry response adding to the choir of strange humor.

Johnny’s fingers move to plug the USB into the port, hearing the click of it inserting and stepping back as lines of code jump across the now illuminated screen—files pop up and disappear just as quickly, and the blinking light on the stick tells him all he needs to know about if it’s working or not.

“Johnny,” Simon pipes back in, and the man shifts his body to the side, hand coming up to his earpiece on reflex. 

“What is it, Lt?”

Across the way, your eyes glint.

Lieutenant? So the man’s military? Jesus, that changes things. I thought he was just some guy trying to get dirt on someone he disliked. Business partner, maybe. But military?

Your shoulders get a bit more tense, but it doesn’t stop your fingers from brushing your real prize—the last box inside of the case; red leather. It was all but calling your name like a veiled ghost of lust.

“Got a hit for a file with an Unknown, alias ‘Cerise.’ Laswell dug through the records.”

“Do you?” Johnny licks his lips, feet backing up a step and swinging his weapon. “Lay it on me, then.”

“Not much to relay—multi-year investigation, borders on some of their top classified cases for untouched HVTs. Don’t even have a description. String of high-caliber thefts, blackmail, extortions, and suspected of multiple murders to end it all off. Woman’s been busy.”

“Well,” Soap draws, tilting his head with raised brows. “Isn’t that just lovely?”

But the last part stuck with the Sergeant—murders? Call him naive, but you didn’t seem the type for that.

Blue eyes linger on you, slipping up and down with a twitch in their lids. He sees your face light up as you pop open a jewelry case; lips peeling in a violent smile as the round bodies of elegant and expensive pearls meet the light. Hell, Soap nearly hears you squeal. 

Murder? But he knows that looks are deceiving. 

He addresses Price, peeling his eyes away and taking a long breath. “Any advice, Captain?”

“She’s not the mission. Get what we need and get out.” It wasn’t shocking. 

“And Gaz?” 

“Still on overwatch—getting antsy. Says there are more security patrols in the gardens but they haven’t done anything more than speak to an old man.” 

Johnny blinks. “Say again, Sir?”

“Old man,” Price repeats. “Have him out by the gardens, moving about; asking questions.” A pause. “Why?”

“We might have a problem,” Soap growls, and not a second later there’s news being relayed. 

“They’re moving up the stairs into the mansion, Soap.”

“Fuck me,” the Sergeant snaps, rushing to pull at the curtains behind him, seeing the pool far below—it would take a bit of a jump to land a safe distance from the concrete, but there were limited options. 

Making out in a hallway pretending to be horny partygoers wouldn’t fix this.

You glance over at the ruckus, in the middle of clipping your prized necklace over your flesh, feeling the weight of it against your collarbone. The sensation of pleasure was so overwhelming your gut swirled with achievement like a storm at sea. 

It was perfect. 

Staring long at yourself in the glass reflection, your smile is wide and sharp—uncaring to the Scot’s sudden anxieties. You had your pearls and a few extra treasures, that was all that mattered to you. All that was left was your escape. Taking your phone out of your stuffed purse, you text Buck and tell him you’re ready for a pick-up and to park a little way down the street.

‘Need to walk the drinks off a little bit,’ is what you type, before hitting a firm send with a smirk.

Moving backward, Johnny still speaks hurriedly into the earpiece you had deduced that he has, and has probably had since the evening began. Fast-clipped sentences, and glances to the whirring computer, the USB stick you see inserted into its body. Your curiosity has always been your downfall, but you weren’t about to mess with whatever heist this was; especially involving the military and their forces. 

That was a cat you didn’t want to drag out of the bag. 

Making your way to the door, your hand is just about to grasp at it when you full-stop. Blinking slowly, your head tilts, your ear twitching to hear the muttering from beyond the barrier. With a moment of understanding brewing, a hand lands on the back of your neck and yanks you back, dragging you like a toddler for the second time tonight

Before you can shout at the brutish man, a hand is once more over your mouth, and a voice in your ear. Was this really the only way he could figure out how to keep you quiet?

“No speaking—you’ll just give away our position.”

You glare, unimpressed, until he releases you—blue eyes firmly leveled on your face in order. 

“Keep it shut,” he harshly whispers. As your mouth opens, he raises a finger and clicks his tongue, moving away quickly as you stare past in insult. Jaw loose, your eyes glint with hatred, growl in your throat as you turn after him. 

“I’m not fucking three, you asshat!” You exclaim under your breath. “I bet I’ve gotten out of more situations like this than you have. And would you quit dragging me everywhere?!”

The handle across the way is jiggled, Johnny glancing at the computer screen in desperation. It wasn’t done yet. He scoffs, face twisting. 

“Debatable.” You vehemently roll your eyes, looking around the room. This wasn’t exactly good—but it wasn’t unsalvageable. Looking at the woodgrain of the door like a plotting snake, you decide you could always play it off as one of Vicor’s multiple affair partners. He had scores, no way the man could remember them all. Tell security that he’d invited you here to discuss child support or hush money; that had to be fair play. 

You hum under your breath, sighing. How would you explain Johnny? A lover? Bodyguard? Your mind runs through scenario after scenario, until a large knife is shoved right in front of your face. You balk back with a choking sound, startled like a bird on a line.

“Take this before I change my mind,” Johnny grunts, grasping at his gun firmly. 

Your eyes stare with a sneer at the combat knife, which wiggles as the man’s hand shakes it impatiently. 

“I’m not taking that—are you mad?” 

Soap’s face is as stubborn as stone. “I’m not leaving without my intel, and neither are you.” A look is thrown up and down your body which makes you straighten, heels situating themselves below you. “You wanted to be here, Dearie, so you can’t back out now, can you?” 

“If I was here alone, none of this would have gone wrong,” you get into his face, eyes deadly. The door shakes as someone runs a shoulder into it—loud shouting from the hallway. 

“You’re a vain little minx that plays mind games because she thinks it’s fun,” Johnny hisses, breath atop of yours and eyes unblinking. “Mind yourself, you hear? This is bigger than a necklace, you vain creature.”

You huff. “It’s funny you think I care.”

“Little—” The computer beeps, and Johnny’s head whips back around as the frame of the door begins to crack.

The USB’s light glints a steady green, and then goes off, just as the computer screen blackens.

“Price!” Soap barks. “USB is done uploading, I need intel from Gaz, now!”

“Everything below the window is clear, Sergeant—get out!

“I need something to protect the damn thing from the water,” the man is already moving back, gun clattering to the desk as he opens drawer after drawer for anything—even just a little bag of—

“Holy shit,” you laugh, picking up something that had fallen to the floor in Johnny’s rabid search. “Victor was getting up to it.”

Cocaine baggie—the Sergeant snatches it from you. 

“Woah,” you huff. “Wasn’t aware you had an affinity.”

“I am beggin’ you to keep your trap shut.”

“Ooo,” you smirk, eyes shimmering. “I like that.”

Johnny seethes like a dog, looking at you as he dumps out the drug and rips the USB out, shoving it inside as white powder hits his dress shoes. From there, the thing gets shoved into his pocket with a heavy hand.

“Come here,” he takes you by the arm, pulling. With his other, he grasps his M9 once more. Your annoyingly smooth voice in his ear is a constant knife right to his brain. 

“Of course, Handsome.”

“Sergeant, for the love of God, tell me that Cerise isn’t in that room with you.” Price’s voice interrupts the two dogs at each other's throats, baring their fangs with sharp intentions.

Soap tilts his head harshly, moving to the window with you beside him. For whatever reason, he fights his senses to leave you here to be caught. 

“Then I won’t tell you, Sir.”

“Fucking hell, Soap.” The Scot huffs, smirk at his lips. 

“In a worse way because of it, too.” His hand tightens on your arm and you only chuckle, fingers to your mouth as heat moves up Johnny’s neck. He clears his throat, looking away, muttering to his Captain. “Won’t bloody leave me alone.”

“Awe,” your free hand captures his bicep, running up the fabric of his suit jacket. “I’d never leave you alone, Baby.” 

Soap suppresses a whole-body shiver, your heated kiss still strangling him every second he gets a whiff of your perfume. His feelings towards you were strange; potent like a snake to a mouse. 

The worst part was that he didn’t know who was who in this equation.

Releasing you, your body jostles at the sudden lack of a brace, but you recover with a laugh and a raise of your brow. 

Johnny takes his gun and sends four rounds into the glass.

Yelping, your hands go to your head, covering your ears and slightly ducking. 

“Time to go, Sunshine!” Your waist is gripped, legs jerked up with a grunt. All at once your eyes widen, your brain understanding the total lunacy that’s about to take place.

“Wait!” You shout just as the front door is busted down. “I’m wearing tangerine quartz—i-it can’t get wet!”

He’s already in mid-air, a smirk on his face, peeling back the stubble on his cheeks as his body crashes through the broken glass.

There’s the sensation of flying, briefly experiencing what a bird lives before gravity takes over, stealing you just as it does your stomach. You yell sharply, but that’s all you get above Johnny’s heavy chuckle before water enshrouds you both. It sloshes over your head, and takes you down into its depths; chlorine makes your eyes burn before you snap them shut.

You’re taken by the first thing that strikes you as your waist is pulled back to the surface—Johnny hiking you upward with your back to his chest. 

Who keeps water in the pool this late into autumn?

Gasping as your head breaks out of the water again, your nails dig into Soap’s wrist, loud commotion from far above, and the screaming of orders. 

A bullet whizzes past your face. 

“I’m going to need Gaz on this!” Johnny shouts, unwilling to let you go as his legs begin kicking, water running through his hair and flowing off of his nose.

There’s a muffled call before one of the security guards from the office window is struck in the head, a spray of red popping from the burst container of his skull—body slumping out of the hole. He hits the ground with a slapping crunch as you pant on fast breaths. 

Getting forced back along with Johnny, you curse in the open air at the sight, eyes wide as your dress is utterly ruined by the pool. 

You’re tossed upward, body grunting and skidding along the concrete as your palms slap the ground. Scrambling up, Johnny pivots with you behind him, taking his M9 and leveling it up, firing off a few rounds before the sound of your rushing heels strikes him. 

Soap calls to you, but you’re already speeding away to the tree line, water leaving a long trail as you sprint to the best of your ability. The pearls around your neck glimmer, slapping against your flesh.

“What the fuck,” you gasp, heart rushing like a lion. “What the fuck!”

Grass moves near your feet, the estate slashing by—gunshots still echo, those loud booms moving over the night; you even hear the loud panic of the party, beginning to understand what they’re hearing. 

Stumbling on a rock, your palms skin themselves along the ground, but you don’t wait to think about the sting. You push back up and keep running.

“Cerise!” Soap barks, running after, looking over his shoulder as his earpiece is full of loud orders. 

A hand swipes at the back of your arm and misses as you pivot and grasp your purse strap, swinging it around until it slams into Johnny’s head. 

“Fucking hell!” He snarls, hand raising to shield himself as you do it again. 

“You’re crazy!” You yell, mind stuck on blood and bursting heads. Your purse is in the air, swinging from your raised hand; feet still backing up from the bulky form. 

Blue eyes blink at you, occupied with both looking behind for pursuers and shots as you both move into the trees rapidly, circling one another even while escaping. “You’re shooting people?!”

“It’s my mission!” Johnny shoves out, jerking out a hand. “We need to leave—now!” 

“I’m not going anywhere with you!” You yell, looking him up and down, backing up, and bringing your purse close to your chest. 

Both of your eyes lock in a battle. 

“Bonnie,” the man levels, “You’re not staying here with them—they’ve seen your face.”

“I like my chances better when I’m alone,” you swallow down your tone, evening it out to emanate the confidence that you always try to carry like a sword. You’re not going with Johnny—not now. Now you had to go through aliases; move again—run like a petty criminal. You had to hide your valuables and get your finances together.

Staring, you pant, water dripping from your nose. 

You needed to disappear again. 

“Don’t be a bloody fool,” Johnny hisses, moving closer. “C’mon, we need to leave.”

“You’re right we do—go, then.” It’s final. “I’m not following you anywhere,” your eyes darted his form, remembering how his weight had pressed you into your wall. “Enjoy your intel, Mr. MacTavish, but I have my own affairs to deal with.” 

You slip your purse strap over your body and unclip your heels, dangling them by your finger as you stand back to full height with a deep breath. You’re scared now—nervous. Being around guns was one thing, but watching someone get shot was another. 

No one was supposed to die tonight; you’re shaken.

“Cerise,” Soap opens his mouth, annoyance in his veins. But he looks into your eyes and pauses, seeing the fidgeting, the flightiness. The man stills, glancing at your visible heartbeat, gobsmacked. 

You were afraid. The woman who’d smirked when he’d pushed her into a wall—the woman who had no terror of getting caught. Afraid of him.

He backs up a step raising his hand. 

“Hey,” Johnny eases, lowering his tone. You don’t change your attitude.

“No, MacTavish,” you clench your jaw. “This is where our game ends. For good.”

Eyes lock; stare. They dig and they stay still, night aflame with chaos. The game had been fun, but, Soap knew the truth about this as well as you did. It was felt in the very air along the vibrations. He can’t drag you along back to the Exfil point—it would bring nothing of it but wasted time and energy. There wasn’t any time, and even as his instincts told him to level the barrel of his weapon with your skull…he couldn't do that.

He had to let you go.

There aren’t any words spoken; none said in parting or goodbye—in all accounts, the two of you don’t even know if you like one another. Both of you would aggressively deny any such thing, even if the pair of you were absorbed in how one another feels rubbing your hands along clothes. That dig; that pull.

In the end, you turn, and you disappear into the trees, rushing to circle back to the front of the property where Buck will be waiting down the road. Your heart patters, your jewelry bouncing, and your purse full of your stolen quarry.

In the end, blue eyes watch you for a long moment.

And then Johnny backs into the shadows of night, and neither of you seemed to have ever existed at all.

TAGS:

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[i-heart-hxh]

kurapika anon back again!! i would love to know more about your thoughts on the troupe not being fully responsible for the death of the kurta.

personally, i see it more as they committed the actual murder, but someone was pulling the strings, whether that be through the pariston/sheila theory, or tserriednich. especially considering they seem to be under the impression that it’s some kind of revenge on the kurta, while the kurta have been peaceful for a very long time by the time they were massacred.

i saw someone on reddit make the theory that the kurta were the ones that caused meteor city to be so broken down to begin with, but that would be so long ago that i think it would be unreasonable for the troupe to still act on it. possibly chrollo was lied to about that being the case? or falsely told that the kurta were planning an attack?

Hi again!

So, I will say that my theories are all a bit vague, more like a bunch of puzzle pieces than a complete picture, but I'll share my thoughts nonetheless! If anyone else has additions or more insight, feel free to add on--there's so much to consider on this topic, and I don't feel like I've considered every single piece of evidence there is out there.

For a long time, I've felt that there's uncertainty around the Phantom Troupe's actions and the Kurta massacre. For one thing, we've never been shown any images of the Phantom Troupe being involved, nor did any characters we know of directly witness them killing the Kurta, and Uvo initially doesn't remember the Kurta when asked about them (he does when he sees Kurapika's eyes, but even then it seems a little odd). The way the Kurta massacre is set up seems intentionally vague all around, which makes me think there are pieces of the puzzle Togashi has been keeping from us.

He remembers enough where it's entirely possible they did do it or at least heard about it in depth, but also remember the Phantom Troupe started out as an acting troupe. It's possible they either a) did it after being given false information or were manipulated into it, or b) took credit for it for some reason even though they weren't involved. I lean more towards a), but b) is also possible.

I also feel like, the Phantom Troupe are clearly not morally upstanding citizens, to put it mildly, but as we've seen them are they truly capable of a full-on intentional massacre of innocent people, including children, for the sake of money/trophies? Most of the violence we've seen from them has been towards mafia and Chimera Ants. I mean, Feitan does torture people as a hobby and Chrollo kills a whole bunch of audience members in his fight with Hisoka, among other examples, so it's not like it's impossible to even consider they would ever do such a thing, but I'm just somewhat skeptical nonetheless.

The Phantom Troupe backstory threw even more uncertainty into the mix for me. Sarasa is a victim in a similar way to the Kurta, and as of yet the jump between where the Phantom Troupe left off in the flashback and the way the Kurta are killed seems strange. It's likely we'll get something more to fill that gap and explain how this development happened in the manga going forward, but, there's just something about it that seems "off" to me. How did this group of people go from wanting to find the murderers of their friend--albeit at all costs, and saying they are willing to become the villains and kill people in order to get revenge--to a group of people who may have murdered 100+ people for the sake of trophies, similar to what happened to Sarasa? That doesn't match their stated aims, and while it's possible they simply became more and more twisted by going down their road of revenge, I feel like there's more to it. It's interesting either way, so if that is the case, I'll accept it, but I feel like we're missing something major.

Note that they're trying to become so fearsome that people stay away from Meteor City and the people can be safer there/not preyed upon, so that would give them a reason to maybe take credit for what happened to the Kurta even if they weren't involved. And again, they started off as an acting troupe...

I also have had a suspicion for a long time that, with the way Kurapika's powers are set up specifically for the Phantom Troupe, he might eventually end up in a situation where, oops, the Phantom Troupe is not his target after all in order to get what he wants! It feels like a very Togashi kind of irony, and will put him in a difficult position.

Tserriednich is shown with a head above his throne in addition to the scarlet eyes, and his nen beast has a child's head inside of it that looks suspiciously like Pairo's. I think it's very possible Tserriednich or mafia surrounding him were involved in the acquisition of the scarlet eyes. It's possible either the Phantom Troupe were baited or manipulated into killing the Kurta in some way (told that the Kurta were responsible for Sarasa's death and the missing children in Meteor City, for instance), or that they took credit for it in order to bolster their own image as fearsome villains in order to reach their aims.

I also feel like Tserriednich is a direct representation of what Kurapika (and to a certain extent, the Troupe too, at least in the past) resents and abhors--the wanton murder of human beings for reasons of aesthetics, trophies, and "art." So to me, it makes sense he would be Kurapika's ultimate antagonist rather than the Troupe, who in a way are weirdly similar to Kurapika, or at the very least started out that way. If Tserriednich was somehow involved with what happened to Sarasa/the children of Meteor City as well (assuming the timeline supports such a thing, and I'm not totally certain it does), it's even possible Kurapika and the Troupe could end up on the same side, both trying to take Tserriednich down.

There's also the question of Sheila... Like I pointed out in this post, I'm very curious about this panel of her turning away from the Troupe and what it means.

I'm not totally sure I buy the Sheila = Pariston theories (though I haven't ruled it out either), but something is up with Sheila for sure, especially because of her appearance later with Kurapika and Pairo before the Kurta massacre. It's possible she lured someone there, possibly not the Phantom Troupe but maybe mafia members instead--maybe the same mafia members who murdered Sarasa? Or maybe she did pass the info to the Phantom Troupe--but it is weird that here she's shown going away from them with such a sad and complicated expression (as if maybe she were involved with what happened to Sarasa in some way), so it seems odd for her to be working with them later.

@subdee did a great post on this topic as well that has some additional thoughts and evidence as well, so I recommend checking that out!

Ultimately, I think there's a lot of doubt and mystery surrounding the Kurta Massacre, and I do feel like the series is setting up the idea of Tserriednich being the final hurdle for Kurapika to take down. There are a lot of possibilities still for exactly what happened to the Kurta and also for what will happen in the future with Kurapika and the Phantom Troupe, but I do feel like we're still missing a few puzzle pieces that will (hopefully) soon become clear. I do think this arc is going to be the end for the major plots of Kurapika, the Phantom Troupe, and Tserriednich, so I'm very curious and excited for how things will pan out!

[magicalrocketships]

Maybe you’ve moved on but I gotta ask.

How is de aged Max doing today? What is him and Daniel up to?

I will never have moved on from tiny Max. Never! He has my full and entire heart. I have at least three versions of this entire universe running concurrently in my head at any one time. But today Daniel has to find some clothes and shoes and toys for a newly small Max, and Max still refuses to tell him what he would like to eat for breakfast.

There is a POSSIBILITY that this link shows the stuff I've already posted in chronological order. Will it work on both mobile and browser? Who knows. Anyway, this bit follows directly on from this part.

1100 words of de-aged Max:

The woman who comes to deliver Max's Go Small stuff is called Charlotte, she's dressed impeccably, and she obviously thinks she's extremely good with children. 

She has, however, met her match in Max, because Max maintains the same stubborn silence he's been giving Daniel all morning. He folds his arms and sits on the sofa in Daniel's hastily washed and dried old Go Small kit, and barely allows Charlotte to measure his feet for some shoes. He does not answer any of her questions, and buries his face in Daniel's side when she has to put his foot in the foot measuring thingy.

Max is not very good in the morning when he's normal sized, but when he's just a baby and he's scared and trying to hide it and he's been up in the middle of the night having adventures with washing machines and unexpected baths and too-big Daniel t-shirts, well. He'd barely consented to eat any breakfast, even after Daniel had gone all out (little bowls of the two different types of cereal he has, another piece of toast with a jam smiley face on it, and then a fuck-it bowl of sweets from his bag of M&S Percy Pigs from when he was in Milton Keynes last month, because Max won't be small for long and he has to eat something). Max had sat at Daniel's table, sleepy and quiet and stubborn and shy, had eaten two bites of toast (avoiding the jam), a handful of cheerios, and three of the sweets. He'd eaten the sweets without taking his eyes off of Daniel's face, which remained creepy. He is absolutely not up for meeting strangers in Daniel's living room who do strange things like deposit bags and boxes in the doorway and then ask to measure his feet. 

"What kind of shoes would you like, Max?" Charlotte asks, which seems like a stupid question to ask given that Max has given her exactly zero interactions since she arrived, and he very clearly does not want any shoes at all. "We have red ones, and green ones, and blue ones, and some with pictures on, if you don't want a colour. We have Spider-man, and Pikachu, and—" 

For the very first time all day, Max makes a voluntary noise. His gaze darts to Daniel, his eyes bright. 

Daniel purposefully softens his smile. "Something there you like the sound of, Maxy-Max? Was it the green ones?"

Max shakes his head no.

"Well, it must be the Spider-man ones, then." He turns to Charlotte, giving her the ghost of a wink. "I think—"

"No," Max says quickly. When he says "Pikachu please," he says it so quickly the words run together, all mixed up like they've just run into a wall and scattered letters everywhere. 

"Pikachu, hey?" Daniel says. "That's a very good choice, Maxy-Max."

"They're in the van," Charlotte says, getting to her feet. "I'll go and get them, and some socks to match, maybe? Then we can try them on, make sure they fit nicely."

As she leaves, Max stares wide-eyed up at Daniel. "Pikachu shoes?"

"Pikachu shoes," Daniel agrees. "Pikachu, that's the chicken, right? Cluck-cluck."

"No," Max frowns. "Pikachu is a mouse, Daniel." 

"Right," Daniel says, nodding. "The purple mouse, I forgot. Silly Daniel."

"He is yellow," Max says, still frowning. "Pikachu is yellow and he's a mouse and he's the best one. He has a tail that goes like this--" he shapes out a lightning bolt in the air, kind of, and Daniel puts on his best learning face. "He likes ketchup."

"Ohhh," Daniel says. "Like you like tomato soup." 

Max's eyes get really wide. He beams.

Daniel rests his chin on his palm. "Do you know anything else about Pokemon? I don't think I know anything. I thought Pikachu was a purple chicken."

Max tells Daniel at least fifteen things about Pokemon before Charlotte comes back brandishing a pair of Pikachu trainers in one hand, and a bag of things to up-sell Daniel in the other. Daniel doesn't bother reviewing them, since they're clearly Pokemon clothes and books and socks and toys, and he's not exactly poor. If Max gets big again today, they can all go to some other Pokemon-obsessed seven year old. He agrees to take them all, even as Max tells him all about Charmander — his tail is on fire, Daniel, but he doesn't set on fire, it is all right, it is just his tail — and Squirtle, who Daniel believes is a horse and Max has to explain is a turtle.

"Of course," Daniel says, as he finishes velcroing Max's Pikachu trainers closed. They're teamed with matching socks. Daniel does not choose to think about what he's just paid for either of them. "Silly me. The horse is the other one, right?"

Max blinks at him like Daniel is extremely stupid. It's the cutest fucking thing Daniel has ever seen in his entire fucking life. He's seen that expression on Max's face before, only more grown up-shaped and usually directed towards the journalist with the stupidest question in any given press session. Right now the full baby force of it is directed towards him. 

"Jigglypuff, right?" Daniel says. "The horse?"

"He is not a horse, Daniel," Max says finally. Daniel's stupidity is clearly weighing heavy on him, because when Daniel gets up to say thank you and good bye to Charlotte, he gets up too, complete with new shoes, and hides behind Daniel's hip, hands to Daniel's waistband. He does not say goodbye. Daniel doesn't ask him to, particularly as when he shakes Charlotte's hand, she whispers, got yourself a handful there, and nods towards baby Max. 

Daniel is glad that he's standing as a physical shield between her and Max, because right now he feels like he could evolve into some kind of huge fucking terrifying Pokemon if anyone on the planet said anything mean about the scared little boy clutching his t-shirt. "I've got pretty big hands," he says finally, and shuts the door on her. 

Then, he turns back around to Max, who's looking down in wonder at his yellow Pikachu trainers and matching socks, his hand still tangled in Daniel's shirt. 

"You like your new shoes, Maxy?"

"Yes," Max says, wiggling his toes. "Is she coming back?"

"No," Daniel says, as Max slips his hand into his. Daniel's heart expands about fifteen sizes. "Do you want to look at your new book about flags?"

"A book about flags?" Max asks, blinking. 

"Yeah," Daniel says, grabbing the package off the table. "You want to look?"

"Yes, please," Max says, and doesn't let go of Daniel's hand. 

[continues here]

[legobiwan]

“Please don’t let me be alone.”

“I’m right here, okay?”

“You’ve shown me what love can feel like.” Mario and Luigi.

(Completely 100% platonic. That last one can be them talking about things changing for them in the romance department, and worrying that's going to pull them away from each other. Just as an example. )

I decided to take this in a slightly different direction, anon :)

So, a bit of context. This takes place pre-SPM, but there's some foreshadowing in there, so probably a month or two before that whole series of events goes down.

While I know Luigi and Mario talk, we have evidence that Luigi keeps some things from his brother, mostly related to his more negative emotions, as shown in the diary scenes of Paper Mario 64. I kind of run a little bit with this idea here.

As to what Luigi is looking for in terms of love...I'll let you all decide. I'll say upfront that this is written as a purely platonic relationship between Luigi and Mario, and I know exactly who I am thinking of in those last lines, but that's - literally - another story.

Very little editing has been done here, caveat lector and all that jazz.

Also, poor Morel. He's trying. Probably too hard. You'll meet him soon.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Hey, Mario!”

The owner of the squeaky voice toddled up the path towards them, his small stature unbalanced by the large guitar strapped to his back, the neck of which seesawed with every step.

“Hi, there!” Mario greeted, the Toad letting out a small oomph as he half-collapsed against Mario’s side, hands on his knees, his ruby-red vest soaked with sweat.

Luigi really hoped the kid wouldn’t keel over this time. 

“Do - “ Morel panted, taking a large swallow before trying again. “Do you have a minute?”

At this point, it was part of their routine. He and his brother would decide to run an errand in the town, maybe check out one of their favorite spots. Let’s pick up some cherry juice from that cafe or Hey, how about we go to that market and see if the new sports equipment is in, his brother would say airily, as if it was going to be a quick thing, an easy jaunt into Mushroom Square and back home before the mail came.

These days, it was never a quick thing. Not with his brother around, at least. What had been maybe a weekly occurrence had exploded into a near-daily even, the denizens of the Mushroom Kingdom stopping to ask his brother for a picture, or an autograph, or even a piece of advice in relation to plumbing, mechanics, or even relationships. 

As if being the hero of the Mushroom Kingdom made Mario some kind of expert in psychology.

Of course, this meant everyday chores that would have taken no more than ten minutes in Brooklyn bloated into an all-day activity, his brother unable to turn down the beaming faces and adulation of the Mushroom citizenry. In the end, Luigi had taken full control over the majority of the domestic duties in their shared house, if for no other reason than the fact he could get to the market and back in a reasonable amount of time.

No one ever stopped Luigi to ask for advice. Not usually, and if they did, it was quick and usually in relation to either his brother or, oddly enough, King Boo, whose name had become as synonymous with Luigi’s as the whispered commentary of “coward” and “oddball” that trailed him like toilet paper stuck on a shoe.

Most of the time, the Toads wanted to know what it was like being trapped in the painting, what horrors he saw there, if it was the afterlife, or something similar. Luigi had given up on trying to correct them after the first few times, giving out uninspired answers like “dark and scary,” which seemed to both placate the Mushroom Kingdom residents’ thirst for grisly gossip and align with their internal schema for who they thought Luigi was. 

It didn’t matter, in the end. He had saved his brother. Twice. The health and safety of everyone involved was more important than his ego.

Of course, that didn’t stop him from occasionally daydreaming about King Boo attacking the Mushroom Kingdom, just so Luigi could prove a point

“You know, Morel,” Luigi said, shaking thoughts of Toads screaming for his help from his mind, “we were on our way to pick up some - “

“It’s okay, Lou,” Mario interrupted with a brisk wave. “Shop doesn’t close for another hour and I’m sure Morel won’t take too much of our time.

Luigi was sure the opposite would be true, but far be it from him to be the bad guy and tell Morel to come back later. His reputation in the Mushroom Kingdom was dicey enough as it was - he wasn’t to exacerbate things by being mean to a teen Toad.

As Morel and his brother talked, Luigi let his thoughts wander. He nixed their shopping list, weighing the pros and cons of raiding the back of the cupboard for whatever dregs of food they had left. He wondered if Mario even remembered who Morel was, watching his brother make the appropriate gestures and smiling widely, that glimmer of recognition absent in his brother’s expression. He couldn’t really blame Mario, not for that. How many times can you be asked for an autograph or advice before all those faces blurred together? Even Luigi couldn’t always keep them straight, and he had a lot more time to quietly observe and register his brother’s admirers. 

Morel, however, was not to be forgotten. The last time he had accosted them, he had wanted to show off one of his many creative endeavors, this time an hour-long, abstruse interpretative dance performance that was somehow supposed to help with diplomatic relations at an upcoming summit between the Mushroom Kingdom and the Yoshis. 

Five minutes in, Mario’s eyes had glazed over. Ten minutes in and three pirouetting Piranhas later, Luigi found himself mentally running over a table for standard thermodynamic values in select substances. Carbon was always the hard one. Way too many possibilities.

Luigi bit the inside of his cheek, bringing his attention back to the conversation.

“So Mario,” Morel unsheathed his guitar from his back, pulling a crumpled piece of paper with multiple strikeouts from his pocket. “Have you ever liked a girl? Like, liked like?”

Luigi choked down a laugh. The Romeo of Room 312. That’s what he had called his brother back in middle school, who pined after a different girl every week. Vanessa Tuccio, Jackie Galagio, Stephanie Rizzo. None of them gave his brother the time of day, Mario still being in that awkward stage where he hadn’t made up for his lack of height with an abundance of muscle, his voice teetering somewhere between squeaky laryngitis and the hoarse, nasal tenor of a common cold.

By the time they hit high school (and Mario’s voice had finally dropped), that all changed, his brother doing pretty well himself in the dating department, at least as far as Luigi could tell. They weren’t as close those years, with he and Mario at different schools, Luigi buried in a mountain of chemistry and physics textbooks while his brother hung out with his jock friends at a ratty gym on 86th Street. 

But he had taken a nice girl to prom. Had had a few breakups, some of them Mario’s fault. All what Luigi assumed was normal teenage stuff.

Not that he really knew.

Luigi had tried dating a few girls in high school, girls with long hair, glasses, and a religious devotion to the periodic table. Nothing ever went past the clammy hand-holding stage and one very awkward kiss over a smuggled bottle of cheap wine on the Coney Island boardwalk, each girl in question giving him a polite brush-off after a week or two, only to attach themselves to some other guy who somehow seemed to know how to put the pieces of the puzzle together. 

Frankly, it was a miracle Luigi had lost his virginity at all by the time he graduated, his new-found, reckless courage bolstered by the death of his father and the whole shitstorm with the family business being ripped out from under their noses. He had barely finished senior year, whatever motivation he had once had to claw himself out of Bensonhurst and into Cooper Union whisked away once he was faced with the reality of being a seventeen year old orphan staring down a mountain of unpaid bills and a deceased father who may or may not have owed favors to the mob.

From that point onwards, he and Mario were focused on survival, on running a third-rate plumbing business out of a second-rate studio, Luigi elbows-deep in the guts of their father’s van more often than not, neither he nor Mario willing or able to shell out the cash for an actual mechanic. It was tenuous and relentless, and there was no way either of them had the energy or capacity to think about something as banal as dating when creditors and loan sharks were breathing down their neck every five days.

And then - their lives had been turned upside-down once again.

The concept of dating in the Mushroom Kingdom was laughable, and Luigi had resigned himself to a monastic existence while they figured out a way back to Brooklyn. There were so few humans around and it was clear from the outset that there something was going on between his brother and Peach, even if it had never advanced beyond hugs that lasted a few seconds too long to be called friendly and doe-eyed glances cast across the long tables of the the palace dining room.

Which left Luigi the odd man out, a situation he was overly-familiar with in this new world, his brother the famous hero of the Kingdom and Luigi himself an afterthought, at best. And sure, he had met a few other human women - smart, funny, beautiful human women who seemed to like talking with him, who, against all odds, found him genuinely interesting. 

But despite his brother egging him on, Luigi couldn’t quite find the motivation to try and turn that friendly flirting into anything more. Sure, Daisy was amazing and a force of nature. And Princess Eclair had been utterly captivating, to the point where Luigi wondered if she was some kind of enchantress. But for all of that, there was something missing, something he couldn’t quite make fit, a niggle in the back of his brain with his father’s voice, telling him to hit the gym, to put down his books and stop wearing those colorful socks or else he was going to get a reputation - the kind of reputation that ended with a fist in your face in a Brooklyn Heights Promenade bathroom.

There was something else, something more he wanted. But he was damned if was going to find it in the Mushroom Kingdom, and with the likelihood of them ever getting back to Brooklyn diminishing with each passing year - well, those monks didn’t have too bad a life, right?

“Okay, okay, are you guys ready?” Morel had sat himself on a small boulder, motioning for Luigi and Mario to follow suit. With his audience in place, the teen Toad strummed a few chords on his guitar, reaching up to adjust the tuning, then strumming again, then tuning, a process which took at least five minutes. Luigi was no musician, but even he was pretty sure Morel was just stalling at this point.

“Alright,” Morel sighed, breathy. “So, there’s this girl, right? And she’s really pretty. And I want to impress her, like, really impress her. She’s all into this band,” Morel’s face twisted, “Lion’s Mane and their front Toad is super cool and good-looking. I figure I can win her over if I show I can sing just as good as him, if I can write my own songs and everything! So here we go.”

Morel straightened, his small fingers digging into spaces above and below the frets. He took a large breath from his nose, held it, and then began play.

“Please don’t let me be alone.

I’ll talk to you on the phone.

I lose my spores,

When you walk on through those doors.

I’m right here, okay?

Right on the Mushroom Way.

It’s my time to say,

Chanterelle, you’re so swell!”

With a florid movement, Morel ran his thumb over the strings for the final chord, a broken set of notes that reminded Luigi of a dying carburetor he once tried to fix in his racing kart. Next to him, his brother’s smile was plastered on so tight Luigi thought his face might break in two if he tried any harder. 

“So what do you think, Mario? Do you think Chanterelle will date me?”

His brother’s eyes went wide, Mario’s smile growing even larger as he drummed his fingers on the knee of his pants. 

“I think,” Luigi offered, taking pity on his brother, “you put a lot of effort into this and Chanterelle will certainly be…surprised.”

Morel bounced up and down on his heels. “Do you think she’ll feel the love in this song?”

Luigi side-eyed his brother, who looked about one misplaced word away from bursting out in laughter. A small, vindictive part of Luigi wanted to pop the perfect persona his brother had cultivated, wanted the image of the hero be brought down to the level of the man he knew his brother was.

But looking at Morel’s shimmering eyes, the open admiration glowing from his small body - Luigi knew wasn’t going to do that to him. 

“You’ve certainly shown us what love can look like,” Luigi said, diplomatic. “And sound like.” Like you need a mechanic, he thought.

Morel punched the air. “Yes! Oh boy! Thank you! Thank you, Mario, you’re the best! I’m gonna go find Chanterelle right now!” The teen toad scrambled to get his guitar on his back, setting off in the direction of the Town Center, looking back every few seconds to give enthusiastic waves.

Mario let out a small laugh. “Thanks for the save, bro.”

“Eh,” Luigi shrugged. “I didn’t say anything untrue. He certainly demonstrated what love could be.”

“I just hope she lets him down easy. It’s a rough age for that stuff, human or Toad.”

Luigi hummed in response, looking out over the emerald-green hills that dotted the path to the Town Center. It was probably a rough age for that stuff at any age, trying to navigate love - to know another person and let them know you. 

“Hey Mario. While we’re on the topic, what about you and - “

“Still want to go to the market, Lou?” Mario asked, the slightest tremor of panic in his voice. Luigi had been trying, without success, to get his brother to open up about the whole situation with him and Peach had been trying to get him to shed the persona that was slowly taking over his everyday existence. Not that Mario was being mean or deliberately distant. He was still his brother, they still talked together, laughed together, occasionally cried together. But Luigi still couldn’t shake the feeling that things had changed. Something about the way Mario’s focus drifted every time they met up in Rogueport, or how he had come out of that painting the second time, vigorously shaking Luigi’s hand like he was running for political office. 

Luigi gave a silent nod, picking up his tote bag from the ground before following his brother’s lead, starting off in the direction of the town

Then again, maybe it was for the best. If Mario didn’t have to tell Luigi about his private life, then Luigi wouldn’t have to share his, wouldn’t have to get into the creeping insecurities and resentment that clouded parts of his existence in the Mushroom Kingdom. Wouldn’t have to explain that he didn’t know what love looked like, at least not the love he thought he was seeking, the part of him that craved understanding, with being known, unconditionally.

He had his brother. They were alive, healthy, and together. It would have to be enough.

[azuresins]

What character do you think is most misunderstood by the fandom or casual watchers/readers?

Agni. *Edit: the people he assaulted weren't actually dead, that's my mistake-- But the point is he should have been in jail, and our!Ciel and Sebastian "redeemed" and pardoned him in England. * I'm of the opinion that newcomers or people who want the full picture of what's going on in the story, need to disregard SI entirely and are better off just reading up until Book of Circus. I don't feel like SI makes the events clear enough. In fact? I'd go as far to say SI FUCKED up the curry arc immensely? And chapter 23 never got animated the way it was supposed to. Bits and pieces but not the way it should have been, we missed the best parts. Even in Book of Circus! It's such a shame! It's one of my favorite chapters and so many people are missing out. Agni post-events of the curry arc DESPERATELY tries to turn himself into the police to atone for his crimes because scotland yard is in the manor at the same him he and Soma are, ... and Sebastian literally wont allow it. Some highlights:

A lot of casual watchers and readers I find get really, really confused and somehow miss the point that during the Curry Arc, Agni was betraying Soma and going behind his back to protect his well-being and his feelings, yes, but... he was willing to go SO FAR to do that, that he went back to his first "sinful" nature (before meeting soma) in order to do so and dirty his hands again... And yet, Sebastian still considers him an excellent butler and sings nothing but praises. Regardless of why, Agni *assaulted, stripped, humiliated and hung people-of-import upside-down on display on the East End, and was one responsible for a lot of tension between Indians and British at the beginning of this arc. Even though he accepts he's guilty and in a sense "relapsed" back to his old ways and betrayed Soma (and his own culture and race), someone who he considers god-like in his eyes. ... he's given a second chance, but not only that, Sebastian (and Ciel) go out of his way to try to protect him. Of course it's under the guise of "Don't inconvenience us!" but they COULD have turned him in, and they didn't do that. I know a lot of people chant HE'S A CINNAMONROLL AND DID NOTHING WRONG (and Sebastian is one of those people) but I sincerely think it's beautiful that even though he "fell" and "betrayed" Soma and went back to "Sinning"... he still possesses his right hand and is forgiven and seen as good, he gets his second chance and not only does Soma consider him still a good person and declares him "redeemed" but this time, our!Ciel does the same thing for him and declares him "redeemed" and covers up his crimes, too. To me that's a really big deal?... but I rarely if ever see people talk about it, and when I talk to new readers or anime-only-watchers they seemed to miss that he LITERALLY assaulted those people and should be in jail, he didn't merely "help" or was running errands or anything like he ...literally committed a string of crimes in England for Soma because he was being blackmailed. Not just any people either, specifically British Lords of import that had come back from India. -- The East End is also Lau's territory, and one very final and important detail that never got animated or talked-about in the anime was that Lau and Ran Mao KILLED Mina and her husband, Harold West Jeb, because of what they were doing... and also, curiously, Lau spared Agni even though he was the one who was actually physically did the crimes and made problems for him. Agni got not a second-chance but a third-chance and I think it's very beautiful in the most tragic of ways that he continued to spend his life protecting Soma ... but it's also very, very sad because unfortunately... it makes a case for Real!Ciel's bizarre doll, because if he was truly 'watching' as close as he claimed the entire time and knew what Agni had done, all he has to do is say "He shouldn't have been allowed to live anyway he was anti-british a trouble maker, violent and terrible person! 💕" prompting me, personally, to jump into the manga like steve from blues clues and strangle him myself,,,,, But you get the point, basically what I'm trying to say is Agni is even cooler than he seems and more complex and I think people miss it.

[chevelleneech]

See so i think jikook are close def that much i can say, but i dont think they are in a relationship or a serious one at that , i mean we are pretty sure that jk had teh thing with the women (which people for some reason dont agree with or say its a cosplayer , who has teh exact same hairstyle, floorplan, walls, dog, sofa and lights , mannerisms, apartment and very soon after that jk said that "saesangs are still here" , so i dont whats there to disprove over here for those relegious jikook people) and then jm has with the actress who posts his apartment pics, and all of this happened esp with jk at that period when they admitted they werent talking at all, and wouldnt have if they hadnt met, throughout ct it felt that jk was sort of anxious, bored, distracted more like it and felt was upset, all of this also points that maybe they had a fallout a major one perhaps, but now they are better bc hell they went to military together. But all of this factually also puts out that jk and jm are not dating, jk is having his fun, with prob diff people, relationships and same prob with jm. Tae was with jennie, and even rm had a long committed relationship until recently it seems from rpwp songs. so all of this people fighting over taekook vs jikook and how jk seems abusive is redundant , bc they arent in a relationship either of them. what are you thoughts about it.

You including the “Jungkook was anxious and irritated and upset” line tells me you’re a Tkkr trying to hide your hands, lol.

Jungkook may have been nervous at the start of their trip to Connecticut, because Jimin was too, as they both mentioned it’s the first time they’re hanging out after a bit of not seeing each other. But this attempt at highlighting JK only, and saying he seemed uninterested in whatever ways, has been the one thing Tkkrs clung to since the first episode, and it is baseless.

Jungkook is allowed to feel however he felt, but we also all watched the damn show. He was smiling and happy during every single episode thus far, and reiterated his joy many times over. He also said during the first episode that he wanted to keep traveling and filming with Jimin after enlistment. He wants to do it until they’re 50. Was he exaggerating? Most probably, and him being tired at some points was a given due to him being in the middle of promoting his solo work. Outside of that though, he was happy and willing to do the show.

Jungkook and Jimin traveled together because they chose to, because they wanted to. So whatever was going on behind the scenes between them, is something we will never know the full picture of. So if you don’t think they’re together, okay, but I don’t think you ever did, because I’m pretty sure you are a Tkkr anyway.

Regardless of what you ship though, smoke and mirrors are not good indicators that people are dating. Jimin and Jungkook flirt and put their mouths on one another. They choose each other over and over, so no matter the fact that there is a woman claiming to be or trying to insinuate she is Jimin’s girlfriend. Without him ever confirming that, she’s just a weirdo.

Not to mention, why would any of their actual partners post the way she does? If Park Jimin was my man, I do not need to vague post and try to show off bits and pieces of our lives to convince his fans of it. Never mind the fact that it’s his private life. So if they are together, unless Jimin is okay with her stirring shit up in the fandom and posting his house on IG… that’s not something a grown woman, who is famous adjacent herself, dating an incredibly famous person would do.

In comparison, Namjoon and his potential boyfriend situation is the near exact opposite of what that woman is or was doing. We have no idea who the man (or men) is in the pictures Namjoon himself posted. Maybe some people do, idk, but the point is, there is no way to determine who they are nor what they mean to Joon outside of fandom speculation. Yet the speculation makes sense and is believable, because Namjoon himself played into it. He wasn’t deterred by people questioning his sexuality nor relationship status, he posted a heart over a man’s face, and was posting all types of loves songs as he traveled with his family and a man. Yet when he seemingly had his heartbroken, he deleted all photos of the emoji covered man (or men), started talking shit about relationships, and posting sad queer music.

That, imo, is how I believe a relationship between any BTS member would go. Not the heartbreak, but a “quiet launch”. Tae and Jennie were even along similar lines. They unfortunately didn’t post their pictures themselves, but even in the middle of the drama, they kept seeing each other in public spaces. They just didn’t publicize their whereabouts.

So if two members of the group can seemingly date both famous and presumably non famous people, and take pictures and be seen out and about with them, why can’t Jimin? Why is his relationship shrouded in mystery, and only fueled by the woman claiming to live with him all the while he makes no move to imply there’s truth to the rumor?

If he and JK have absolutely nothing going on, why is he out here letting his girlfriend look goofy, all the while biting hickies on a man? While flirting with a man on live and asking him to get naked? While traveling with the same man, getting his ass slapped by him in bed? Enlisting in the military with said man, using a program that keeps them together the entire time?

So again, you don’t have to ship Jikook nor think anything of them, but if you’re going to pull in Taennie and Namjoon’s possible situation to use as examples of the members dating, keep it steady across the board. Jimin and Jungkook’s speculated relationships with women do not match up with Taennie nor Joon’s situation, yet Jikook does.

They travel, sight see, share meals, stay up late, take cute selfies, and cuddle up. So what makes Jikook less likely, aside from them being in the same group for a decade? Which only adds reason to why they may have had some communication issues or whatever, and needed time apart.

[braveheartstoryteller]

It all begins and ends, with Neku Sakuraba. Or at least that is my theory.

"Who needs friends! They just laugh and talk like idiots, and pretend to agree with you... So you end up caring about them... exposing yourself... getting HURT... Screw it! We're better off without them! You want people getting in your way? Dragging you down? I don't. And I never said we were friends. You did!""

Neku's story arc in the original game is one full of hurt, as KH often calls it. As the above dialog shows (said to Shiki) Neku has been hurt in the past, and resists any form of connection to someone else. However, upon finding himself in the Reaper's Game, Neku is forced to connect and open up to Shiki. All because if he doesn't he won't "win" the Reaper's Game. Neku's whole story arc, is learning how to connect with and rely on others again, after closing himself off. Awhile back I talked about some of the connections between the scene where Sora wakes up in a version of Scramble Crossing, and how it mirror's Neku's in TWEWY (link here). This makes me ask a question. Is Sora being set up for the same arc? In the very beginning of DDD Sora encounters Neku. You get bits and pieces of Neku's original story, in KH. Such as Neku's clear resistance to Sora's desire to be friends with him.

"Now we're friends? It's not that easy." "Not saying it is, but... you could make it easier."

Heh, the simple mind of a kid. Seriously, Sora looks at Neku and wants to help, for him it really is that simple. Earlier in the same conversation Neku calls Sora out on this:

"What? Time out. Do you trust every total stranger you meet?"

In fact, this trust is actually betrayed by Neku, by leading Sora to Young Xehanort. Sora, of course, brushes it off later, by saying that at the last minute Neku changed his mind and defended him. Sora never once thinks of Neku any less than a friend. But Sora's story doesn't end there. It is only the beginning. The beginning of Traverse Town seems there to serve as a reminder of Sora's simple child-like heart, to further highlight how he changes over the course of the story, especially the end. I've talked about how that in meeting Roxas, Sora's childhood ends (link). And I've talked about Sora's arc in KH3 in various places. (I could lay it out some time, and I might one day.) But in the end where does everything lead? To Scramble Crossing. On the surface, it seems like just a veneer. Sora just ends up in the same place (of a sort) is all. But if you look closer at Sora's arc, it seems to paint a different picture. This is where my theory comes in. The ending of KH3 seems to be both right and wrong to me all at once. It has given me loads of grief for that reason. There is plenty of dialog and framing to support both sides strongly, so which one is right? Or if it is that clear on both sides, are both true? I think it is the latter. Sora saves Kairi, a very special thing. But seemingly, Sora also choses a darker path in the process. And the fact that he wakes up in Scramble Crossing, seems to point to that. If we look at the story in KH3, it all seems to be put together to apply pressure on Sora, and to make him, well, flee. Now that the others (especially Kairi) is safe, he can now run away from the hurt in his heart and go off and have new adventures. This is my theory. That the whole story is designed to set Sora up on a path like Neku's. I do think that if this is the case, we need more framing to make it stronger. Sora has to continue to further cut himself off from others, to further align himself with Neku's choices. Still, even if Sora doesn't quite go there, I think one fact remains; Sora's heart is hurting. And because of that, Sora is overwhelmed, and needs space to figure it out. Sometimes we got to do that. It is like what Esmeralda says in DDD to Riku:

"We all do that sometimes. There are just some things we need to keep separate from the world at large, at least until we have time to figure them out."

Perhaps that is why Riku lets Sora go. If anyone would know how sometimes you need to walk a lonely path, it would be him.

[moth--mallow]

I wonder if Merlin convinced/asked King uther to adopt Arthur

Than she set up Excalibur so Arthur could be king

Why is Merlin going to these lens for Arthur of all people considering there have been other chaos users and as long as Merlin's been around I'm sure there have been other humans she could have given Excalibur to and help them become a great ruler a king in order to use chaos why does she have to

pick Arthur pacifically I wonder I know it goes with the Arthurien Legends and all but why is it in this story Merlin shows Arthur that's just one of the many things that was never really cleared up like there's a bit more about their past we don't know and then there is the stuff that happened in between the end of seven deadly sins till what we're looking at currently I've been trying to piece the timeline together

From what I can tell it goes in this order

First we have the end of the seven deadly sins after the god-awful chaos ark

Then we have the safe by light movie which I'm still convinced a large majority of this fandom has not watched including myself I got the screenshots I have with Arthur and Merlin in it off of a YouTube clip

Then there's the next part from the night from the beginning of the manga who the age the characters when they've got to the Crystal caves I can't remember his name right now

And he showed how Arthur recruited him and it seems this happened right after the demon King's my asthma was affecting the southern Britannia and our large amount of people in it right after the attack the when the demon King finally was defeated or whatever around this time so could Arthur's personality have begun to split and he not know it at the time where chaos was in control and then he would go back to normal and then at some point it was just completely chaos and control

Cuz looking back at it Arthur's outfit is the exact same as it was from the movie unless Merlin just made him multiple copies of the same outfit cuz they were working on just rebuilding Camelot at the time so focusing on appearance and what they look like wasn't probably a top priority which is understandable so Arthur just has multiple of the same outfits in different colors because even in color we see that this outfit is the same one from the movie just in Black

Or maybe the my asthma was just so bad that it had a longer lasting effect on Britannia I'm wondering and this takes a place a bit later this could be a year later from when the movie was set because if I'm correct from what people have told me king and Diane were getting married in the

movie so I'm guessing it took place a few weeks maybe a few months to maybe several months later cuz that's how long it takes to plan a wedding or whatever so this could be several months later and Arthur started to turn at that point and maybe at

first Merlin didn't notice it because around her even though he was still with seemingly seems to be depressed about everything that happened with Camelot and trying to rebuild it he was still trying to maintain his own personality but glimpses of chaos would come through

I'm trying to piece together the timeline and what's happening with Arthur's personality because it's clear like we all been saying from the beginning it's been chaos and control not Arthur and personal having Spirit magic I think will be a driving Factor helping bringing the real Arthur back there was also the theory and I mentioned in another post before that I saw from Reddit where someone had

mentioned that Arthur could have been being controlled by the spirits and Excalibur but I think it's pretty clear especially when looking at the anime and color and you see Arthur's eyes change you see more white in his eyes than his own color of his eyes which are purple meaning that chaos truly is slowly taking over Arthur

(sorry I don't have a visual for this right now Tumblr won't let me post any more pictures in this post )

I'm assuming Arthur is Chaos's first true host it's had full length too I

believe before maybe at some point on chaos was creating humans it puts larger parts of itself in certain humans so that way maybe one day it could have a host and maybe Excalibur was always the key to that but it got corrupted over time and at

some point the Lady of the lake meant Merlin and told her about the key to chaos and maybe that's why she used Excalibur to wake and Arthur since Excalibur seems to just be a chaos key I don't think it was meant to hold the spirits of the heroes but for some reason it did and now that chaos is more free and had gained more control over time I'm

guessing within a year or maybe even a couple years it fully consumed Arthur and about 10 years ago from what pellegard said that's when Arthur's fully started to change because it was around part two after the time skipping for nights and and Donnie met pellegard he mentioned he hadn't been able to fully understand Arthur's motives and almost 10 years something major had had to change where Arthur was willing to fully let chaos consume him

In Merlin disappeared or maybe chaos trapped her away or something but we can tell that Merlin has been active there have been hints that she's possibly hiding in lions , and then there's gwaian who I believe isn't like a clone or hybrid or anything I believe she's just like a normal baby that Merlin saw had magic potential maybe like she did with Vivian and Arthur so she left the granny golem with her to train her to use magic and sunshine is something Merlin enchanted on to her as it's next host so Sunshine could be active again and possibly used to defeat Arthur or at least stop chaos at some point the same can be sailed the Lady of the lake who I believe still had some magic left over from one Merlin had the seven deadly sins send their magic towards the leg during their battle with the demon king and there was some residue magic left over and the lady of the late gave it to Lance a lot which is why he's so overpowered and people say he's on the same level as the seven deadly sins is because he has some of their magic in him

[rayshippouuchiha]

Sorry Ray, this is the anon that sent a message asking for permission to ramble vaguely spoiler-y info about my favorite character at you ages ago. Not sure if you even remember, since it’s been a few weeks since you gave the go-ahead. It took me a while to get all my thoughts in order, because at any given time I will start spontaneously frothing at the mouth over thoughts of this character but I’ve never tried to put all of those feelings into words at once, so I kinda procrastinated a bit that first day, and then work got freaking CRAZY and I just couldn’t even get back to it until now. I think I was finally able to put it all together in a way that kinda makes sense, so here it is at long last. I do have to warn you it's gonna get pretty long though, so get ready, bc here we go.

Let me paint a picture of the scenario for you. We’ll start by imagining the typical "Groundhog day" deal; usually we can expect the people involved to be classified into two categories – first, the main character, who remembers everything and whose actions cause (and eventually stop) the loops, and then everyone else around them, who all remember nothing and don't even notice anything except for the "final" timeline.

Following the typical Groundhog Day tropes, we could expect our main character to either wish for the loop/wake up in it or some other such situation, then spend the remainder of their time in it trying out various different scenarios and getting into a whole host of shenanigans trying to escape it, while the rest of the cast react in various ways, usually starting out funny/light-hearted, then sad or angry as our MC fucks up more and more, then finally all becoming happy by the “final loop” where the MC gets their shit together and achieves the loop-ending conditions (usually by making everyone happy). In this particular piece of media I’m so obsessed with, however, our MC is not trying to escape the loop – they’re delighting in it.

We the “audience” don’t realize the true horror of such a thing at first, because we’re delighting in the joy of every one of the (masterfully crafted) characters reaching their happy ending, but it turns out that for the person with the time powers, finding the “happily ever after” is not enough. They’re used to the power of the loop now, are in full control of it, and are having the time of their life finding out just what happens whenever they try to change anything. They’ve been at it for so long that the people trapped in the loop with them have stopped mattering, and they’ve gone on to try literally everything they can think of to try, up to and including killing everyone, because they figure why should they care? No one would remember anyway, so they get to use their time powers to the fullest, no consequences, right?

Except, no, not in this case. Because there is a third category of character in this particular Groundhog day nightmare; one person trapped in the loop, but not controlling it, who knows.

At first, both MC and us the “audience” don’t know this. This character acts like a carefree, goofy, lazy jokester, pulling pranks and making puns, generally having laid-back fun all the time – the last person you’d expect to be going through something so awful. But pretty soon, signs start to appear that there’s more to him than meets the eye. If you watch him veeery carefully, it looks like he might have some kind of power over time and/or space? And then he gives a sort of cryptic warning that makes you go hmmm but then stop thinking about, because he goes right back to pulling harmless practical jokes on people as if nothing’s wrong.

But then there’s a sudden shift – he tells the MC that if he hadn’t promised the opposite they would have been dead already. It is an incredibly chilling moment, seeing this generally laid-back guy become downright menacing, but even then, some of the people seeing this unfold might not yet realize the horror of his situation because this happens during one of the “kinder”, initial loops. They might wonder why he would say such a thing, either not yet understanding the implications of the MC’s power or not getting where his hostility could come from, since up to that point he mostly behaves in pretty much the same friendly fashion. Other people can end up thinking he’s being too harsh, because the MC is using their powers for good, right?

Pretty soon, as we watch more loops unfold where the MC gets increasingly violent, we end up seeing that thought is wrong, and they absolutely deserve his hatred. Even so, this guy’s response to the ever-escalating brutality is actually… way too chill? Most other people in the world try to fight back at one point or another, but he never does. In fact, unless the MC has actively killed his family in that particular loop, he never stops acting friendly, even when other friends and acquaintances have died. This is of course, very intriguing, and we can’t help but wonder what his deal is as we go along this journey.

Then we reach the worst possible scenario, where the MC has killed every single person for miles around, and when he makes a final stand to try to stop them once and for all, we find out the whole truth - He reveals that he has known what the MC has been doing all along, has been dealing with similar loops for a long time, and as a result has become somewhat nihilistic.

After all, he has been at the mercy of this person (and their predecessor with a similar power) for an incredibly long time. Just, imagine what that would do to a person. This is not your typical “Groundhog day”; it’s not limited to a few loops lasting a week at most. Remember, these people are actively trying to do literally everything that could possibly be done. They’ve not only tried every iteration of everything there is to do in this place, but also talked to and killed every person in every possible combination, just to see how their loved ones or acquaintances react, to the point where they no longer see them as people. How long would that take? Depending on how creative and determined they were, it could have taken years, especially if they spent several days or weeks on every loop, as they surely would have.

Just imagine, what do you do, if you know time is looping, but it could take days, weeks, months, or years, before time loops back around to the “starting point”, but you never know and have no way to tell or predict when any loop will end? You can expect everything you know and worked for so hard for the past however long to disappear, just like that, like a snap of your fingers, and you have to accept it. There is nothing you can accomplish, you have no power to do anything. Any effort can be reversed, at any given time, at some points for no reason you can understand because everyone was happy, but still this being, this… uncaring demigod, resets again. And again. And again. So nothing you do matters, nothing you try changes anything in the long run, not really, because this apathetic, unsympathetic, almost sociopathic person controlling the lives of you and everyone around you cares about One Thing, and one thing only; their own enjoyment. Their curiosity. The “need” to know what happens. A need that drives them to do the unthinkable time and time again. Because, again, who cares? As far as they know, no one can remember, no one will know, there are no consequences. So they loop, and they loop, and they loop, over and over and over, until it must have been decades, maybe even centuries, since the loops started.

And I just, whenever I think too hard about this piece of media, and this character, and what you can find out about him, it wrecks me, okay? It just, destroys me. Because when we think about it, taking all of this into account, his behavior makes perfect sense. Characters around him talk about how he gives only the bare minimum effort, call him lazy, but of course he is. Of course being caught in an eternally-looping hell cycle would wreck your motivation, because why put anything beyond the minimum required effort into anything, if it could all be lost in an instant with no warning? Why try to stop this person, if any progress towards that goal could be turned back whenever the person with the time powers wishes? Also, of course he acts aloof and laid-back - he seems to have taken refuge in apathy, trying to show that he cares as little as possible, because how would caring help except for making him hurt more?

How do you process all of that? Even if he doesn't completely remember (and we have no way to know whether he does or not, because why would he let the MC [and the audience with them] know that he remembers, when they might use that against him just to see how he reacts to further loops? I know I wouldn’t), how do you deal with the knowledge, the weight of thousands of lives lived and lost, thousands of deaths for yourself and everyone you love that you can't help, that you can't stop, that you have no way to control or prevent, that no effort made and no dream fulfilled ever matters because nothing lasts? How do you stay sane?

But that’s not all! Now, the hidden hostility is the one that makes sense, while the friendliness he showed most of the time is the questionable one. Why bother acting so inviting? Turns out, as we find out during that last terrible fight, that it’s because he figured that maybe this person that has caused him so much pain, this individual whom he should see as an unfeeling demon, might be doing all of this because they were unhappy. He was secretly hoping they could be friends, so they would be so happy they became satisfied with their reality and let time run its course. And doesn’t that just break your heart? Even after everything, he hasn’t lost his caring heart, even showing at times that he’s worried about this monstrosity that has the potential to doom him, that he can never know which facet he’s going to get next; the friend or the killer. He sees this person who has caused untold amounts of pain to him and everyone he knows, but he still held on to hope that they might change, that they could be better, that the friend he found in the kinder loops was lying there beneath the surface somewhere; so he offered food and laughs and friendship and hoped for the best. GODDAMNIT *pounds fists against the walls*

Extra-heartbreaking fact: We can find out later that he has a way to keep track of events between loops – a place exclusively for him that time cannot touch. During one of the happier loops, where everyone’s dream gets fulfilled, he gets a picture with all of his friends and family together, including the abomination that made it possible, and he places it in the only location where the loops will not erase it - because he wants to remember this forever even if it hurts, even if the loops reset and they lose the memories, he wants to keep this… which means we know for certain that if the MC decides to reset time after reaching the happiest possible future he definitely knows they betrayed him. I am in agony goddammit. Like, I just imagine how he felt the times when the anomaly resets the loop and does it all again; everyone’s dream is fulfilled, everyone is happy, and he races back to that place, to put a picture commemorating the happiest day of his life in a spot where it will never go away… but there’s already an identical picture there. Can you imagine how that would feel? This person who’s earned your trust has betrayed you, maybe even a thousand times over, and whatever they said they feel this time they don’t care, they can’t, not really, or they wouldn’t have done something like this. It’s awful why am I thinking about this again why am I doing this to myself asdfghsrgsdfd *crying screaming frothing at the mouth*

Okay, going back to his final stand, knowing everything we know now, why does he try to stop the MC in that final battle, if nothing matters? Simple; turns out if the MC succeeds and murders everyone, they’d get strong enough to end time itself, and despite it all, even though he’s dealing with what must be severe depression, even though he holds no hope for himself and has nothing he looks forward to, he still wants the best for his family and friends. He still cares about them, wants them to have at least a chance to be happy, even if it’s just temporary, so much so that he’s willing to use every last bit of his considerable powers, every trick up his sleeve, every ounce of willpower still in his body to fight what he knows is an unwinnable battle, over and over and over, just on the one in a thousand chance that he can force the anomaly to stop, or convince them to try any other possibility. It just explodes my brain every time I take even a second to think about it *weeps*

Anyway, thus end my entirely-too-long rant about my favorite piece of media and character. Hopefully you enjoyed it even a little. Maybe think of it as an AO3 oneshot in this trying times? Lol

Thanks for hearing me out, love ya!❤️

Forgot to add one thing to my crazy long rant about my favorite character just now (see the previous “Groundhog day” ask if you need context sorry but I just had to add this):

It doesn’t help my obsession that I see people misinterpret him so often. It’s infuriating; they fall for the mask he wears and the role he plays, the ways in which his circumstances have forced him to act, they say “he’s so strong, how could he be so apathetic? How dare he not try from the beginning to stop this nightmare?” or “wow he’s still so aloof even when his friends die, he really doesn’t care about anyone but himself” and I’m just like… are we looking at the same person? Are we interpreting the same piece of media? Where have they been? How have they not noticed the million little ways in which he shows he cares? He clearly appears to be coping with serious mental health issues; he wants nothing, finds it hard to do anything but joke or sleep, may be eating less, doesn’t bother with getting anything for himself, and doesn’t seem to be able to honestly find anything to look forward to most of the time. He is a deeply hurt individual struggling basically alone (because no one else is aware and they can’t be made to remember, not for long) to survive a horrifyingly bleak situation but still he makes sure his family has everything they could possibly want or need, still takes care of his friends to the best of his ability, still makes sure to bring joy to others even when he admits he can no longer feel it himself, still finds it in himself to care about the “harbinger of doom” (so to speak), and is still a fundamentally kind person, who cares so, so much despite his best efforts to the contrary and I just- I love him, I love him so so much, and it makes me so angry how others fall for his façade of apathy and brand him as uncaring. He deserves the world, I know he’s fictional but I’d die for him.

Ok, NOW I’m done. Sorry again, just made an already long ass rant even longer lmao but tbh I have no regrets I feel free uwu

~~~

I can tell that this has got you by the entire soul and after reading this I honestly can't blame you because hot damn that's a lot.

[tonys-fav-bitch]

Plot Twist || Reader x Moonboys

Moon Knight AU

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 |

Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11 | Part 12 | Part 13 | Part 14

Word Count: Around 1k

Summary: in which your boss sends you to keep an eye on a possible avengers recruit. You’re tasked with following him, figuring out who he is, and if he’s good enough for the team. That’s it. But it’s never that simple.

Warnings: None (I don’t think?) it’s really just a story full of fluff. One swear!

YOU WALKED through the huge doors of the Avengers headquarters, a few of your teammates all lounging around on the beautiful day. You rolled your eyes at the group before clapping your hands together - startling one or two of them.

"Chop chop team, we have a briefing!" You exclaimed as you passed by Peter Parker who was sprawled out on a couch, launching pieces of popcorn into his mouth.

You reached down and stopped a piece as it flew through the air, snatching the food and popping it into your mouth. The kid gave a look of bewilderment as he sat up to face you.

"Hey! That was mine!" He frowned.

"Too bad kid, we got stuff to discuss." You laughed and pulled him up and gently pushed him towards the meeting doors.

The rest of the group slowly trailed after you, grumbling about the interruption. They all entered the large room made of glass walls, giving them a beautiful view of the woods that ran along the building. Each one took a seat, Peter doing it dramatically.

"I thought we had the day off?" Sam scowled as he draped himself on the table, a frown on his face.

"So did I, but then I got a call from Fury. . and here we are." You stated with a shrug and took a seat next to Peter who leaned over and flicked your ear.

You scowled at the boy and flicked him back, steeling another piece of popcorn that was in his hands. He let out a silent cry as he watched his snack disappear into your mouth. He began pelting you with the food out of desperation to get back at you. You grinned and caught a few in your mouth as the rest bounced off your body and fell to the floor.

"Are you two done?" Fury's voice brought the two out of their fight, you still grinning and Peter wide eyed.

"Uh - yea, sorry sir. She just -" Nick cut him off.

"Im sure she started it."

"Whoa, hey! Thats rude." You huffed to your boss, who gave you a look.

The man grabbed a large folder and flipped it open, tossing a small packet to each of the members sat at the table. You frowned, as you were the only person to not receive one. You leaned over Peter's shoulder and tried to read the file, only for him to hide it from your view, a grin on his face.

"I can't stand you." You muttered before falling back in your chair.

"I love you too." He replied as he skimmed the front of the packet.

"What about me? I didn't get one, so can I leave?" You raised an eyebrow at your boss, who was digging through his bag.

"You're not that lucky." He muttered.

"Ha!" Sam pointed at you as you gave him a scowl.

"Real mature." You huffed.

Sam grinned at you and flipped through the pages. You glanced to the others who were lost in the information Nick had given them. Bucky, Thor, and Clint didn't even react to their antics anymore, simply tuned it out.

"Here you go. This is your mission. They just needed filled in." Fury told you as he tossed a different file to you, it sliding across the smooth marble table.

You opened the folder while giving the man a suspicious look. You quickly read the words on the front 'Marc Spector - Steven Grant.' Below the name was a date of birth, location, and other valuable details about a person.

"Who's this?" You raised an eyebrow.

You gently picked up a picture of a man, who you assumed was the named person above - or one of them at least. You immediately noticed how handsome he was, his sharp features and his dark wavy hair. You bit at your lip as you studied him before Fury responded.

"This is Marc Spector. Some know him as Moon Knight."

"Moon Knight?" Bucky asked with confusion.

"I told you, man. Everybody's got a gimmick now." Sam shook his head as he leaned back in his chair. You chuckled at his words.

"Okay. . and what about this Moon dude?" You asked as you set the picture down, meeting Fury's gaze.

"He could be. . valuable. But we don't know the whole situation. He has an alias Steven Grant and possibly another. I want you to find out what he's about and what's going on." He told you bluntly.

"You want to see if he's Avenger's material, don't you?" You realized.

He simply shrugged and waved his hand, dismissing the group. As Peter stood to leave, he attempted to peak at your file - only for a hand to push his face away. He stumbled back and gave a half smile and frown to you.

"Beat it Spiderling." You scolded him, earning a glare from the name.

"Not cool." He huffed as he walked out of the room, about to shut the door behind him. Fury cleared his throat, making the kid stop.

"Pick up the damn popcorn later."

"Yes, sir." Peter replied in defeat before leaving.

You chuckled to yourself and got to your feet, grabbing the file from the table. You approached your boss, who was still at the head of the table, flipping through pages of information.

"So. . when do I leave?"

"As soon as possible."

☽ ♞ ☾

You sighed as you wandered around your room, trying to decide on what to pack. You were much too indecisive for this. Without hesitation, you tossed the piece of clothing you had in your hand to the floor and collapsed back onto the bed. You stared up at the ceiling and let out a sigh as you thought to the mission you were being sent on.

Recruiting an Avenger.

That was what Natasha use to do, but now it was up to you. You were pulled from your thoughts as another body laid next to yours. You turned your head to see Peter, now also staring up at the ceiling. A frown was plastered on his face.

"Why the sad look, kid?" You broke the silence.

"How long will you be gone?" He replied with a question of his own.

You sensed a hint of sadness in his voice and you turned your body to look at him. He glanced at you, his jaw tightened. You held your hand out for the kid, who gently wrapped his fingers around yours - still not speaking.

"Are you upset I'm leaving, Peter Parker?" You questioned him.

"Of course I am! You're my best friend. It's gonna be lonely here without you." He frowned.

"Wow, somewhere out there Ned's heart is breaking." You teased him, trying to lighten the mood.

"Shut up. You both are my best friends." He scrunched his nose at you, a shadow of a smile on his lips.

"I'll miss you too, Spiderboy. But you can always text and call me." You assured the boy as he sat up.

He followed your actions and sat up, playing with the zipper on his jacket. He thought for a moment before responding.

"Where are you gonna be going, again?"

"London."

[lhs3020b]

The General Election Fallout Post

Hello again; I, uh, forgot to visit Tumble Dot Com for a bit.

Anyway, I'm back. For now, at least.

And yes, Election Day has been and gone. So let's start with some anti-Tory schadenfreude: ROFL, LMAO, LOL, get fucked, idiots. Good riddance, rust in pieces, you will not be missed.

Unfortunately, the overall political picture is - well, let's be honest, for a massive anti-Tory defeat it's ended up more bleak than I would have considered likely.

Unfortunately, the Tories didn't quite collapse in the way I hoped - they had a very bad night, but they're still the official Opposition, so the party will survive as a corporate entity. And that means we'll probably get it back at some point, which I'm not exactly thrilled about.

Meanwhile Labour managed to produce the most flimsy landslide anyone's ever seen. I say flimsy because actually, they took fewer votes than they did in 2019 - remember how our good friends the wise and all-knowing centrists assured us that that was a true sin unto the ages, and we should all hang our heads in shame and never be seen in public again? Yeeeeaaaaah. Your boy Keith did worse, guys. Meanwhile, Labour's fraction of the actual vote-that-was-cast was ... actually not great, either, at 34%. While he won, it's clear he's not loved.

Yes, that's right, their performance is barely a percentage-point better than 2019. And, uh, about 10 percentage-points down on what the Very Serious And All-Knowing Opinion Pollsters claimed it would be. So yes, there's been another fuckie-wuckie from the pollsters; unfortunately, as they technically got the headline result right (if none of the details), I suppose they'll get away with it :(

(Rewards for failure; it's very on-brand for the 2020s, isn't it?)

The only reason last night's landslide happened was because the Tory 2019 voter-coalition disintegrated (though, not as far as the pollsters claimed it would - honestly, we're overdue a period of silence from those guys).

In fairness yes, Labour get to form a government and yes they have a huge majority. But, what they pulled off yesterday will only work once - there will be no second Tory collapse - and their economic plans in particular have some ticking timebombs under them. A hint: what if the GDP Growth Fairy doesn't visit these sceptred isles after all ... ? How will Starmer's leadership ratings cope once their fiscal rules force them to deliver another austerity budget? What will they cut? What public services or government departments will simply stop?

TBH I wouldn't be even slightly surprised if, even one year in the future, Starmer's ratings and his party's have imploded. Yes, I'm fallible and I could be wrong, maybe they'll land another massive landslide in 2029 - but I'm worried about the future.

This brings us to Reform, Nigel Farage's latest vanity vehicle/puppet party-shaped object.

Unfortunately, a lot of the ex-Tory vote went to Reform UK, and if there was any question that Refuck are actual full-fat fascists, then I think the recent mini-scandal put paid to that. (For those who don't know, some Refuck activists were recently caught on camera by Channel 4 News, literally calling for asylum seekers to be machine-gunned, demanding a police pogrom against LGBTQ people, and so on. In as many words. No dog whistles, no coded remarks or anything like that. It was literally - and horrifyingly - what it sounded like. A call for deliberate, directed State violence against minority groups. Centrists, please, if you can't see that for what it is, then please consider why that might be!)

So, given that Refuck have won 5 seats, we now have actual, unambiguous fascists in Parliament. And that was something that had never quite happened before - our politics could often be an awful cesspit but even during the worst parts of the post-2016 crisis we hadn't quite tipped off that ledge.

Not now. Yay us, I guess?

You can tell I'm not enjoying this post anywhere near as much as I wanted to, can't you?

Anyway, fuck the Tories, fuck their ex-MPs, fuck their remaining ones and as for the people who still voted for them in spite of everything, honestly, what's wrong with you? (Seriously - why? What do you see in them? They've done nothing for you. They spent lockdown pissed on expensive wine and laughing at you. Why are you still supporting them?)

The other news is that the Lib Dems are back. They've done a surprisingly-efficient job of turning votes into seats - in fact it looks like they barely wasted any votes anywhere, and so have managed to get from 12 seats to 71 - yes, 71! - while taking only about 12% of the vote. Well, credit where it's due, I suppose. And much as I will never forgive the Coalition for setting us onto the path of ruin that we're on, nonetheless during the campaign Ed Davey was the only person who actually seemed to be enjoying himself. It seems to have worked out - the LDs have had their best election result since the 1920s.

If you want to look for some (possible) rays of light in this mess ... well, the Green Party did relatively well. Their vote went up, and they now have four MPs, vserus 1 in the previous Parliament. (Full disclosure: I voted Green. I don't think they're perfect, I'm not a stan, but Sir Keith's "changed" Labour Party has obvious contempt and loathing for people like me so ... fine? We'll go our separate ways, then.) Much to my surprise, they came second in my constituency, which I genuinely hadn't expected. Apparently my vote was less wasted than usual, it would seem. And the Greens' growth happened in spite of them being resolutely ignored by the entire print and broadcast media, so apparently they don't need the media to keep making progress. It is possible that their growth could continue, and maybe another election-cycle might give us back a semi-worthwhile left-of-center opposition party ... but here I am committing the Sin of Optimism, aren't I?

Also, well, lots and lots of Tories are miserable today. Grant Shapps has had a case of the slaps, Rees-Mogg has been time-warped back to the 18th Century (honestly he'll probably be happier there, it's for the best for everyone) and Liz Truss got yeeted feet-first into the Sun. (Sorry, Sol.)

Also a lot of bootlicking newspaper opinion columnists are having a proper meltdown today, and that is genuinely funny. They certainly deserve no sympathy.

So yeah, the overall picture is a) good riddance to Sunak, b) fuck the Tories and c) oh dear goodness, it's somehow all still a mess.

[blackjackkent]

So at Rakha's long rest earlier, Scratch brought her an animal speaking potion, which I had her use to talk to Scratch and Buddy because she never had before. I didn't write about it bc it wasn't too dramatic, although she did like being able to speak to them because I've already established that they help her calm down sometimes when her brain is noisy.

However - I forgot that it's still active! And I talked to the cat roaming the outer walls of Moonrise. And it has Durge dialogue!

"Yours is a face I shred in my dreams. One who kicked the Steelclaw, as if I were some stray. I am a champion hunter. When I lick my pelt, I taste blood. Fortunately for you, the slithering vermin I hunt has my attention... for now."

This is really getting to be a bit much - getting taunted by Ketheric and Z'Rell and the Warden was one thing, but even the local cat is getting in on the action now. (And given her aforementioned warm connection with Scratch and Buddy, she's not deeply thrilled to hear that her past incarnation apparently had a habit of kicking said cat around.)

"What do you mean I kicked you?" she asks warily. "We've never met..."

The cat hisses disdainfully. "The death-walker passed through here before. I know your scent. All were silent afore you - but I dared to snarl. You skulked like you owned the place, trespassing on my domain."

Something in Rakha's head aches, a stab of familiarity, of dark memory. What this cat says echoes what the Warden said down in the prisons - she walked here and others were made to bow before her and hated her. Even this creature.

Try to remember what was forgotten.

Narrator: You excavate the empty caverns of your useless mind. Shoveling, dozing, blasting through the smoothbrain...

Narrator: How the kitty-cat mewled when your boot stamped upon its tail!

Narrator: You are the black cat crossing the path of the living...

The memory is hazy and dim. She grasps for it, fumbling inwardly, but as she grips it, it pulls and she feels herself sliding down into the dark. The bleak blackness of her forgotten mind grips her like a vise; her vision dulls into blankness soaked in blood and cruelty.

Welcome home... something nameless whispers inside her.

Narrator: The pleasure of the memory dribbles out of your leaking skull into the very air...

Flesh gives under her fingertips, rips, tears. There's a squalling screech that grates in her ears, and then a sharp snap and a flood of heat through her.

"Rakha!" She can hear Wyll shout her name, feel his hand on her arm. She is crouched on the stone balcony and there is blood coating her palms, splashed on her face.

The cat is dead.

No. I didn't want to do this. I didn't. It wasn't me. It wasn't...

Her heart races with sudden panic and despair. She had no control at all - she did nothing but try to recall a brief moment in her past, and it was enough. The beast had full control. Everything slipped away.

She staggers backwards until her back is to the wall behind her, her shoulders hunching, her breath coming in quick, stuttering gasps.

Cower in self-disgust.

Narrator: A memory won at the cost of a piece of your mind. You were in this tower before - that much is sure.

-----

"Hells," Wyll mutters. He looks ill as he crouches at her side. "I'm-- I'm sorry, Rakha. We saw you blanking out; I tried to stop you, but you were... so fast."

She can picture it, now that it's over. What she must have done. Quick and efficient and bloody.

"I didn't want to," she whispers. "I thought for a moment I could remember something... anything..."

He frowns. "And did you?"

"Yes." She swallows. "And it took over..."

He's silent a while. Then he takes her hand between his. She relaxes just a little, involuntarily, though part of her wants to push him away. This is the opposite of everything he has tried to help her to be. The darkness of this place is seeping into her...

"Don't try to tell me it's all right," she says, squeezing her eyes shut and looking away from him.

"I won't," he says softly. "But I know it wasn't you."

She draws a shaky breath and lets it out heavily. It felt so natural, that slide down into the darkness. There was nothing to think about, nothing to do but let the beast take over and destroy...

It is not what she wants to be, not anymore. But it was so easy... "I hope you're right."

[altschmerzes]

🌹keeley or roys reaction to stuff in the trent crimm article in the same story? (only if you have it and want to!)

absolutely!!! i have some bits from both of those scenes, here we are, it's not the full thing by any means but it's uh. a little chunky anyways :) under the cut-

keeley

Keeley is reduced to tears by the article several times and has to stop reading at a few points, sitting at her desk with her hand over her mouth, eyes too watered over to see. She breathes through it and tries not to picture too much, focusing on the way Jamie had looked the last time she’d seen him downstairs, a little nervous but smiling at her anyway. That’s a much better thing to think of than all the things she could imagine out of the article, the horrible things she knows she’s never going to be able to completely get out of her head. By the time that she finishes reading, Keeley has a dehydration headache throbbing at her temples and her chest feels like someone’s stomped in her ribcage.

But it isn’t just pain. At the same time that the article had hurt so badly to read that there were points where Keeley didn’t know if she would make it all the way through it, she has come away from it so proud of Jamie that she could burst. What he had said about her, and about Roy, about the whole community of people who have banded together around Jamie after everything fell apart under him… Keeley could tell him they were there for him, that they loved him and they were all standing by waiting for him whenever he was ready to let himself need them, she could say all of that and more until the cows came home, but there would always have been a lingering kind of doubt. She doesn’t think that she would have been able to shake the worry that Jamie wasn’t hearing her, or wasn’t understanding what he was hearing.

Seeing it in Jamie’s own words, reproduced by Trent’s faithful hand, means the world to Keeley. Knowing that Jamie knows, that he understands all of that, will repeat it to someone else with this kind of certainty?

I want them to know it’s real. The love that they’ll get from those people is real.

That’s everything.

--

roy

By the time Roy goes back inside the house he’s still having a hard time breathing, but he also feels like if he doesn’t get his eyes on Jamie - whole and safe and in one piece - right fucking now, he might pass out. He stops in the kitchen, standing there and looking into the living room where Jamie is working in that ridiculous puzzle book again, stitch-free forehead wrinkled up in a deep, concentrating frown. Roy feels suddenly and powerfully dizzy. He puts his hands on the counter, bracing himself because he’s a little worried he may up and fall over right on the kitchen floor but he still can’t pull his eyes away from Jamie just yet. The countertop is cold and grounding under his palms and the sight of Jamie makes him feel a little less like he’s about to collapse.

Jamie either hasn’t noticed Roy’s return to the house or he’s pretending not to have noticed, wrapped up in the Sudoku book. Regardless, he seems distracted enough that Roy can just stand there and stare for as long as he wants. It settles him, being able to look at Jamie and see that he is, for a given definition, okay, and so he allows himself to do just that, regardless of how weird it may seem if someone does catch him doing so. After this week, and with the words in that article ricocheting around in his brain, he thinks he’s quite allowed.

When, maybe a minute or so later, Jamie looks over and sees him there, Roy shifts awkwardly. ‘Who cares if I get caught staring’ doesn’t really stand up to… actually being caught staring, and Roy feels his face heat up, though he still can’t bring himself to regret it. There’s a static buzz in his hands, a twitch in his shoulders like there’s something he needs to do, but he just keeps standing there, shifting in place.

Eventually, Jamie rolls his eyes and stands up from the couch, puzzle book left face-down on the cushion. He opens his arms and says, breaking the thick, heavy silence with a very thin kind of mock-annoyance, “Alright, fine, just do it already.”

The relief from the invitation brings the dizziness back, but Roy ignores it. He walks over swiftly and tugs Jamie into a hug. The impact is enough to rock both of them a little but they steady quickly, and Roy holds onto him tight. Worry about hurting him by squeezing him too hard is a distant wisp of a thought compared to the very real memory of Jamie in pain, Roy’s memories from Coventry and everything after it and the addition of Jamie’s own from the article.

But Jamie isn’t in pain right now. He’s warm and solid and breathing in Roy’s arms, his head tucked into the side of Roy’s neck, and he isn’t trembling or crying or bleeding. He’s okay. Roy clasps a hand to the nape of Jamie’s neck and repeats it a few more times. He’s okay. He’s right here and he’s okay.

[aortaobservatory]

hey! i just started classpect researching to better understand the system. do you pull any of your sources and understanding from homestuck canon itself? if so, how do you separate class influence from aspect influence from general character traits? i know that the characters/classpect system were catered to eachother, but do you have any thoughts? sorry if this doesnt make any sense

I love this question, I think this is one of my favorite questions I've ever received on this blog. Yes, I do pull a basic understanding of the classes and how they interact with the aspects from Homestuck canon! I try my best to keep my understanding and research of the classpecting system true to what is shown to us in canon and what comes from canon sources, with a little dash of what makes sense in real life. We are given canon explanations for the aspects from [The Extended Zodiac], so I pull my understanding of the aspects from the canon summaries that are given and what we are shown in Homestuck canon.

We are not given canon class explanations, so that area will always remain nebulous ranging from classpector to classpector (unless we suddenly are given canon explanations). As such, how I've been able to separate class from aspect from character traits in regards to canon is based almost entirely on my understanding of the aspects, then comparing two characters of the same class to see what is similar and what is not.

Karkat is a good example. At first glance, we can see he is an extremely angry character. He yells a lot, curses a lot, he's full of rage, and yet, he is not a Ragebound character. Why that is, has everything to do with what an aspect is. What does an aspect mean to a person, or what does it mean to have or be an aspect of something?

Ah, this became a long post. I'll put it under a read-more.

Aspect is the force that is most important in a person's life, whether lacking or abundant, whether good or bad, whether they want it or not.

Karkat is not Ragebound because Rage is not his driving force. [Rage as an aspect is about fighting and tearing down the system, rebellion, and discovering the truth.] It is activism and change. Karkat is a very stubborn and angry character, but the Rage aspect traits are not what drives him forward. In fact, Karkat is actually the antithesis of a Ragebound; he loves Alternia's empire, and it's one of his dreams to serve as a part of it as a Threshecutioner! He doesn't question the empire, despite its rules regarding the hemocaste that tell him he will never belong to it. That's actually more of a Hopebound trait than Ragebound trait.

So, he is not Ragebound despite being an angry character. What drives him forward is Blood, both in a literal and metaphorical sense. His own blood color is what drives his entire character, but aside from the literal symbolism, Karkat's driving force is his friends. [Blood as an aspect is about the ties that bind, the weight that promises hold, the value of relationships and keeping everyone together.] It is unity as a group, camaraderie within, the relationships you make and the responsibility you have to maintain those ties. I do talk a bit about Karkat and Kankri in my post about the Blood aspect; I've linked it in the brackets above.

So then, what is class, and how do we separate it from the aspect traits and just plain character traits? We hear a lot about "active classes" and "passive classes". Some class mechanics are even explored and explained in canon, but we never get a concrete definition; only pieces of a bigger picture. From these little pieces, I defined it down to a single sentence.

Class is how a person interacts with or is shaped by their aspect, either actively (directly) or passively (indirectly).

To separate class traits from aspect traits and character traits, I compared the two Knights in canon who get a lot of screen-time; Karkat and Dave. Being Knights of different aspects, I figured that, theoretically, if I subtracted their known aspect traits from their characters and then compare what is the same and what is not, I could find a pretty good ground for the Knight class to stand on. Whatever was not the same between them would be character traits. Whatever was the same could be a class trait pertaining to the Knight.

What I got was this:

Knights are extremely adept with their aspect, their driving effort to protect it and others through it. They are loyal to their aspect's cause and naturally gifted with it, using it as a tool to achieve whatever they set themself to. Their challenge is to learn how to be less harsh on themselves, to accept and learn from failure, and to accept the assistance of others when they need it.

Knights are an Active Utilizing class; they have a direct relationship with their aspect and make use of it, and with Karkat, this is very true! He's the self-proclaimed "relationships guy", and honestly, when he actually shuts the fuck up and gets to his point, he's pretty spot on with a lot of his stuff. He uses Blood because he has an extremely direct relationship with it (his own blood defines how he sees himself and what he strives for, after all). He's very gifted with Blood; it's how he was able to bring twelve very different and very difficult people (himself included) together for long enough to succeed at an extremely long and convoluted game where the mechanics aren't exactly explained to you. In fact, I might even argue he was so good at Blood that him "giving (the Beta Kids') universe cancer" was him accidentally forging a tie with them (perhaps that's why they all have mutant candy red blood like him). Of course, the other trolls affected the kids' universe as well, but it was through Karkat's leadership over the trolls that the Beta Kids crossed sessions and came together with the trolls as one big group.

Anyways, this kind of became a love letter to how Karkat's character is written, my apologies.

Though the dancestors were written quite flatly, we are given at least three of each class in canon between the Beta Kids, Alpha Kids, and the trolls (except for four; the Thief, Mage, Sylph, Bard). The dancestors are caricatures, which made analyzing them harder, but it was extremely interesting to subtract their aspect traits and parse out what was similar between the classes of the dancestors and characters who were written with more thought behind them.

As for the four classes who had one well written character to represent them and one flatly written character to represent them, I looked to their paired active/passive class. The Thief and Rogue are Allocators; while the Rogue is passive, the Thief is active. The Mage and Seer are Understanders; while the Seer is passive, the Mage is active. [The Sylph and Maid are Enhancers; while the Maid is passive, the Sylph is active.] Finally, the Prince and the Bard are Destroyers; while the Prince is active, the Bard is passive.

Since I had already constructed the other eight classes from analyzing the characters in canon and what little tidbits are given to us in canon, I figured I could look at how, let's say, the Knight (Active Utilizer) and the Page (Passive Utilizer) interacted as a fully analyzed class pair, then follow that pattern for the remaining four classes that needed a proper analysis.

[You can read my basic overview of the 12 classes here.]

Thank you so much for asking, this question was extremely fun to answer! So sorry I made it about Karkat, I just happen to love him.