#writing a fanfic is consuming me

[la-hannya]

people ask at r*ddt why towa and sestuna didnt have dog ears

Well like the info/answers they desire was already given by Sunrise during one of their interviews. I remember seeing it posted. Apparently, since Sesshomaru's human form is very humanoid looking that's why the twins look like they look which is fine and peachy I guess but that doesn't explain their uncle Inuyasha (as Toga/Inu no Taishō has a similar form ofc) looking part dog. But I'm 100% sure it's more cause they're Pedosawa's OC DONUT STEEL and ofc, they don't have to just look GOOD, but they gotta win the genetic lottery which gave them powers that even their father and grandparents did not posses or even showed along being able to control their demon state much faster when Inuyasha had such a hard time with that, needing his sword or Kagome's spiritual powers to have some control. But to be factually blunt... This was actually mentioned in the original series by Jineji's mother when she commented that Inuyasha was one of the prettier half demons. Like Yokai (ofc in part humans) half demons can come in all shapes, yōkai of the Daiyōkai hierarchy/category in particular tend to have more mastery of transformation, which is why most of them showed up in these good looking human forms more in the series except in some cases like Ryukotsusei, the Panther/Leopard cat King or Taigokumaru, who seemingly preferred their beast appearance, sticking to look how they really are. Or even born looking in-between (exhibit A. Shippo). Same for half demons. You get the picture. Also, it was shown that human looking yokai can totally reproduce with yokai of more monstrous appearances as Hiten and Manten's pops liked their mom just the way she looked. Still following?

So the thing is, like I said in the case of twins they ain't got the puppy ears because that's how they wanted it, more than the already established lore.

It's not that deep for people to go to reddit in my opinion. Ig? Like if people want the dog ears you can put it on them. Or a tail. If they're THAT unsatisfied with how they look.

Anywho, Hny is what if anyway.

[starry-bi-sky]

No.

No, no, no, no, NO!

He's shaking. His heart is burning in his chest, pounding like a jackhammer against his ribs, and there's a trembling, aching rage building beneath his tongue and pressing against his teeth.

In his hands, his fingers tense and wrists locked, the article reads in big, black font: JOKER LOCKED IN ARKHAM ASYLUM AGAIN!

Danny shouldn't feel so angry about this, this is a good thing. Gotham doesn't have to deal with him for another few months at the least. He should feel relieved, a little more at peace.

He is not.

He cannot swallow the fury thudding behind his eyes, the burning white heat searing a deeper hole in his chest. A searing green filling static in his ears in the way only the rage of the restless dead can have.

How is he going to kill him now?

Arkham may be the only asylum in America made entirely of tissue paper, but it's still an asylum. There are cameras, guards, other patients resting inside. Danny can think of a million different ways to sneak in and kill Joker, but someone will hear his screaming.

It'd have to be rushed.

He doesn't want it to be rushed.

It's a cruel thought. Cruel and cold and merciless, but Danny doesn't feel an ounce of shame, not an ounce of guilt, for it. He wants to be alone with the Joker when he kills him, that's all he wants. In Arkham, you are never alone.

He forces his anger to bubble back down into his chest, stuffing it between his heartstrings and his ribs like a blanket you're trying to bunch up into a corner. It sizzles and burbles. The static begins to fade out into a high-pitched ringing; it sounds like distant screaming.

Danny is still trembling, but he can think a little clearer now.

He can wait.

He can wait. He can wait. He can wait. He canwait. Hecanwait. Hecanwait.

He can wait.

He's waited five years for this. He can wait one more week. One more month. One more year. However long it takes for the Joker to break back out, Danny can wait.

And when the Joker does, inevitably, break out.

Danny uncrinkles his fingers around the edges of the newspaper, loosens his limbs just enough so he can pay for it.

He'll be waiting.

The dead, after all, have all the time in the world.

[philosophiums]

Diving Bell (by constellationqueen)

Word Count: 5,965

In reality, Megumi is breaking. There is a hairline fissure through the center of his being, and every little misstep he takes urges a shift along the seam. One of these days, he is going to be swallowed up by a seismic event too catastrophic to talk his way out of, and the last thing he wants is for that to happen in front of his friends. Especially Itadori, who has been through the exact same thing as Megumi, and who has walked away from it all like nothing happened. The least Megumi can do is crack himself open in his own time, in his own space, far away from anyone else. It is a kindness, he thinks, as he begins walking towards the nearest mirror, to break apart where there will be no collateral damage.

Megumi + scars + angst fic just dropped, as per @hinamie's request <3

[weaveandwood]

In Hushed Whispers

There was a little interest in me posting some Dragon Age: Inquisition fanfic here, so I'm going to share the one shot I have written! I know I have a few mutuals who are also doing their first playthrough of Inquisition, so if you haven't done the quest this one-shot is named for, don't read this! Consider this your warning!

Pairing: Cullen/Female Lavellan (Brinni, my dual wielding rogue) Words: 1,374

Angst

Read on AO3!

Cullen threw the crumpled up message across the room and leaned over the war table, shaking his head, willing himself to take his next breath even as dread constricted every fiber of his being. 

Dead. 

He slammed his fist against the table, toppling over the markers that had been so carefully placed earlier that day. He told her it was a trap - he told them all! She wasn’t an idiot, she knew it was clearly a trap as well. Still, she was determined - and that determination had doomed them all.  

He paced the length of the room. Back and forth, over and over, replaying their last conversation in his head, trying to figure out what he could have said differently. 

“Redcliffe has repelled thousands of assaults. If you go in there you’ll die, and we’ll lose the only means we have of closing these rifts. I won’t allow it,” he had told her. Of course, there was the unspoken reason he hadn’t wanted her to go, one he was too foolish and too scared to voice. No, better to have her believe he only saw her as a tool, a weapon for them to wield. Nothing more. 

Cassandra, Josephine, and Leliana argued the optics of marching on the castle, the consequences of leaving a foreign magister in power on Ferelden land. It appeared they had been outplayed. No matter how hard Cullen stared at the table, a strategy would not come to him. 

“There has to be something we’re not thinking of,” she had said quietly, finally breaking the silence and looking at each of them. “Another way in.”

Discussions took place. Brinni paced back and forth while Leliana and Cassandra spoke of the secret entrance for the family and planned the “distraction” Brinni and her envoy would be for the magister. Someone suddenly barged into the war room with insider knowledge of the magister’s plans - Brinni seemed to trust him and his easy confidence, so everyone else did as well. 

It was settled. They would leave first thing in the morning. 

 “The plan puts you in the most danger - we can still go after the Templars if you’d rather not play the bait. It’s up to you,” he said to her before parting, his cool demeanor soothing over the storm within. Don’t go. It’s a trap. You will die. 

She went. So did Blackwall (prisoner), Varric (prisoner), and the new mage, Dorian (dead). 

Dead. 

If he had just talked to her, told her how important she was - not just to the Inquisition, but to everyone in their inner circle even after this short amount of time, how he looked forward to reading her messages from her seemingly never-ending duties in the Hinterlands, how their conversations while he was overseeing the training exercises were the best sort of distraction…

He sighed. She still would have gone. Still would have died. 

He walked out of the building, staring at the breach in the sky. What were they going to do now? 

Months passed. It was almost a year to the day since the Inquisition lost their one hope at closing the Breach. Cullen had been right about Redcliffe. He threw troops at it, but they were no match for The Elder One’s demon army. Thedas was gone - everything was covered in red lyrium. Leliana had been captured on a spy mission months ago. Cassandra and Iron Bull led a charge soon after the news of Brinni’s death reached Haven with the rest of her companions - they never returned. Josephine tried her hand at diplomacy and was caught by a demon possessing a nobleman. 

Dead, dead, dead. 

Only a handful of troops remained. Templars, warriors, and even a few elves had traveled to Haven after everything really started going south about a month after…after her death. They fought for the fallen Herald of Andraste. He fought for her. Brinni Lavellan. He still found his thoughts easily drifting to her. He did a double take every time he saw an elf with short white hair the color of starlight. He missed her, even now. Even as he mounted his favorite horse outside of Redcliffe Village, ready to lead one last charge against the castle. One last attempt at saving the world, though it was certain they would all end up the same as everyone else who had tried.

Would he see her once this was over? He mulled the thought over as they marched on the castle through fields of red lyrium, the power surrounding it warm and intoxicating. He saw corpses with crystals growing out of them and shuddered. What world was left to save? They got to the bridge and he dismounted, taking all of the riding gear off of his horse. He dropped it to the ground before slapping the horse’s hindquarters, sending it off to live whatever life it could manage. There would be no one left to care for it after today and he could not bring himself to watch the horse die in battle. He smiled to himself. “The Commander has a soft spot” - she had teased him about that once in the stables, long ago.

A horrible grinding noise brought his attention back to the present, the telltale sound of the demons that had laid waste to the land and the people of Thedas. This was it. He raised his sword, rallying the small troop behind him and charged. 

They fought as well as they could, taking down a few demons while the demons took down more of them. He watched as they fought and fell, their numbers shrinking further and further until only a true handful were left, each fighting their own hopeless battle. A cry, a thud. Dead. A shout, a demonic laugh. Dead. 

“Sir, behind yo-” someone called out, seconds too late. Cullen started to turn, his sword preparing to strike when he felt a sharp pain in his chest, followed by searing heat and frigid cold seeping through his body. He fell to the ground, looking up at the roiling green-grey sky and tried unsuccessfully to remember what it looked like on a clear, blue, cloudless day before magic destroyed everything. He was lying in something warm and wet and he was tired, so tired. His eyes fluttered and the world grew dim. The cries of battle were quiet now and the grinding noise from the demons drifted further from his consciousness. 

It was over. 

“Sir? Sir? A message from Redcliffe,” a voice called from outside the door of his office, accompanied by urgent knocks. 

Cullen startled and sat up. Had he been sleeping at his desk? The long nights and early mornings had caught up with him, it appeared - he would need to keep a better schedule. He cleared his throat, calling for the messenger to enter and took the small envelope from him. 

He quickly ripped it open to read the missive from Brinni’s operation, his eyes scanning desperately for a key word to indicate how the mission went. He quickly crumpled it up and threw it across the room to prevent himself from spending all day reading it over and over again before leaning over his desk, his head in his hands. 

Mission successful. Recruited mages as allies. Will explain when we return. - B

She was fine. She didn’t die, she wasn’t taken prisoner, and she had recruited the mages as allies for the Inquisition. Once again, she exceeded his expectations. He leaned back in his chair, his face to the ceiling and laughed loudly, the cord of tension within him that had been wound so tightly since they left finally loosening. Was the tension he had been harboring solely due to the fate of their Inquisition? They would be able to continue closing Fade Rifts and perhaps close the Breach with the assistance of the recruited mages. Or…was it something that was beginning to take hold inside him, gentle and warm, just like the way she smiled at him during her rounds the other day when she found him in the stables, brushing his favorite horse’s mane and talking sweetly to it? “The Commander has a soft spot,” she had teased him. 

It appeared that the Commander may have had more than one.

[suchawrathfullamb]

realizing that you don't actually want to write your fic ideas, you just want to be reading them is true sorrow

[lupins-hehim-pussy]

I wanna know ur Fontaine msq criticisms 👁️👁️👂I’m all ears

I'm not sure if you wanted me to talk about this secretly or publicly but! Here I go!

The TLDR: Fontaine MSQ aestheticised prison, poverty, child abuse, the justice system/court and didn't properly address any of it.

More:

Focalors/Furina has way too much of a sympathetic angle for a dictator who's lets people drown with her inaction.

Neuvillette feels Bad for sentencing some people to death/prison, but that's it. He's one of the most powerful people in Fontaine. If he felt like there are systemic injustices, I.E sending an abused Child to prison, he should be the first person to DO something about it, not just cry and be sad so the audience can be like aw, that's complex character writing isn't it? No it's not! And guilt doesn't absolve you!!!!!!! (These are stuff we deal with in OTCOJ read my fic now /j)

Meropide has children in it, both Sentenced there (Wriothesley) and BORN THERE (Lanoire), and this is just a quirk of the place. Not only that, Meropide accepts prisoners of all genders and crimes. There are abusers and abuse victims in one place. Do you know how bad that is? How much potential for crimes to happen in a place like that— oh wait, Meropide isn't under Fontaine's jurisdiction. If you are assaulted as an inmate it literally means nothing to the court.

Wriothesley had no qualifications when he took over. Depending on how long he lived on the streets, how old he was when he killed his parents, how old he was when he was first taken in by the orphanage, etc, the man might never have more than 4–5 years of formal education. Sigewinne probably had to teach him how to write reports. And do Meropide's spreadsheets. Edit because I forgot to elaborate on this one: This isn't a point brought up anywhere, which is bad, because when poverty and incarceration robs you of a proper education (and the rights to vote in many places too, too, by the way), it reduces your prospects for jobs, reduces many people's ability to get a home etc etc. Wriothesley was just, narratively, Given his position.

Meropide is an industrialized prison, and they portray this as a good thing. Prisoners are paid in coupons for their labour, and this is also portrayed as a good thing.

The One-Meal-A-Day reform was something Paimon gushed about being so great of a perk, that people might want to go to jail for food (could be interesting and reflective of systemic poverty if MHY had brains, but they don't, so I was just Pissed because essentially all Paimon wanted to say was "Prison isn't so bad, but still don't go to prison guys! Prison labour is really hard!"). By the way, in most real-world prisons they are obligated to feed you three meals a day. Because that's how much food a human needs. MHY went with one meal just so they can say "if you want to eat more, you have to work." And then the welfare meal is a goddamn gacha. So imagine you're a starving child who's too weak to work in the fucking robot assembly line, and you wander up for your first meal in 24 hours, only to luck in with a shit one. I'd kill myself.

They wrote Wriothesley, who's a victim of the system, into a guy who's say shit like "I'm the Duke I can do whatever I want" for a cool moment where he choke-slams an inmate (I know he was a bad guy. But also, in copaganda when cops are violent/disregarding protocols, they are always only portrayed to do that against bad guys, so what does our critical thinking tells us about this one?) They wrote Wriothesley, who was an inmate of a prison so bad, so notorious that it is the literal boogeyman of Fontaine, that has a legal (???) fighting pit, with an administrator who abuses his position to be unreasonable, to willingly stay in the place and become an Administrator who would choke-slam an inmate while saying a cool line about how he has the power to do whatever he wants. They wrote him, the guy who had to be fed on the streets by melusines, to think one-meal-a-day was a good enough reform (while he spends god-knows how much on his boat). This wasn't a victim-turns-into-abuser narrative either, they want all this to be seen as positive character growth.

And then, the final kicker is, they gloss over his entire abuse. You can only read about these shit in his profile, which most people don't because they don't Have Him or doesn't care to unlock it/read it online, and they jammed his entire backstory into a flaccid info-dump at the end of his character story quest. This man isn't Allowed to feel abused and neglected and show any reaction to it within the narrative of Fontaine itself, because if they actually Gave Weight to what happened to him, they'd have to confront THE FUCKING JUSTICE SYSTEM they had NO PLANS on criticising. I don't think they ever explicitly said the fucking Crime-Theatre nonsense was Bad either.

I could go on, but this is already so long. But yeah, I hope this gave you an idea.

[veggieharumaki]

“We are not heroes fighting for justice. We’re jujutsu sorcerers.”

part of the dtkplusmultiverse collab on twt! scene and color palette inspired by the JJK season 2 opening.

[kourota]

[ No Longer Human ]

[swftlore]

if i wrote a jake peralta reader fic would yall think i was weird.... would yall think i was off putting..... pookies....

[sunthyme]

Guns 'N Roses Fic!!!🔫🌹

It's finally done, as promised!! Please let me know what you think, I'm pretty new to writing so constructive feedback is more than welcome!

Enjoy!! 🩷🩷🩷

[mispeltnostalgia]

Currently thinking about Neil's name being Todd's barbaric yawp

[andillwriteyouatragedy]

update on the WIP Fic Only I Will Want To Read: just passed the 50k mark and it's one of the only things i can think about rn 🙏

[having-conniptions]

I am So Not Normal about DFF right now I literally keep checking the tag and refreshing youtube WHY IS THERE NO NEW CONTENT WHY IS THERE BARELY AN ACTIVE FANDOM why does my brain hyperfixate on things that are so underrepresented that I need to constantly be creating stuff related to it so I can have new stuff that tickles the part of my brain that makes the happy chemicals I AM WATCHING MY OWN EDITS AND GIGGLING I AM SOOO CLOSE TO WRITING FANFIC I AM FROTHING AT THE MOUTH WHAT DO YOU MEAN I HAVE TO WAIT ANOTHER DAY FOR EP 4 AND THEN A WHOLE WEEK FOR EP 5

[reds-skull]

BLOOD||HUNGER

[PREV PART] [AO3]

This is it! The last chapter before the epilogue!

It's also the end of a sort of riddle I've been leaving between chapters... I wonder if anyone even noticed, haha

I decided against splitting this chapter, so it's extra long!

Its name is "Famous Fate"

Page 59 of the “Blooede Starvatfōre-dēde”, parable 16:

My brothers, who endured the agony of exile, Who suffered many winters in the cold cage, Were once knights, only to fall, They too, were called Beast. The young maiden, who left your companion, A pure heart, was her only sin, To not pray for a daemon’s death, only for her to live, She too, was called Beast. A man, fallen in battle, Abandoned by all but Death, but by worms of the earth, He too, was called Beast. The hunter, the knight tells, Who chases monsters, who alleges to be righteous, He calls himself, a hero. He is no better man than us, the knight says, One who declares himself justice, one who proclaims to be above the word of God, Is one we, as oath-bound knights, Must send to be judged, by the only true measurer, By the only arbiter still by our side, by Death itself.

“I know I won’t be able to understand, probably never will, but… I have to ask, Simon. Why didn’t you reach out? You knew how to contact me. I could’ve helped.”

“I didn’t think there was enough of me left to save, Captain.”

“...What changed then?”

He looks away for a moment, to blue eyes that never knew fear from him. To arms that refused to hurt him. To a man that showed him more kindness than he ever deserved.

“I met Johnny.”

Ghost watches Soap sort through the supplies the 141 brought with them, wondering what kind of new contraptions the Sergeant’s vivid mind is imagining up right now. He’s grown sickly fond of them, just like everything else Johnny does.

Compromised, a voice growls in the back of his head. You’re only worsening a future pain, only making the inevitable betrayal more torturous.

No pain would make this any less worth it, another voice answers. It doesn’t matter if their destiny only holds blood and ruin, Simon would stay with Johnny as long as he’s wanted. And even then, maybe just a little more.

He senses the presence of another person a moment before Gaz speaks up, “Ghost.”

“...Gaz.” he answers, curious.

The Lieutenant shifts in his place, shoulders taut and squared, “since we’re going to work together, for this mission at least, I figured I should… apologize.”

Apologize?

Gaz continues, his eyes finally landing somewhere on his mask, “Soap explained to me, you never tried to hurt him, after that time we caught you two. I shouldn’t have jumped into conclusions.”

Ghost tilts his head, “I’d doubt your capabilities if you didn’t.” he looks back at Johnny, huffing when the Sergeant grumbles in Scots, “I’m glad he has someone like you on his side.”

Gaz’s mouth hangs open in surprise. He shakes it off to say, “It’s- of course.” Ghost can tell he’s hesitating at his next sentence, “I still have a hard time comprehending you were Simon Riley all along… You’re a bloody legend in the SAS.”

“I suppose they had an easier time making my death seem heroic than trying to actually save me.” Ghost mutters lowly. Gaz just nods slowly, eyes dropping to the ground.

And that’s a kicker, isn’t it? That apparently, the SAS made him a myth, someone for the rookies to look up to, a glamorized shell of a man that no one, including himself, will ever live up to. The same men that left him to die, now say his name with fondness and admiration.

Funny, how those same men now fear him enough to send the 141 on him. Ghost wants to grin with the twisted satisfaction it gives him.

“What’s your name, Lieutenant?” Ghost eventually asks.

“Huh? Uh, Kyle Garrick.” Gaz raises a brow.

Soap gathers up the last of his creations, face turning to his to nod, “Garrick. I know we started on the wrong foot-”

“Understatement of the century.” Gaz offhandedly remarks.

“-But you can trust me with Soap’s six. And I hope we can trust each other on ours, as well.”

Garrick blinks, expression growing serious. He then nods, offering a hand to shake, “enemy of my enemy is my friend, and all that?”

Ghost hums, taking the hand and squeezing. He can feel, even from their short interactions, how Johnny and Gaz were cut from the same honest cloth.

He takes off his mask, “affirmative. Let’s move.”

Price’s eyes mellow, the hand on his bicep squeezing gently, “that lad is something else, isn’t he?”

Simon’s scars stretch with a small smile, “I thought he was an idiot, at first. Saving me, giving me another chance again and again. No matter what, he refused to kill me.” he breathes out slowly, the numbness of his limbs ebbing at last, “whoever discharged him was a goddamn moron.”

The Captain sighs, “I tried convincing Shepherd to let him off the hook, but the bastard was mental. He had Makarov in the palm of his hand, wanted to show off how he locked up the worst criminal of the decade, only for MacTavish to choke him out on exfil.”

It was Shepherd, then? Of course it’s that bloody wanker. Ghost can’t help the laugh that bubbles up from his chest, “and here’s Johnny, fucking everything up for the higher ups yet again.”

God, what did he do to deserve meeting this man…

Konservy warehouse is a large building, surrounded by silos and containers. At least they’ll have some cover, besides the shadows of the night. Ghost can tell the offloading garage is blessedly open, even from the road their vehicle has parked in, meaning infiltration will be easier than they originally thought.

A thunder makes them all look up to the sky. A heavy storm is brewing, threatening to cover the stars and moon. Good. The darkness is their ally.

They jump out of the truck, gathering around the trunk, doing final checks to their gears. His hands move automatically, in the same way all of them were trained in the SAS. Some part of him is unsettled, the one that labelled himself a lost cause, a monster, a sinner with no salvation.

But as he looks up, at the masked faces surrounding him, Simon can’t call the position he’s in anything but atonement. 

He’ll carve forgiveness from the Hunter’s flesh, write amends with their blood. Untie the last knot on his self-made noose.

The poison in Simon’s body makes itself known at all times now – an uncomfortable buzzing tightening around his knuckles, weaving through sinews and leaving little pinpricks of pain. He looks towards Johnny, his blue eyes a silver grey in the moonlight.

Price wordlessly nods to him, a silent check. Simon schools his features and nods back.

They begin making their way to the garage door, the tall grass their only cover. The Captain motions to the left, where two guards stand under a weak light. Garrick pulls out his EBR, and not two seconds later, both soldiers fall dead with silenced shots. Their group continues pushing forward.

Soap stops walking in front of him, struggling with something. He stops besides him, watching for a moment as he tries to get something out of his pack.

He leans in to whisper, “what are you trying to get, Johnny?”

The Sergeant freezes, “I made some proximity mines with the C4 Price brought, but they’re stuck down there-”

Simon reaches into the pack, gently moving Soap’s hand aside. Their fingers wrap around the bomb at the same time, “you ought to organize it better, what would you do if you were alone?” he admonished.

Johnny’s eyes widen a little, before they crescent in a hidden smile, “but I’m not alone, am I? Ah got ye.”

Soap pulls away, quietly catching up to Gaz and Price. Simon, for his part, stays motionless for far too long, his brain looping Johnny’s words again and again.

It strikes him then, a sudden stab to his heart, that Soap trusts him. With his weapons, with his wounds, with his six.

Johnny trusts him. Simon fights down a smile, happiness overflowing him. He trusts him.

The others send him a confused stare, when Simon doesn’t move. He finally unsticks his legs and sneaks in, eyes instantly drawn to Johnny strapping his unhinged bombs under each vehicle, his “gifts” for any hostile trying to get reinforcements in the future.

Simon can’t force down the smile that his lips form then, when the Sergeant turns around and gives him a thumbs up, almost child like and so at odds with the amount of potential destruction he just planted in the garage.

The others return from clearing the area, Price readjusting his bucket hat over the mask (which looks as daft as it sounds, but Simon can’t help but feel fond of that stupid hat), giving Simon one last look, “how are you feeling, son?”

“Solid.” he flexes his hands, testing the numbness. It’s not enough to inhibit his performance, not yet at least.

Price places a hand on his shoulder, patting it, “good, keep it that way. Our mission may officially be to eliminate the Hunter, but finding an antidote is no less important.” Price’s face darkens, “don’t take unnecessary risks, Simon. I… I don’t want to lose you again.”

Simon swallows thickly, unused to this amount of people caring for his fate. It was far easier to accept a bloody end when no one was there to mourn him, “...I’ll do my best, Captain.”

Price’s moustache lifts with a smile, “good lad. I’ll see you when it’s all over.” he gives him one last pat before drawing away, “let’s move out, Gaz! We need to clear the way for our boys.”

Gaz gives Soap a fist bump and comes by the Captain’s side, “we’ll radio in when you have a way through.”

“Solid copy.” Soap responds, finished with the mine setting, “give ‘em hell, mate.”

Garrick grins, “as always.”

“Do you think you’ll be able to fight?”

Simon scoffs, “I don’t ‘ave a choice, Captain.”

“I am giving you a choice right now. If you think you can’t fight… We can take the Hunter down without you.” Price says, expression severe.

He thinks about it. It is not only a matter of what he wants. When working with a team, he must take into consideration that his inability to fight will endanger the others.

“The poison gives me enough warnings to know a few minutes ahead when I’ll be incapacitated. If I fall while we fight, I’ll be able to secure myself beforehand.” he rolls his wrists, muscling through the pain of regaining feeling, “you’ll need every help you can get. Don’t do my mistake, do not underestimate the Hunter.”

“We won’t, I just need to know-”

“I’ll be fine, Price. Been fighting my whole life with much less.”

“...I know, son. That’s why I would prefer you didn’t.” Price’s brows pull down in sorrow, “but I trust your judgement.”

“...Can’t ask for more than that, John.”

Johnny is silent beside him, eyes glued to the exit he’s overwatching. They’ve been waiting for Price and Gaz’s go-ahead for several slow minutes now, each trickling more sluggishly than the other. The pinpricks on Simon’s hands are growing – he doesn’t have much time.

“Ye think they need backup?” Soap eventually breaks the silence.

“If they’re compromised, we won’t be able to save them now, Sergeant.” as much as he hates the idea of leaving Price and Gaz to fend for themselves, they all knew the risks of splitting up. “For now, assume they’re still solid.”

“Aye, LT- shite, uh-” Johnny fumbles through the words, turning around to give Simon an apologetic look.

He huffs in slight amusement, at how much Soap seems to care if a word hurts him or not.

“It’s alright, Johnny.” he stops the Sergeant from continuing to backtrack.

Johnny’s teeth click shut, and he frowns, sheepishly asking, “...ye sure? It seemed to really bother ye, before…”

‘I wasn’t willing to lay my life for you, before’ he wants to say.

‘I didn’t have your trust, before’

‘I didn’t have trust in myself to lead you, before’

“You’ve earned it, Johnny.” he settles on. It seems to be the right choice, when Soap’s eyes almost close with how wide his grin must be. Simon hates the mask covering his face, for hiding that smile from him.

Their comms choose this moment to start crackling, and Price’s tinny voice comes through, “CCTV room is under our control, haven’t located the Hunter just yet.”

Simon radios back, “have you been spotted?”

“We may not be the Ghost, but we’re still professionals, mate.” Gaz joins in.

“Have ye professionals spotted any potential spot fer the Hunter to hide in?” Soap asks, his eyes still squinting with a smile.

“Still looking, this place is massive.” Price grumbles, “start making your way to the machinery room at the center, take out anyone on the way. I’m seeing a lot of equipment there, but no soldiers…”

“Copy.” Simon clicks his comms off, motioning with his head for Soap to take point.

The halls of the warehouse are eerily empty, little mementos of past life barely clinging to the barren concrete walls. Not for the first time, Simon wonders why the Hunter chose this city, out of all of them.

Soap’s careful steps thump behind him, a calming presence at his back. Simon is not used to trusting, but trusting Johnny feels… natural.

Not for the first time, Simon thanks whatever brought him to Soap. Fate, destiny, a God he doesn’t truly believe in, it doesn’t matter.

He shakes off those thoughts. If it was important for him to be at his best before he met Soap, now it matters a thousand times over, because he’s not alone anymore.

Their fates are interlinked now. And Simon refuses to be the reason they all fall.

He won’t fail his team a second time.

“After all of this is said and done… What will you do?”

Simon grunts as he sits up, finally able to move his torso. He stalls his answer for a moment, the truth so simple it scares him. “...I don’t know.”

He may have been lost many times in his life, tossed between his father’s cruel hands and the cartel’s, but he always had a goal.

‘Get out’

Now, though? The only thing he wants to run away from is the shell of a monster he was before meeting Johnny. A weapon, to be picked up and discarded as needed. 

Price must’ve seen a conflict twisting his expression, because he starts talking again, “I’d have you back in our ranks in a heartbeat, you know. But I don’t think that’s what you need.”

Simon frowns at the ground, hands massaging his aching legs, “and what do you think I need?”

“Someone to ground you. Make sure you don’t forget yourself again.”

“Someone like Johnny, then.”

“Another hostile on your 3, Simon.”

“Copy.”

Simon steps around another stack of crates, every move calculated and muted. The unsuspecting soldier walks right past him, arms relaxed on his weapon.

He waits for him to reach the end of the hallway, and the moment the soldier starts turning, Simon claps a hand over his mouth and slices his neck in a well practiced motion. He catches the body and shoves it into a nearby storage room. “Anyone else, Garrick?”

“You’re clear for now.” Gaz responds. He continues guiding Simon through the mess of halls that lead to the main room of the warehouse, alerting him to enemies. Soap has separated from him about ten minutes ago, taking the other rooms and making sure no one will be alive to raise any alarms.

Even if Price is keeping an eye on Johnny, Simon would’ve much preferred if he was in his sights. But he trusts the Captain.

“Any sign of the Hunter showing on CCTV?” Soap radios in, voice steady and calm.

Price sighs, “negative-”

“Wait-” Gaz cuts him off, “next to the main conveyor belt, right in the middle of the main room, is that…”

Simon holds his breath in anticipation as the line goes silent, Price and Gaz likely attempting to verify the ID.

“Skull mask, that’s them. Soap, Simon, PID on the Hunter!” Price nearly shouts.

Gaz’s voice is far more tense than before when he adds, “it seems like they know something’s wrong, prepare for combat!”

Shit, “Johnny, where are you right now?” they can’t be separated if they’ve been discovered.

“On my way to ye- fuck!” grunts and muted punches fill the comms, the sounds of struggle a sinking feeling in Simon’s chest.

Simon starts running. “Price, where is he?!” these bloody hallways all look the fucking same! He retraces his steps to the point he and Johnny split ways.

“Turn left, he’s straight ahead from there!”

He almost slams into the wall with how fast he turns, but the pain is barely registered when he spots Johnny.

Johnny, whose chest is heaving, three dead soldiers at his feet. His bright blue eyes meet his, “Simon?”

He’s capable. You can trust that he won’t die on you.

He blinks a few times before asking, “what’s your status, Sergeant?”

Soap wipes a bloody knife on his pants, “solid. Let’s move.”

“Your cover is blown. Soldiers are making their way to you!” Gaz tells them, “they’re going to the trucks to the front exit, might be trying to get reinforcements!”

He doesn’t need to see Soap’s mouth to know the way it curves into a dangerous grin, “they won’t get far.”

Simon slings his rifle around, toggling the safety off, “time to go loud, Johnny.”

Soap does the same, “with pleasure.”

The sounds of shots line up with his heartbeat. In a fast-paced melody of war, Simon and Johnny continue pushing hostiles back, headshot after headshot.

Heavy drops of rain shake the roof, thunder booming so close to them, Simon feels it in his heart.

Somewhere amidst the battle, several far away explosions rattle the warehouse, the soldiers in front of them taken by surprise. Simon thinks he can hear Johnny chuckling darkly under his breath.

Red paints the walls, brushstrokes of blood and fallen soldiers of the Hunter. It gives Simon newfound strength to push through the growing pain in his limbs, a blinding rush of adrenaline that lies to him sweetly, convincing him he could resist the poison in his heart.

One second, he’s shooting down enemy after enemy.

The next, he falls.

His gun clatters to the ground, legs convulsing uncontrollably. Simon uses the last of his powers to drag himself around the corner, to cover.

“Simon?! Fuck-” Johnny appears a moment later, attempting to scan him for injuries between shots, “poison?”

Simon groans, “affirm. Sorry, Johnny.” shame bubbles in him. He should be right beside Soap, helping him fight, and the poison decides to take it away from him.

He should be stronger than this.

“None of that, mo chridhe.” Johnny says softly, taking down another hostile, “I’ll clear this wave, and we’ll get ye to a better spot.”

How could he be so gentle while killing people? Simon lays back down with a smile, loosening his muscles and letting the poison have its way.

Soap gets the last of them and returns to his side, looping arms under his shoulders and heaving him up, “steamin’ Jesus, ye weigh as much as a baby elephant.” he complains under his breath.

Simon chuckles, hissing as the jostling shoots pain up his limbs, “you’re just short, Sergeant.”

“Away an’ bile yer heid, bastard…”

Soap drags him to one of the side rooms, a storage unit that seems like it hasn’t seen the light of day for decades. About this time, Simon wishes he had his mask on, if only to filter all the bloody dust in this room.

Johnny fusses over him for a few seconds, until Simon stops him, “I’ll be fine, Soap. Once I regain movement, I’ll come to you.”

Soap stops, hands frozen on his shoulders. He frowns like he wants to argue, but he rises to his feet all the same. “I kept yer comms open, so if ye hear anyone gettin’ close-”

“I’ll radio in. Don’t worry.” Simon smiles, “go.”

Johnny opens the door, hesitating. Simon is about to order him again when Soap unexpectedly turns around, takes three loud steps towards him, and rips his mask off.

“What are you doing, Johnny-”

Warm, shaky hands cup his face, tilt it up. Johnny bends down, and softly kisses his forehead.

In the space between them, he whispers, “I’ll come back for ye, Simon. I promise.”

He puts the mask back on, and leaves.

Simon’s heart burns, his cheeks surely bright pink. He doesn’t know if it’s from the poison, or from…

No, the tight grip around his heart is definitely from the poison. An agonizing ache wraps around his chest, heavier than 6 feet of dirt. Simon’s lungs shudder for a breath.

He can distantly hear the others talk on comms, but the blood rushing through his ears prevents him from deciphering what they’re saying. Simon understands then, that this might be the end. With the poison gripping his lungs, and the lingering warmth of Johnny’s lips, Simon closes his eyes.

His last thought is of regret, that Johnny won’t be able to keep his promise.

“-The Hunter, they’re going after-”

Simon groans, unimaginable pain thumping at his head. Couldn’t death have at least taken that away from him?

The rain beats in incessant song in his head.

“-Wait for backup, MacTavish-!”

MacTavish… Johnny….. Simon remembers the kiss, his promise, and smiles. 

“-Can’t-”

“-SOAP-!!!”

Garrick sounds frantic. What are they shouting about?

Gunshots make his brows crease. Fighting someone… Where is he?

The warehouse. Price, Garrick. The Hunter.

“Johnny…” Simon rasps. A loud static is buzzing on comms. He pays it no mind.

He needs to get up. His limbs don’t shake anymore, but his lungs hurt like he breathed in sandpaper. Simon whimpers, pushing himself forward.

His rifle is laying right next to him. Trembling fingers wrap around the weapon, and with gritted teeth, Simon manages to take it with him as he gets up. He stumbles through the door, blearily noticing the trail of bodies leading deeper into the warehouse.

Simon follows the paths of blood.

He doesn’t know how long it took him to walk all the way to the central room of the warehouse, time slipping between the cracks in his mind. It’s so hard to breathe, dark spots take permanent residence in the edges of Simon’s vision.

The lights went out before he woke up, plunging the building into shades of red, the emergency lights making the blood appear black.

Only one light remains, a spotlight encompassing two figures. A crimson skull makes Simon’s steps falter.

The Hunter.

Their gun pointed directly at Johnny’s head.

It takes everything Simon has left in him to lift his gun. His lips move around a prayer, a plea to whoever is out there listening.

His fingers shake around the trigger.

He takes one last heaving breath, his eyes wide with fear.

The Hunter’s head moves from Johnny to him.

Simon shoots.

His bullet hits the Hunter’s arm, the rifle in their hands getting knocked away and sliding under a conveyor belt.

Johnny turns around, blue eyes shining in the light.

Simon smiles.

“...Simon…?” Johnny asks.

He falls unconscious not a moment later.

Several minutes earlier

Soap closes the door on the storage room. He takes a second to roughly scrub down his face. What the fuck did he just do?! Did he bloody lose it?!!

“Soap, what’s your status?” Price asks over the radio.

“Solid. Poison got Simon, left him in a storage room.”

The Captain sighs, “we will keep an eye on the door, son. He’ll be safe.” Soap exhales shakily. “More hostiles your way, keep pushing Soap.”

“Copy.”

No time to consider his fuckin’ action. He needs to focus.

He hears the rumbling steps of soldiers echoing through the empty halls, and pulls out a flash grenade. Now that he’s alone, he can start using some of his more… lethal equipment.

Soap huddles behind a filing cabinet, throwing the flash over his shoulder. Even though he covers his eyes, his vision is still painted bright red for a moment. He pops out of cover, noting the disoriented soldiers clutching at their eyes and ears, and methodically dusts them.

From here on out, it is total chaos.

Drill charges, Semtex, frags, every explosive in Soap’s arsenal gets thrown at seemingly endless waves of soldiers. He moves on instincts, hands shooting at targets his mind didn’t even register yet.

It is only when he gets to the main machinery room, that he comes back to himself.

Sentry turrets have been set up at the entrance, waiting for him.

Soap rolls away not a moment too soon, the floor he just stood on turning to shattered bits of concrete in seconds. 

“Captain, they have sentries!” Gaz yells, “Soap is pinned!”

Soap scans the room he’s in, noting the snaking cables wrapping around the sentries legs. Following them, he spots a large electrical enclosure. If he could create a shock, the sentries will stop working…

A thunder rattles the windows around them, soldiers spreading out in search of him. “On your 9, Soap!” Price informs him, and he shoots two soldiers getting too close to his position.

The rain… if he can get it to drop on the enclosure…

Soap scans the roof for any weak points. There!

“Captain, Gaz, are there any hostiles around me?” he growls into his mic.

Gaz answers, “Negative, what are you-”

“Ah’m gonna drop the power to take the sentries down, might take out the CCTV.”

One beat passes before Price replies, “understood. We will come back you up if it goes.”

“Solid copy, Captain.” Soap lines up a shot at a precariously placed piece of the roofing. With only the iron sights on his rifle, it takes precious moments to aim and finally press the trigger. The hairs on Soap’s nape raise as he hears soldiers close in on him.

Time slows as he watches the water spill down, flooding the electrical enclosure.

“He’s here! Get him!” A soldier shouts to his left.

The warehouse instantly falls dark. The electric hum stops, making Soap’s surroundings eerily silent.

He ducks away, sneaking around crates and containers, moving position to the soldiers’ flank, and just as the red emergency lights turn on, he strikes.

5 shots, and they’re down.

“The CCTVs are out, we’re making our way to you. Do not engage the Hunter alone, Soap.” Price orders through comms.

Soap lifts his hand to press the button to answer, but a new group of soldiers appears, shots wild as they spray the area he’s in. He jumps back, searching for his attackers, tracking the glint of the gunmetal. He shoots them, bodies falling, and for a moment he believes he’s in the clear.

Pinpricks at the back of his neck make him turn.

Soap’s eyes widen as he comes face to face with the Hunter.

They stare at each other for a second, before the Hunter simply walks away.

Back towards the way he came from, towards… Simon!

“Soap?! Soap, give me sitrep, now!” Price yells, snapping him out of shock.

“Price, the Hunter, they’re going after Simon!” Soap doesn’t have time to figure out how the Hunter knows that, no time to figure out how he knows that.

“Wait for backup, MacTavish! That’s an order!”

“I can’t let Simon die, Captain!”

At those words, the Hunter snaps their gaze to him, and with near inhuman speed, lift their gun and shoot.

Pain shoots through his right shoulder, making him drop his gun. Soap bites down a scream of agony, the burning of the gunshot spreading down his arm.

“SOAP-!!!”

The butt-end of a gun comes at his head, Soap falling to the ground on his back to avoid it.

A single light turns on above them, the sharp shadows casted on the grotesque red skull mask hiding the Hunter’s eyes.

The commander circles him, Soap crawling towards his gun. If he could only-

The Hunter kicks it away, the firearm clattering when it hits one of the metal support structures keeping the warehouse’s roof up. The reverberating sound bounces on the barren walls.

“I’ll never let ye kill Simon.” Soap snarls, desperation clawing at his chest. He frantically searches for an exit, a way to stall the Hunter, before they line the barrel of their rifle with his head.

He’s going to die here, Soap realizes.

He won’t be able to fulfill his promise to Simon.

A shot from behind him makes him jump, the bullet hitting the Hunter’s hand, making their gun fly off and land under a conveyor belt.

Soap turns around, heart beating out of his chest.

Simon stands behind him, his form shaking, face even paler than usual, standing out against the red lights.

“...Simon…?” 

Simon crumples, body falling heavily to the ground.

“-NO-!” Soap rushes to him, when a blade unsheathing makes him freeze.

The Hunter is flexing their injured hand, a knife held tightly in the other. Soap growls.

So this is how it’s going to be, huh?

Soap searches Simon for a moment, unsheathing his knife. The blade is long and cruel, one he’s seen take so many lives in the short time they’ve known each other. It’s only fair it will take one more.

Soap gets his feet under him, grunting at the pain from his wound.

They start circling each other, waiting for the other to strike first. The Hunter’s head moves for a second away from him, to look at Simon.

That’s when Soap rushes in, knife in his left hand, slicing at the Hunter’s other arm. He jumps away before the commander can retaliate, and they start trading blows.

Soap manages a cut at their wrist, bright red blood mixing with their uniform. The Hunter slashes at his injured shoulder, making Soap yell.

He disengages for a moment to catch his breath, watching the Hunter do the same. He feels doomed for a moment, when he realizes he’s fighting a soldier that bested even the Ghost.

How could he win?!

Another blow to his torso that Soap barely evades. He tries to go for the Hunter’s neck, only for them to block it, shoving Soap away with frightening force.

Think, MacTavish! You’ve always been shorter, weaker, younger than both your squad mates and your opponents!

Take those disadvantages, and make them work!

Soap inhales sharply, dodging another lethal attack. The Hunter is far stronger than him, if they managed to get a stab in…

A sharp grin stretches on his lips. Soap twirls around the Hunter, their knife predictably following with immense speed.

He lets it sink into his left shoulder, and he pushes towards it, snarling as it sinks in further.

The Hunter attempts to take it out, but it sank far too deep. Soap locks eyes with the red skull.

In a wide arc, Soap swings his knife, and slices the Hunter’s neck.

Blood sprays on his face, as the commander clutches at him, a pathetic attempt to keep themselves standing.

Soap freezes when he hears the Hunter talk.

Their voice is startlingly old, decrepit, as they whisper, “You are nothing but a Blind Man… a Beast… following… a Beast… you will not be more than that… you will die… monsters…..”

The Hunter’s grip slips from his biceps, and they fall to the ground, dead.

Soap stares at the blood spreading on the floor, as an unsettling sense that this has happened before washes over him.

He shakes it off when his eyes drift away towards Simon’s still form.

Soap falls to his knees, frantically searching the Hunter’s body, “Fuck, c’mon, c’mon…”

His fingers brush over a set of vials and syringes at their hip, and he yanks them off, trembling fingers slipping while he tried to get the liquid in the syringe.

Once he manages to fill one, Soap throws away the rest, crawling to Simon and tilting his head to access his neck. The poison has blackened his veins, the injection site the epicenter. Soap stabs it and pushes the liquid from the needle into Simon.

He sits back, arms pulsing pain from both of his wounds, the Hunter’s knife still in his shoulder.

“Simon… Mo leannan, please.” his eyes start to water, uncoordinated hands pawing at Simon’s chest, “please, wake up…”

He places a bloody hand over Simon’s cheek, tears now streaming down his face, “I kept my promise… I told you I’ll come back, right?” his voice cracks, “now ye just have to come back to me… Please…”

Soap feels his adrenaline waning, leaving him tired, so fucking tired. He rests his head on Simon’s chest, sobbing at the stillness of it.

“I…” Soap closes his eyes, “I wanted to tell ye…” his exhales shudder out of him, “I love ye…”

Ba-dump

Soap stills. Did he imagine…?

Ba-dump

Ba-dump

Ba-dump-Ba-dump-Ba-dump-Ba-dump-Ba-dump-Ba-dump-

“Fuck…” Simon groans. Soap’s head shoots up, and his brown eyes soften, “Johnny?”

Soap barks a laugh, blinking away tears.

Simon’s eyes trail down, to the knife in his shoulder, “fucking ‘ell, Soap, how did you manage that?!”

“The Hunter…” 

“Is he…” Simon stares behind him, at the growing puddle of blood, “fuck, Johnny, you took him out by yourself?”

“You and me, Simon.”

Simon smiles up at him, dark eyes breathtakingly deep. He sighs a moment later, slowly getting up to walk to the body of the commander. Soap follows.

Simon takes hold of the red skull mask, staring intently at it before taking it off.

Beneath it, was a face Soap feels he’s seen before, yet in the weeks following, he could not remember. The only feature burned into his memory were the four scars slashed across the Hunter’s face.

The claws of an animal.

Simon examines the mask. It looks similar to Ghost’s, but the red skull is sculpted to look furious, a permanent frown on it.

Simon offers it to Soap, who gives him a confused look.

“You’ve earned it.”

Soap stares at Simon, before taking the mask. 

The two of them swivel their heads back when a pair of footsteps sound through the hallway behind them. Simon slides a knife down his sleeve, ready to fight, when the source is revealed to be Price and Gaz.

“Soap, bloody hell mate, we told you to-” Gaz’s brows slowly rise as he registers Simon, and then the mask in Soap’s hand.

Price approaches them, “the antidote…?”

“Administered.” Soap says, “it’s over.”

The warehouse falls silent as they process the words.

The Hunter is dead.

It is done.

Page 63 of the “Blooede Starvatfōre-dēde”, parable 17:

And the Beast attacked, cruel claws reaching the hunter, His eyes blinded, by blood and rage, And the Beast says to the Blind Man, you will fight as equals. The Blind Man, the Fallen Knight, Takes a sword, and strikes the hunter down, And as his blood became one with the dirt, the hunter tells, You are not but a Blind Man, not but a beast following a beast, You will not be more, you will die Monsters. And the hunter falls silent, forevermore belonging to death.

[mistakenlyfoundnico]

I need someome to write a saiki fic where the group is happy and hanging out and saiki is there pretending to be annoyed by the situation when yo ustart nearing the end of the fic someone tells saiki you need to let them go and that's when the reader finds out that saiki has been rewind everyone in the group by a day right before they died, trying to keep them alive, while they all remain ignorant to the fact they have been slowing crossing the line between life and death but they will never know true rest. And think it would be even better if one of them is terminally ill and they are constantly suffering but saiki is struggling to let them go. I know there was episode i think where he had like a time loop but i want it to hurt more cause my favorite flavor of fics is angst. The last lines would be something like just one more day. I just need one more day and either that was a lie he never plans to let them rest or he actually dies or something idk. I might write but idk.

[solivagantingrebel]

I keep giving in (<— fanfic writer who started another wip).