#he hasn’t done anything all that evil but if he did

[amipasta]

i’ll forgive a character for anything if they’re enough of a wet cat

#oh look a post #dimitri fire emblem #dimitri alxendre blaiddyd #DID I SPELL IT RIGJY? #homura akemi #tim drake #don’t fight me on those two it’s true #dr doofenshmirtz #he hasn’t done anything all that evil but if he did #id still be in his corner #this might be controversial but: #sarah orphan black #sarah manning #there we go i got it #zuko #feel free to add your own i encourage it #jason todd #sasha waybright #miles edgeworth #monika #monika ddlc

[amuseoffyre]

I’m emotionally ruined by the fact that Aziraphale hasn’t broken out of his heavenly conditioning. He still loves doing good. He gets happy when people tell him he’s an angel and says “it’s nice to tell people about the good things you’ve done now that I’m not reporting to Heaven”. He will literally put himself in harm’s way to make sure he does the Good and Right thing.

It can’t be understated how much Heaven’s influence still impacts on him. Aziraphale has been created, ordained and conditioned to believe it and he can’t just switch it off or walk away. Crowley didn’t get the choice. He was Fallen. He was kicked out and - as per the rules of toxic and terrifying cults - Aziraphale was always told for centuries and millennia, Falling was the worst thing that could happen. If you’re bad, you’ll be forced out. If you’re bad, you’re not one of Us. You’re one of Them.

When he did something he perceived as Right (ie. saving innocent children from death), but knew it wasn’t what Heaven intended, he broke down. Crowley found him a crying, shaking wreck afterwards because he was so convinced he was Evil. He was so convinced he was going to be dragged to Hell and that he was now a demon because he did one thing that saved some children but because it wasn’t a specific directive, it was Bad.

It shapes so much about him and it’s why the whole series looks like he’s having so much fun doing silly human things, but there’s this brittleness to it. He’s happy and excited and he’s doing his human-life things and having a lovely time, but he’s also constantly stressed because of the Need To Do Good. From the moment Gabriel turns up, he’s a nervous wreck and is trying to hide it by Doing Good, by Solving the Problem, by Fixing Things, by being so active and reactive rather than letting himself think about it. It’s a sign of exactly how frantic he is that he starts giving away his books and letting humans touch them.

Watch his face when the Archangels show up unexpectedly: that isn’t joy. That’s blind terror. He’s so afraid of doing the wrong thing in Heaven’s eyes, even though he made the active choice to do so because it was the Right thing to do. He’s a Guardian and he will protect, but he is so very afraid of the repercussions, even now. 

At the end of S1, Crowley said “they’re gearing up for the big one” so Aziraphale’s not oblivious. He knows a big one is coming. He knows something worse than the Antichrist will be on its way. And he’s trying so hard to pretend that everything is normal and fine and if he ignores all the looming bad stuff, it won’t happen. If we don’t say anything about it, nothing has to change.

But then the changes come knocking at his door holding a box and the choice is gone. He can keep trying to blinker himself to it, but then there are angels and demons in the bookshop and he’s had to use his halo and everything is falling apart.

So when he realises that he can get himself into a position where he can guarantee those repercussions won’t happen to Crowley? He will absolutely take it. He says himself “I don’t want to go back to Heaven”, but the instant the Metatron offers him a free pass for Crowley, to take Crowley out of both Heaven and Hell’s sightlines, to keep him safe (Another bee inside the hive, if you will), no wonder he grabs it with both hands.

The tragedy is that Crowley thinks that when they saved the world together, that was the end of Heaven’s influence in Aziraphale. When he was cast out the split between him and Heaven was sharp and clean. He doesn’t - he can’t - understand how deeply it has tangled around Aziraphale. It’s built into Aziraphale’s entire being and unravelling it isn’t that simple. Aziraphale’s trauma is a horrible, terrible Gordian knot and Crowley can’t understand that he couldn’t simply cut through it, because that’s just not how Aziraphale works.

#good omens s2 #good omens season 2 #good omens #good omens spoilers #gos2 #go s2

[severaltuesdays]

Mori and Abuse

I’m making this because the BSD fandom has 2 modes for interpreting Mori and it’s either evil evil child abuser or spineless bastard and I HATE both of them.

Mori is an abuser, yes, but the way he abuses characters is very atypical, and not at all what most people expect. His abuse is almost all psychological, the only character we can say for sure has been physically abused by him is Yosano, and we’re only shown one instance of that.

For simplicity, I’ll be referring to his abuse of Dazai, Chuuya, Koyo and Yosano, but I believe it could be said that Kyuusaku and potentially the Akutagawa’s have suffered because of him.

To understand why Mori has abused certain characters, we must understand a bit about him as a person. This is potentially why Mori’s actions are so wildly skewed by the fandom, because no one wants to observe him too closely (but that’s a whole other post). Simply put, Mori is a military man. He does anything and everything to achieve the “optimal solution”, he has a plan and if he has to get his hands dirty to reach his goal, he will. Emotions and attachments go out the window for him, most of the time at least, because he would sacrifice anything, and anyone, to achieve his goal. Most of the time at least. That’s why he used Yosano, because what’s the life of one girl to the safety of his nation? That’s why he manufactured Oda’s and his orphans deaths, because the prize outweighed the cost.

Mori is logical and reserved, so we must observe all his actions with the lens that he has a reason for what he does, because he (almost) always has a reason.

I’ll start by referring to Mori’s abuse of Dazai, because he’s a bit of a special case and also the one that the fandom overall gets the most wrong. Mori’s abuse of Dazai is usually twisted to be sexual or physical, when there is absolutely no evidence of that. People like to bring up Dazai’s abuse of Akutagawa, or that one throwaway line from The Day I Picked Up Dazai as evidence, but neither of those hold up in my opinion.

Firstly, just because Dazai’s abuse of Akutagawa was partly physical, doesn’t mean he himself underwent physical abuse. Just like Mori, Dazai always has reasons for what he does, and his reason for what he did to Akutagawa was tailored to Akutagawa and his ability, therefore not something that Mori would have done to Dazai. Not to excuse Dazai’s abuse of Akutagawa, of course, but the fact of the matter is that Dazai’s abuse was a test of Akutagawa, and a punishment because Akutagawa didn’t adhere to Dazai’s standards. This abuse is the result of Mori’s own abuse, yes, but it’s not as straightforward as “Mori hit Dazai, ergo Dazai hit Akutagawa”.

The line from TDIPUD is also poor evidence, as all it is is Oda telling Dazai that what he’s doing won’t hurt and Dazai responding that Mori says the same about the needles he gives him. The fact that this is taken as abuse is really weird to me, why is that the assumption here? Mori is a doctor, there are multiple reasons for him to be giving Dazai needles. And the fact that Mori says it’s not going to hurt just sounds like the typical “doctor giving a kid a shot” exchange.

Dazai hates pain, so obviously Mori would lie and say that it isn’t going to hurt. Mori cares for Dazai’s well-being, which is what makes Dazai a bit of an outlier, as Mori shows care for him before he’s found a reason to justify that care. This is evidenced by their exchange in the beginning of Dazai, Chuuya: Fifteen, which is very important as it gives us an insight into Mori’s perspective during that time, where he panics because he hasn’t achieved the “optimal solution” by keeping Dazai alive, but then justifies that action by deciding Dazai is too good an asset to throw away.

And here-in lies the actual abuse that Dazai went through, not being hit or shamed or any of that, but emotional coercion, a slow cultivation of the parts of Dazai that Mori saw as useful, and a creation of the mindset we see Dazai use. This is most prominent with how Mori plants ideas into Dazai’s head. This is referenced in Chapter one of Fifteen as well, establishing that Mori has taken somewhat of an instructor role to Dazai, but that’s something Dazai rebels against.

This exchange is a perfect example of that conditioning, instead of giving Dazai information directly, Mori gets Dazai to deduce his answers using information he already has, something we see Dazai does very often in the current plot. But the main example of this conditioning comes in the form of Dazai’s plan to use the Sheep against Chuuya, a plan that comes DIRECTLY from Mori.

Mori makes sure that Dazai is in the room as he baits Chuuya, uses the weakness of the Sheep against him, and then breaks down EXACTLY what has happened for Dazai. “Just some food for thought” my ass.

Then when discussing his plan with Rimbaud, Dazai brings up a theory taught to him by Mori. 15!Dazai is such a little parrot, it’s all “Mori says, Mori says, Mori says”, just word-vomiting all the thoughts Mori puts in his head, there is a CLEAR influence here.

Just like Mori, Dazai uses the Sheep against Chuuya. Mori shows Dazai how to control people, how to make them listen and how to make them obey. The reason Dazai treats people like pawns, the reason he KNOWS how to manipulate people is because Mori taught him.

Just like so many of the characters, the fandom forgets that when Mori met Dazai, he was a child. He was a broken child who needed a guiding hand and the hand he got was Mori’s. Morí crafted the Dazai that we see, shaped the way that he thinks, THAT was his abuse.

Chuuya as well is a special case. Like Mori, he is a leader, and that is a quality Mori admires in him. In turn, Chuuya looks up to Mori, sees him as an inspiration for what it means to be a leader. This is another example of Mori’s manipulative abuse. To Chuuya, Mori makes himself out to be a saviour, someone who will teach him how to be better, how to protect the people he thinks he has failed. Mori takes Chuuya at his weakest point and gives him a new chance.

And with that, Chuuya is loyal to the mafia and Mori has Soukoku. Never mind that Mori was the brains behind Dazai’s plan that got Chuuya into the mafia in the first place, by getting Dazai to do his dirty work, Mori gets to appear to Chuuya with a halo and wings (I could also talk about Mori’s involvement with Stormbringer and how that locked Chuuya into the mafia, but that’s another tangent).

Mori has done the same with Koyo. She’s loyal to him, but clearly does not LIKE him, so where does that loyalty come from? It is because he has freed her. Koyo suffered under the rule of the Old Boss, she had no freedom, the man who cared for her was executed, she was restrained within the mafia. And then Mori takes over and she ends up an executive. Suddenly she’s got POWER, she can change things, under Mori she’s given the ability to change things and take charge. He sees a girl in chains and loosens them, not enough for her to escape, but enough that she can move. And having been chained up for so long, that feels like freedom. Koyo is loyal to Mori because he’s better than the alternative, because if she can’t be free, at least she can move.

I left Yosano for last, because again, she’s a wild card. Unlike all the other people Mori has coerced, Yosano’s abuse took place during a time where every second was precious. There was no time to do it delicately, the way Mori handled everything else, it was war, win or lose. Mori’s tactics were a lot more brutal, Yosano wants the soldiers to live, so Mori shoots the one she cares about so either she WATCHES her friend die, or she can save him. Unlike with Dazai, with Chuuya, with Koyo, Mori isn’t Yosano’s saviour, he’s her captor, he gives her a choice, but its one where neither option is made to look kind. He makes it clear, she heals them, or they die, whether it’s at his hands, or the hands of the enemy, and he knows she would never let them die.

Mori works through coercion and manipulation, he shapes the way people think of him carefully, moulding his appearance in the eyes of others. To Dazai he’s just an old man that Dazai has under his thumb, who tries and fails to manipulate him. But that’s not the truth. To Chuuya he’s a benevolent leader, someone so gracious as to grant him a place in the mafia. But that’s not the truth. To Koyo he’s the safest option, not someone she wants to follow, but someone she will follow, because at least she’s free. But that’s not the truth. To Yosano he’s evil, cruel and harsh and he takes lives as easily as he breathes with no remorse, he’s the God to her Angel of Death. But thats not the truth. To the audience, he’s a monster, a filthy pervert who is nothing more than a pedophile. Is that the truth?

Mori is like a spider, ensnaring people in his web with carefully constructed lies and appearances, his abuse is not physical or sexual, it’s a psychological coercion, careful at times and brutal at others, his abuse is a targeted attack of an individual’s weaknesses, and a cultivation of the parts he sees as useful.

Every person is his tool, and he likes his blades sharp.

@1seaweedbrain1 for you <3

#crossposted on twitter #because i figured out how to use that hellsite #jk it's pretty chill #mostly #anyway Mori is actually one of my favourite characters to analyse he's such a complex mf #I could rant about him sm he makes me ill /pos #does he go for people when they're weak because it's easy? #or because he wants to give the underdog a chance? #or is it both? #he kills without blinking but volunteers at hospitals #he saves and sacrifices lives in the same breath #he go to lengths to keep Dazai healthy but then doesn't care (or know about?) his living situations #this contradictory motherfucker #bsd mori #mori ogai #bsd mori ogai #dazai osamu #bsd dazai #bungou stray dogs dazai #chuuya nakahara #bsd chuuya #bungou stray dogs chuuya #kouyo ozaki #ozaki kouyou #bsd kouyou #bungou stray dogs kouyou #yosano akiko #bsd yosano #bungou stray dogs yosano #bungou stray dogs

[halcyone-of-the-sea]

Hi!

I just wanted to say that I absolutely love all of your COD fics! Your Price fics made me fall in love with him (I saw a recommendation for See No Evil on TikTok and just went down the rabbit hole from there (it’s also my comfort fic)) and Laughing Poets made me buy Ghosts for Keegan. Your writing is so beautiful and poetic and has inspired me to start writing again after a really bad writing’s block!

I also did want to put in a request for Ghost (because I love him so much) but given his hype, I understand if you don’t want to write for him or if it may be hard. But I was hoping that this hasn’t been done before (much) and that I could read it in your words since you are so amazing!

I was thinking of the reader being a CIA agent that was working undercover to get classified information and 141 was sent in to extract her after she was compromised. And her and Ghost don’t really get along at first, like they don’t hate each other but they could just care less about one another. But then they get separated and one of them is injured and the other fights tooth and nail to get to them, realizing how much they care. I was thinking that her callsign could be ‘Reaper’ but it can be anything else if it fits better. It can be angsty (because that’s the absolute best genre), fluffy, nsfw, whatever you want to do with it.

I know this is asking a bit much and I’m sorry for that. Feel free to change it as you see fit and do whatever you want with it, if you want to do it. I really appreciate and love your work!! Thank you!!

'Til it Hurts

Pairing: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x F!Reader

Synopsis: You thought that it would be easy - moving on and blazing your own trail, but at every step, memories seem to come back and haunt you. And the biggest memory takes the shape of a man with a skull mask. Can you still deny what you had always felt when he stands at your side once more?

Word Count: 12.5k

Warnings: This duology will be 18+ and contain the following: intense gore, blood, violence, vulgar language, angst, fluff, suggestive content, (smut, p in v sex, virgin!reader (relevant to plot) all in part 2), abuse of power in the past, toxic working environment in the past, copious flashbacks, soft!simon because I love him like that (I guess considered ooc), banter, etc...

A/N: Part 2 will be posted tomorrow after I edit it and the link will be added to this part as well for ease of access. But, anna, that's wild that people post about my work on tiktok, lmfao. I'm so glad I helped you out of that writer's block, though! Enjoy part 1, Love (I did change it around a bit)!

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

You often think of the friends you had when you were six. The neighborhood you grew up in was full of other kids your age, and there was practically a horde of young boys and girls outside at any given moment. Early mornings were ripe for adventures – ears perking up from your pillows at the sound of bird songs and lawnmowers like an instinctual call to cause mischief. Days would run long and nights would end late with games of tag. 

It was inevitable, at this point in your life, to not think about where your friends would be now. Were they happy? Starting families and getting married on island resorts; white sand underfoot and a gentle lapping of ocean water? You’d lost contact a long, long, time ago – never bothered to get back in touch, though you know things might be better if you had. 

God, you’d never have friends like that again. 

Selfless. Genuine. Without competition or a need to stab each other in the back. Friendships built on a childlike innocence that was never meant to stay or grow with the brutal stretch of years. People mature. They harden, sharpen. 

They break themselves to fit a mold of what they want to be without even realizing…Or maybe that was just how you grew up. 

Your feet pound against the cobblestone streets of Bergamo, Italy, as you make your way through the packed road of the Upper Old District. Under your chin, your fingers go up to grasp the scarf around your neck and pull the thick navy fabric up farther. Fast eyes flicker over faces as a fake plastered smile splays over your lips, and your jaw holds a tension that seeps into your shoulders.

Keep the act up, you have to remind yourself, fingers heavy at your hips, don’t let the facade slip, or else it’s over before it begins.

At your sides, past the unending sea of loudly speaking humans and loyal animals alike, the broad expanse of ancient architecture calls to the history of this city; red-terracotta roofing, extravagant greenery, and pillars as tall as the buildings themselves. A picturesque land filled with mysteries lost to time, stories never told beyond the scratch of a pen and moth-eaten parchment. 

A city now filled with killers. 

“Sitrep,” you grunt into the open channel, the earpiece fizzling as it sits in the clutch of your canal. No one answers and, slipping past a family of tourists, you glare at the ground; heart going so fast you feel like it could jump-start a car. “Damnit!”

The seconds draw on and as you pick up the pace, now shoving your way through the crowd, you feel eyes on you. Slithering over your skin like oil. 

Not good. 

Shit. Karver, where did you go!? 

Karver ‘Rigs’ Massarini was an informant – someone who’d been giving you everything that you needed to know about the cell in this area; along with a grouping of eyewitnesses to a stash of ICBMs. A stash that could do some serious damage if they stayed here with the wrong people. Intel suggests that those very missiles were going to be shipped off to Mexico in only a few days, smuggled across the border into United States territory with the intent of doing some pretty awful stuff and framing the US. 

If you and Rigs weren’t quick with this, so many innocents would suffer.

You’d already gotten into contact with Mexican Special Forces yourself, warning Alejandro Vargas and Rodolfo Parra of a possible breach and to watch for any unregistered shipments on the docks or coming in from the air. 

But now Rigs was missing, and you had a funny feeling you were being trailed. 

Back alley. You take a quick right, boots slamming to the ground and heart hammering. Get away from the civvies in case someone decides to go trigger-happy. 

This cell was known for being deadly, Mr. Massarini had sent the file over to CIA headquarters before you were shipped out; Laswell had set you on it right away without even taking the time to read it entirely.

“Extremely high Kinetic; I’m giving you full Execute Authority on this, Reaper. We’re running out of time. Find those missiles.” 

Torture, kidnappings, mutilations, the list went on for this group and how far they would go to keep secrets. No one had gotten any clear insight as to what their motives were – just that they needed to be put down in exactly the ways they had been doing to others. Ruthlessly, before they grew bigger or spread their influence beyond borders, and created a group that could rival what Al-Qatala had been. 

So that was where you came in. 

God, you wished Farah and Alex were here with you – at the very least you could rely on them to help, even if you sectioned yourself off from others more than a dying cat. There was a reason you preferred being sent in alone with only your wits.  

Mostly because of situations like this.

“Rigs, sitrep. Where are you,” you try again, the close walls shrouding in your shadows. Throwing looks over your shoulders, you take down deep breaths, a growl gradually digging itself a hole in your esophagus. Desperately, you say, “I’m heading back to the safe house ASAP. Wait for me there.” 

Your right hand gravitates to your pocket, slipping through the fabric and pushing aside the ripped seam at the bottom. The sheath at your thigh pinches you with every step, but you’ve endured it for years, calluses breeding where the leather had chaffed the flesh to toughness. To an ingrained perfection. Flinching when your fingers bump against the handle, the metal adornments feel cool to the touch despite the sweat dripping down your spine; temperature and nerves leaving your palms sweaty. 

None of this was going to plan.

You caress the small Dirk blade strapped to you, and when the first footsteps enter the alleyway behind you, your hand clenched into a loose fist around it. Your eyebrows pull tight with annoyance.

Taking a slow breath as the trailing stranger begins to move faster, you take a corner, halting the second you were out of sight. You nonchalantly turn on your heel and lean into the wall, feeling your body conform to the building and the stone dig into your back. 

The material is cold, and as you raise your Dirk up, you flip the blade parallel to your forearm, wrist lax, and fingers still. A slow breath flows from your barely-parted lips. 

3 seconds. You don’t blink, only gazing out across the space and noticing the dark shadow gaining ground. 2…1…

Your body jerks forward, free hand snapping out and grasping the fabric of a shirt. Twisting your hips, you plant your feet and wrench the stranger around the corner, breath coming out in a loud snarl. Without a shout, you have the person’s back shoved to the building in an instant, blade held above an Adam’s Apple. 

A man, then.

“I’m going to give you one full minute.” Your Italian was only surface level – far better at understanding others than speaking full sentences. But you think whoever this man is comes to a conclusion well enough. “Before I cut you open and watch the life spill from your eyes.”

You don’t recognize this person, his sharp face or dark, sly, eyes, and with a quick assessment of his large stature you figure out he’s the basic definition of a man sent to complete a job. One that would have left you dead if you were anything less than a contracted CIA Agent on a job. You had been trained among the best from your time in the Marines – years on Special Ops forces; taking point. Even if they were the worst times of your life, you still learned a great deal from them, particularly, how to know when to cut your losses. 

With one look into his smug face, you know that this stranger would tell you nothing. 

Your lips formed a grimace, teeth flashing under flesh at the rod-straight form of the man under you. He was smirking with eyes seeming to be laughing at you. Arrogant. Self-assured. 

“You’ll get nothing out of me, Reaper. We are already on your trail.” Your head tilts, a numb huff escaping your throat and pushing the individual's hair back as a breeze would. There was a small pause; tiny shiftings of your feet as your blade digs ever deeper. 

A thin trail of blood falls from the placement, and your muscles writhe under the epidermis. There’s no thought behind the laugh that enters the air, that cold, dark, thing that’s more of a bark from a hellhound. It was just a realization that no matter where you went, there could never be anything unique anymore. Everyone was always the same. 

“You’ll never get it out of me-”

“Break my bones; rip my flesh, you will never make me talk-”

“If you want to see me beg, you’ll be disappointed-”

There were countless memories you could bring to the precipice of your mind and re-live; moments ingrained into your psyche like a tattoo is to skin. So you can only smile and nod, scarf swishing around your neck. The man looks confused now, if not slightly nervous. That self-assured attitude leaking to the ground. Eyes as dark as obsidian beginning to snap back and forth – looking for a saving grace in the make-up of ancient stone that wasn’t going to come. 

You wondered how many people had died in this city throughout history. The stories lost to time. Have these alleys seen war? Famine?

Have they seen murder? 

But you are a woman of your word. A minute passes in tense silence, your eyes never leaving his own and ears carefully in tune, twitching like an antenna, to the joyous shouts and laughter just a street over. Here you wait like a rat in a trap, though you like to believe yourself more of the metal Hammer than the unknowing participant in a dance of death and wits.

You tighten your grip on your Dirk, shrugging up at the man. Your face is nonchalant as an understanding smile grows. As simple as a server at a restaurant.

“I believe you.” And you run the knife’s edge across his flesh like a match to a striker before he can scream.

Stepping back, you’re suddenly thankful for the scarf over your sweat-slick neck because as the spray of blood splatters over your nose bridge and forehead, you swipe it away with one of the ends of the thick fabric. You let the body drop, watching large hands snap to the gushing wound like that alone would stop the cold grip of death. 

Your mark has been met. 

The External Carotid Artery was easy enough to cut, though you had to dig deep for it, and it seemed the man had moved mid-slice. Frowning while the man gasps and gurgles; flails as a fish would, you study your work as you flick the blade clear of blood. Your brows furrow. 

“Nicked the Thyroid Cartilage, hm.” Sighing and shaking your head, you sheathe the Dirk and twist on your feet, still intent on making your way back to the hotel safe house and trying to find a lead on Rigs. The slumping of a body reverberates a moment later, a grandiose death rattle, and still, only a street over you hear animated conversations – the bustle of traveling feet, and the sound of the breeze. 

You often think about the friends you had when you were six. But, now, instead of being the one who fought off the monsters at the ends of the beds, you had become it. The monster. The boogeyman. 

The Reaper. 

Oh, what would they think of you now? 

You swipe at the blood along your fingertips, seeing the red bleed under your nails with such a numb feeling that it scares you more than anything. Taking down a gathering of saliva that feels more like a slug in your throat, you wonder when you lost the ability to value human life. Of course, the answer was slated in those early years in Special Ops, but you don’t dwell on those times. 

In fact, it was better if you never thought of them at all. 

Taking a left, you hum a tune under your breath and listen to the birds sing as the blood dries. 

—

The meeting room wasn’t even a room, just a vacant air-craft hangar that had been fitted out with two rows of metal fold-out chairs and a projector. Shadows danced over the floor, long streaks of darkness over concrete. 

“...I’ll be giving you full Execute Authority – but this mission is completely Black. Host weapons only. No Evac team.” Laswell’s voice echoes off the ceiling, and Ghost’s eyes flow over the projected intel, memorizing the faces and locations with nothing more than a blink of his blue eyes. Fluttering eyelashes caress the hard material of his mask before settling. 

Task Force 141 was being sent off on another deployment again, deep into Belarus and near the Russian border.

“Time frame?” The Captain asks, standing a small distance away and leaning against a crate of ammunition. His arms are crossed; jaw is loosely set. 

Kate looks at him, above the heads of Gaz and Soap, and nods her head before she comments, “one week.”

Gaz huffs from ahead of the hulking form of Ghost, and the silent man shifts his attention back to the group. 

“One week, Kate? No offense, but we don’t even know if the bastard’s in Belarus.”

“‘fraid to get dirty there, Garrick? Ah, we’re good enough for it.” Soap elbows the male at his side, and the masked man releases a puff of breath one row back. The Scot twists in his seat, mohawk tendrils falling over his forehead, and smirks. “C’mon Lt. back me up here. We’ve got this in the bag already.”

“Bit confident, Johnny?” Ghost grunts out, accented voice low and muffled from under the black fabric over his lips. His hips shift over the chair, legs splayed and arms crossed as he reclines back; letting the bulk of his gear weigh heavy. “Just wait until you’ve got us sitting on a pile of dry leads and rotting corpses.”

“Eh, nothin’ we haven’t dealt with before.”

“Focus, you three.” Kate interrupts as Gaz rolls his eyes to himself, fixing his ball cap over his head with a fast flick of his wrist at the antics of the other two. “You’re going to be shipped out at 2000–”

An easily recognizable ringtone starts to play. 

Blinking in surprise, Laswell takes a glance at the table that had been long forgotten and spies her phone buzzing over the metal. Her light brown hair, kept securely tied back, swished at the nape of her neck. She wastes no time.

Briskly walking over, the rest of the men in the room watched intently, heads perked up. Ghost couldn’t stop the pique of interest at the strange behavior, though his form remains still, only making a noise under his breath in contemplation. In the hold of his crossed arms, his fingers tighten.

“Not the person I’d imagine keeps her phone on for just anyone…” Gaz makes a slow comment, and John slides up beside him, hands hooking onto the sides of his combat vest. Watching. 

“Hm,” their command affirms.  

 Kate picks up her phone and immediately answers, brows furrowed. She shifts her weight as an inhalation reverberates. The conversation on the other side was too muffled, a small droaning the only signal that someone was on the opposite.

Unconsciously, Ghost straightens in his chair as the rolled-back sleeves of his undershirt leave his black ink tattoos on display. A deep intrigue spilled in his chest but otherwise, he was still focused on the previous instructions for the next Op. This was just another cog in the wheel, perhaps a location change for their safe house, or an accelerated timeline. No matter, they would get it done regardless–

“Reaper?” Laswell speaks, and blue eyes slide to stare at the Captain, whose legs had tensed. “What’s happened–” 

The Lieutenant knows something was wrong just by the simple fact that he’d never seen their Station Chief talk on her personal phone with that look on her face before – he’d seen it mirrored on the Captain and he’d clocked it from her just as simply. The wrinkled skin at the side of her eyes, and stiff-set lips peeled back in a frown. She’d always been serious, but the air was different. 

Reaper? He runs through the database of his mind and ignores Gaz’s and Johnny’s muttered words and glances. 

“Now who do you think that is, then?” Soap grunts out. Ghost doesn’t answer.

Brows furrow. 

Sounds familiar, the man can’t help but admit. 

“Patch me through. Now.” Kate slips to the computer a few steps away and opens a fresh tab, sorting through files and months of intel as if it mattered just as much as a bug under her heel.

“Kate?” Price prompts. The woman only holds up a finger and keeps the phone in between her shoulder and cheek, hands fast across the keys. 

Soon enough, a feed pops up on the projector, and the three previously sitting all rise to their feet in an instant. 

An open wound is in the process of being stitched and displays itself over the entire available space, violent red internal flesh puckering over the edges of…Ghost narrows his eyes, unphased.

Was that a fabric needle and thread being used for sutures? Resourceful, he admits.

“Bloody fuckin’ hell.” The manchester man levels thought the blandness of the tone contradicts itself. “Where’s this feed from, Laswell?”

“What the fuck…?” Soap growls out, and the Scot blinks at the screen in shock as the Brit beside him lets off a sound of disgust akin to a sick cat. 

“Reaper, sitrep.” Kate doesn’t flinch, rushing off into procedure as steady hands delve back into flesh, blood falling from their fingers like water to splatter to a rundown wooden table. The world-away computer was most likely getting a rain of crimson all over the keys at this rate. 

Price grunts under his breath. 

“Shit,” a distinctly feminine voice wafts out, a harsh sigh held back, though the annoyed tone was noticed immediately, “can’t a girl stitch herself up in peace? Besides, Watcher-1 answer me this, huh?” The computer is jerked, its screen going staticky as Ghost watches with roving eyes to take in the background when the visibility returns. A bed, nightstand, and sitting by the floor of the front door, copious amounts of weapons. The man takes stock – an M13 assault rifle, X12 handgun, and Arctic .50 sniper rifle. Ammunition lines the floor in a way that leaves Ghost’s lips thinning under the mask. 

Someone’s in a hurry. But from what?

“…what goddamn hotel doesn’t have mirrors in it?” Kate’s sigh can be heard a mile away. “No, I’m being serious here, Watcher – how the hell does that happen?” 

Watching you take a step back, Ghost as well as the other three all blink in surprise when you come into view. Your top was off, only a sports bra covering your flesh, as your focus stays on the digging needle you send into yourself over and over. 

Yet again a feeling of intense familiarity strikes the Brit in the chest. Your soft face, your hair, your voice. It was infuriating.

Who are you? The inability to call forth a memory leaves the fists at his sides gradually clenching under his gloves. 

“Reaper.” Seriousness grows in the Agent’s voice, and Price lets out a slow chuckle that leaves Gaz turning to him in confusion. 

“Sir?” But the inquiry is ignored.

“Still as stubborn as ever, then, Reap?” Everyone sees your hurried stitches stop, head snapping up as they clock a veiled panic behind the iris’. 

Your eyes tell all the story they need, and Ghost’s body freezes as the color evokes a physical twitching of his hand. 

“Holy hell,” he utters under his breath so silently no one even realizes he spoke; eyelids pulling back before settling like nothing had even happened.

“You know, you're the first person who’s been nice to me out here.”

“...Then I’d tell you to get better friends, Sergeant. I’m not sticking around.”

“I never said they were my friends, Ghost, and I never expected you to stay, anyways. That’s not how this works.”

“You’re right. It’s not.”

“Bravo-06?” You ask, voice sometimes cutting out over the line. A laugh breaks out, and a small smirk twitches the corners of your lips, “Hey, Old Man, how’s it going over there? Been a while.”

“What have you got yourself into now?” Price asks, chuckling under his breath with a groaned continuation, “and how do you need me to get you out of it?”

The spectral man now watches with a newfound fervency, blue eyes boiling so violently that if anyone had seen, they would have thought he was about to attack. Like a split second of eye contact with a wolf before it rushes. The build of his shoulders was still loose, however, and the only indication of shock was his optics; the mask shrouded all. 

But there was a subtle movement of his hips, feet transferring over the floor to stand shoulder-length apart.

“Oh, this,” you point to your injury with a free finger, tying off a knot on the last line of sutures. “Nah, it’s nothing. A couple of assholes tried to get the jump on me a block back, one had a knife on ‘em.” Your hand tosses the needle and thread to the table, a muttered, thunk, sounding off. Looking down at your work with a raised brow, everyone watches. “Took care of it – they gave me a name, too, but with the trail of bodies I left today, I wouldn’t be surprised if it didn’t pan out.” 

A pause before you turn your head back up, face now completely serious as you focus on Laswell. 

“But we have a bigger problem, Watcher. Rigs is gone; I think my position’s compromised. I’m going black.” Your form leans to the side, and a wrinkled t-shirt is thrown over your head. From your mouth, a stifled groan releases. Ghost blinks in surprise.

The Captain’s lips thin, and he looks at a tight-wound Kate. 

“I have a contact in the lower levels, Reaper, meet up with her and she can have you out of the city by tonight. I’ll send over her info.”

“No can do, Watcher.” You sigh, and Ghost simply stares, following your figure as you back up, heading to the X12 and shimmying it into the back of your pants before looking over your shoulder. Kate hums under her breath. “If they’ve got Rigs,” Walking quickly back over to the computer, one of your hands grasps the top of the frame, thumb poking out from the corner. You tilt your head. “I ain't leaving without him right behind me. I’ll be in contact in a month – if I’m not, then I’m dead already.” 

Your chuckle strikes a cord through the room and Soap snorts in answer. 

“Glass-half-empty kind of person, then?” 

“I’d say,” Gaz mutters.

Continuing, you’re about to say something else – lips already partially parted and breath sucked in  – before your eyes lock onto Ghost. The atmosphere of the room flips like the page of a book. 

You stare at him with what seems to be a million emotions flying past the glossiness of your optics; lids already peeled back and whites showing in a display that showed more than told. The man could only begin to imagine what you were thinking – how long had it been since he’d seen you last? You’d obviously gotten out of your Marines Special Ops unit. 

Not quite how I remember you. It wasn’t hard to recall that small branch of the MRR – Marine Raider Regiment – and how they treated you. But that wasn’t any of his business. He’d been there to do a job, and he’d accomplished it. Quite thoroughly, if anyone would have checked the file after it was all over. 

Ghost’s life was counted in the sands of an hourglass, small, molecular, bits hitting the bottom one after the other; rarely was that time wasted on pointless squabbles and words but at that moment, he was conflicted. 

The Brit had never expected to see you again, and the sand briefly halted when you spoke. Hm. 

Yes, he remembered that voice… he’d just never heard you this confident before. 

“Ghost.” He watches the emotions on your face settle, and he was thankful for the mask covering his visage because he knows he would have left at least a small twitch of his lips slip. “Long time no see.”

“Mutt.” The Lieutenant nods in a monotone greeting but notices a slight jerk of your shoulders at the name. His eyebrows furrow, but mentions nothing as his pulse slows. 

Your neck moves as you swallow, looking to the side as a dark curiosity fills the space in Ghost’s lungs; head nanoscopically tilting to the side like a vulture. 

“Nice seeing you, Bravo-06,” You tilt your head toward the Captain before clearing your throat and addressing Laswell. “I’ll be around.” 

It wasn’t hard to tell that the title had made you freak, a kind of bad cloud suddenly springing to life above your head. 

Seems to bother her more than being in a Hot Zone, Ghost tells himself, the deep well of dark water in his gut still. That didn’t make any sense. He watches your hand slaps over the computer and the feed goes dark in an instant. 

The room is more silent than Ghost is. 

“Kate, she’ll need our help.” Price shakes his head from side to side; body moving to the front of the room. “I’m not asking.” 

The two talk it over as Ghost’s mind trails, head tilting down more towards his chest as his eyelids narrow. 

“Hm,” He grunts, arms tensing as his grip shifts. Soap turns around as Gaz goes to join the conversation between the Captain and the agent.

“What? Know ‘er or something, Lt?” The Scot asks, slapping a hand on the taller man’s arm. Ghost eyes lock on the grip before he blinks, looking back up and leveling the Sergeant with a dead stare. Johnny laughs awkwardly and moves his limb back to his side. “Just…didn’t peg you for the type to start relationships.”

The Lieutenant turns down the aisle of chairs and lets out a bland, “negative. Leave it, Sergeant.” 

Why did you react badly to the namesake you’d gone by for the entire time you’d been in Special Ops? Mutt was when everyone had called you when he had been around for that short time. 

He felt no great concern for you – no hatred or care – you were just another Agent that would probably end up dead like everyone else. Another time, maybe, he’d have gone in a heartbeat, and if the team decided to go after you, he’d follow. A mission was a mission, it wasn’t like it largely mattered. 

But there was something in the back of his mind. Intrigue? Yes, perhaps. The blue-eyed Lieutenant wasn’t one to dwell on these types of things, but a colleague was still a colleague. 

Whatever the outcome, he’d do his job with all the ruthlessness and tact he always did.

Ghost’s hand goes up to fix the position of his mask and glances at the blank projector stream, eyes boring into it as they darken. A moment later, he was leaning against the ammunition crate that Price had previously been on, arms crossed and ears twitching at the ongoing battle of wills; isolated to himself as his intimidating form towers ever upwards. Spine straight. Bones stiff. Eyes grim. 

You’d been nice to him – a person that, for the limited time he’d interacted with, had left an impression that was only just starting to come back full force. Smart and resourceful; not too bad on the eyes. 

He takes down a sigh. Stubborn…but undoubtedly loyal. 

His thumb brushes your cheek, and you look up at him as if he wasn’t the one in a mask – as if his entire being was laid bare before you. He swipes away the trail of blood with one firm press. The gentleness of your skin is known even through his glove.

“You’ll live, Sergeant.” He utters, teasing in his monotone voice, “now, where the hell are we goin’? Gun’s itchin’ to lay a few out.” 

Ghost would have smirked at the way your eyes dilated if he had the ability, but in the end, he brushes past. Because if he hadn’t, you would have seen his own do the same.

‘Reaper,’ he frowns, feeling the ammunition crate dig further into his hip, they never called you that one.

Perhaps the real battle of wills was happening inside of him – not five feet away between his Captain and his Station Chief.

—

You remember every interaction like it was yesterday, and although he might not, you can’t help the memories from flooding as you gather your gear. Stuffing guns into duffel bags and intel into crossbody sacks that weigh you down like boulders. 

Fuck, you open the back window and shimmy out into the back streets, knowing that your position is compromised and not waiting any longer to test your luck. Your side burns something awful; horrible stitches peeling back skin as you groan in pain. What the fuck was Ghost doing with Price? I didn’t know they knew each other. And the two other men in the room…eh. Not the problem right now! 

“I shouldn’t be surprised,” you pant, swinging your legs out of the window frame and sharply inhaling when a suture tears. “I’m never in the loop.” 

In all honesty, you don’t want to be – too complicated. It’s better to just stick around and be told what to do. 

Glaring down at the ground with glazed eyes, you only take a breath of hesitation and let off a curse before dropping. 

Your knees take the brunt of the force, and the ricochets of landing on cobblestones travel up your ankles and leave your legs shaking. If you weren’t running on adrenaline, you would have come up with a dirty joke to mutter to yourself. 

The discomfort can only last so long, you tell yourself, and ignore the spreading liquid on your side, only thinking of Rigs and the mission. 

And Ghost. 

Gritting your teeth, eyes vulnerable, you turn down the backroad and stay away from others, drowning in memories more deadly than blood. It had been a while since you had thought of it – the lockbox in the back of your mind keeping all under tight watch; guard dogs with metal teeth and chained necks. 

But that title; that namesake you’d scrubbed your skin raw over. Mutt and all the others said in cruel breaths. Oh…but Mutt. 

Mutt was the worst of them.

Your hands were vibrating, the tremors traveling up your wrists and arms – past elbows and bruised flesh under skin; bloodied nose and quivering lips. Why did they always yell at you? But worse, why did they always make you do the dirty work? 

The Captain, everyone just called him Alke, was standing in front of you, berating your accuracy on the last round of target practice. Fortunately, this deep into the Unit itself, you’d found a way to let it go in one ear and out the next, eyes as blank as a starless sky. 

You could see the spittle flying from the man’s lips and some even splashes across your cheeks like acid, but there was something artful to the way you didn't react. A culmination of crafted numbness that bleeds like trauma. It was a constant, everlasting, void.  

What they were making you into was not what you wanted, but what possible other option was there? Resign? No, this was nearly an unimaginable position to be in at such an age. You deserve to be here. Should you report the blatant unprofessionalism and favoritism in the ranks? And be blacklisted by these people's friends so that you never ascend the line?

Your ears twitch. 

“...You’re not sleeping until your marks are perfect – else we’re overthinking your position in this Unit. Can’t have a Mutt in our ranks, can we?” The last sentence is punctuated with a ruffling of your hair almost like a brother would; teasing, but you know that isn’t what it symbolizes. Harsh laughs and mocking remarks from the bystanders. “Least of all one that’s gonna get us killed. Tch.” When you don’t answer, staring off in a daze at his nose in a perfect image of formation, the Captain raises an eyebrow. “Affirmative,” he smirks, “Mutt?”

“Sir!” Your mouth shouts, though the action is more instinctual as your back straightens.  He frowns at that, perhaps wanting to torment you more, but huffs and files out, ordering the rest to follow with one last call.

“I expect you to be up for morning drills an hour early. I’ll be checking your shots myself.” 

“Sir!” 

After everyone’s gone, you blink back to reality. There’s a second of confusion, creases forming in your forehead at the sound of birds and blowing glass. Head turning side to side, your lips thin at the absence of others as if only realizing how spaced out you’d actually been. 

Flashing teeth and heated eyes flash through your mind before you blink them away. Signing away the tense nature of your chest, you clear your throat and relax your legs. Your vision slides to the corners of the concrete dugout, snapping past sectioned-off areas for privacy to search if there was someone who might have stayed back. 

Not finding anyone, your hands, clenched behind your back, loosen and fall limp to your sides like bags of rock. One weakly goes to swipe at the trail of blood from your nose, wrecking your already wrinkled sleeve with crimson; but soon an identical trail drips off your chin regardless. Licking your lips and tasting copper, you take a shaky breath and nod to yourself. 

You knew what shooting all night would bring on – lesions under the firing pad covering your shoulder; deep-rooted pain leading to nerve damage later on. Blisters that leak puss and blood onto your bedsheets. Not to mention the mental strain, the bags under your eyes burn from lack of rest. 

Gritting your teeth, you walk over the tossed rifle on the floor and pick it up with shaky fingers, the tips flinching back from the cool metal before encompassing it tightly. 

Silently, you get on your stomach and set the weapon in the crook of your already pain-laced shoulder. Your blood splatters the stock.

—

It had been two weeks with no luck in finding Rigs, and you were starting to get paranoid.

Staring at the dead body tied to the wooden chair, you growl and tear your Dirk from the woman’s chest angrily. 

There had been increased police patrols from all the corpses you were leaving, so you’d compromised and limited the chance of being caught at the same time. 

Bergamo, Italy, was an ancient place, and the underground was what you were now both metaphorically, and physically, exploiting. Sewer systems. Catacombs. You’d lost track of the paths you’d taken a million times over, and had started to hate the constant darkness only kept back by the small hand lamp you’d stolen. 

But there were ups to this constant downward slope. 

It made interrogations increasingly easier to pull off with multiple feet of stone all around you. The screams don’t meet the surface.

“Catello Tullio,” you mutter, caressing your sensitive side with your free hand and placing your blade on a turned-over piece of rock. The area reeks of blood and gore, a stack of bodies chucked carelessly in the corner beginning to reek something awful; even as you have another to add to the count. It wouldn’t be long before the rats came in droves.

Another given name, another score. But this one was new. Apparently, the title of the one that took Rigs while he was out getting more rations in the market. 

You point a finger at the slumped body, “you better hope I don’t find you in hell if you gave me the wrong damn name.” 

Grabbing your light, you stalk off down one side of the tunnel back to your camp, dodging drag lines that strike your eyes with their crimson streaks. 

The raggedy blanket and gun-sack you’d been using for a pillow take form in the dark, and somewhere in the corridor a rat squeals; feet pitter-pattering until it disappears altogether. You didn’t even want to think of the spiders living down here. Files and notes are strewn along the floor, perfect hiding places for eight-legged monsters. 

You couldn’t do anything until nightfall. It was just too risky. 

Massaging your side as you bend down, you grimace at the partially healed wound and scoop up your pistol before plopping to the ground with a grunt. With the deadly object held in your lap, you take a moment to breathe and try to push away a growing headache in the back of your skull. 

“This has to be one of the worst Ops on record, huh?” your small voice speaks back to you in bouncing waves of echoes as you begin to fiddle over the gun's small grooves and dents. “How did you manage this, Reap?”

Smiling blandly, the overwhelming quiet and nothingness all around you is like a curse. And in those pockets of a void, your mind always trails to him – or at least it had been for your time on the run. Ghost. That dark and brooding mass of horribly bleak humor and…well…you couldn’t call him mean. 

Your eyebrows furrow.

He was never mean to me. 

There were soft instances where you would question yourself as to if the Brit had possibly had some affection for you. It wasn’t a long shared history of course, but you had sworn that there was something about the way he looked at you…something that you remember so vividly…

You shake your head and stand after a small while, stretching your feet. Placing your pistol in the back of your belt, the weight brings you dull comfort.

 Shining your light on the hand-held radio on the ground in passing, you rove back to it after you scan the perimeter. Its black metal mocks you.

No one’s coming to help ‘cept you. One voice says, and another grunts out, get it together, Mutt. 

You turn on your heel to go and take a breather to disperse your dark thoughts but only make it three steps before your eyes widen, lips parting in awe. Nearly falling flat over yourself, you whirl around in an instant. 

A static enters the air as if the gods above were laughing at you - toying with your fate like it was a rock tossed to the sky. The familiar British drawl causes your chest to tighten, though the sentence is broken and barely understandable.

Someone’s here for me! A smile slashes your face – fierce hope lighting your eyes. You hadn’t wanted anyone to explicitly come for you, but this was a welcome discovery. Someone to talk to!

“--eper…Copy?” Darting like a cat, you move so fast that you stumble over rocks on the way there. “Lead…cafe…red cloth…Out.”

By the time you snatch the small black object, the garbled and firm tone has already shut itself up. Your mouth parts.

“Shit!” You yell, shaking the thing in your hand with an iron grip, hissing like a snake. You look above you at the cracked ceiling of stone and a growled accusation.“I’m too deep…Fuck. Gotta get up there if I want to be able to respond.”

But it hadn’t all been fruitless. Lead. Cafe. Red cloth. You clip the radio to your belt and make sure your shirt covers your weapon; pat your thigh and tell yourself to stop forgetting your Dirk everywhere before setting off in a jog. The light flashes over dead eyes and stiff bodies.

You snatch the blade off of the stone as you pass it, slipping it into your cut pocket and hearing the satisfying clink of it sheathing.

“Let’s just hope I don’t smell too bad…” You say aloud, chuckling, and listening as the sound echoes off the stone. If no other company, you still had the sound of your own voice. 

You couldn’t decide if that was a good or a bad thing. But, you were getting side-tracked. 

A Cafe with red cloth, then. Not exactly the place you’d go for an intel swap, but if someone had been trying to contact you for more than a week, you’d imagine they were getting desperate at this point. 

If I had known…you frown. 

Thinking over the multiple blueprints and pictures of the city in your files, you go through your internal cabinet of knowledge for color schemes - not what you’d have thought you’d be using it for, but, oh well. A lead was a lead.

“Golositá!” You laugh, sudden glee on your face as you dodge a pile of large stones; lips peeling back as you take a fast corner. “Gluttony! Of course, that’s the place.” 

The bustling business on the upper side of Bergamo with red table cloths as well as red awnings extending into the street. Anyone would be a fool to miss it. 

Like blood lining the street. 

You force yourself to run faster.

—

You met him last, despite being a Sergeant. The Captain had you up late last night yet again – running the forest trail this time rather than shooting. In the back of your mind, you wondered if it surprised him when you were still up early with the others; from the looks that he was giving you, you just decided that, yes, he was. Or he was just pissed he didn’t have an excuse to get rid of you. 

Blinking away fatigue, you keep your stance relaxed as a gargantuan shadow comes to loom ahead of you. 

The man everyone had whispered about called himself ‘Ghost’ and, if nothing more, was certainly intimidating. Shoulders wider than a bench, arms as rounded and as strong as boulders; not to mention the tattoos that made him look like he took cross-country motorcycle rides in his spare time. Tan tactical gear and dark patches for the SAS, the red and white British flag. Gloves covered his large hands, straps carried knives on his biceps and thigh. Something akin to a tan cape that was loose around his hidden neck.

But the mask was what really caught your attention; your head tilting with an innocence that no longer lives in you.

Skeletal. Half a visage of a dead and gone intimidation of humanity. Sewn into a hood of black cloth from which only the eye sockets were open…But the eyes there were no different than if the holes had been empty in the first place; as if the person inside was as dead as sun-bleached bone. Was a corpse piloting this suit?

Ice blue. Freezing blue. Harsh. Colder than a grip of a phantom, you thought as you blinked up at him, colder than the nights you would stay awake working yourself to death. You watched this Ghost’s chest move in a steady inhalation and you stuck out a busted-knuckle hand. Foolish, maybe, but there were worse things to be afraid of than a mask. Then of those eyes that made your spine shiver. 

But you didn’t look away.

“Pleasure, Sir.” There was a moment of tense silence where your Captain, at Ghost’s side, was frowning at you silently. The man could say nothing as long as this SAS member was here to assist in your next Op overseas. At your sides, your colleagues on the tarmac shuffle on their feet like nervous penguins. 

Ghost glances at your hand, and you try not to show how fast your pulse is running when his eyes leave a cold trail as they grace your split knuckles and torn nails. He ends with a slow look at your name patch. 

“Sergeant.” He says and slips past without another word. His shoulder brushes against yours, and you inhale smoke and ash; gun-cleaning solvent paired with a canvas tent. Dirt and metallic blood. Snickers bounce off air particles, striking your ears as an embarrassed heat rises to your cheeks, but that scent stays in your nostrils for days. 

Your Captain scurries after. 

“Erm, forgive, Mutt. She’s a helluva strange woman, that one.” You keep your sneer hidden, a hiss lodged in your throat and a twitching finger. But your anger isn’t directed at the masked beast that stalks away. That yapping bully of a Captain would hold all of it as long as you were here.

At that point, you were sure you’d seen the last of Ghost until the Op – not really getting the feeling he’s a people person so much as a ‘give orders and follow them’ type. 

But that was fine by you, it didn’t change anything. You’d been told to go back to the firing range tonight for opening your mouth and ‘making an embarrassment of the Unit’....whatever that meant. All you did was welcome the guy with the barest hint of a good attitude. 

You supposed manners were a foreign concept around here.

The world ahead of you was blurring, red circles in your eyes that gloss over with water every minute you force yourself to stay awake. The stars were out, sky dark, and the area was only lit by large lights situated around the base. In some sort of strange way, you enjoyed the sound of crickets and the cold breeze over your bare arms as if the only sense of peace you got was when you were half-passed out, nailing shots from a rifle. 

The stock was where it always is, your cheek pressed to the side; staring down the scope at the multiple holes in the paper targets. Dots surrounded by multiple other dots like a slice of cheese. You suppose that made you the hungry mouse in that case. 

‘A mouse with a fucking day before she drops.’ You frown, blink, and pull the trigger as the trees rustle. The force lands directly on your shoulder – the kickback is usually not one to bother you, but seeing as your appendage was one bad day away from being dislocated and forever damaged – you took it with a grit of your teeth. 

And you took it because you knew you could. Just as you knew that you felt a pair of eyes on the back of your neck. Freezing, you remove your finger from the trigger and loosen your grip. Turning your head to the side, a free hand goes up and shifts the ear mufflers from your head to your neck in a single movement. 

You swear your heart jumps to your throat when you see a skeleton’s icy blues numbly watching you; arms crossed while a nice-looking SA-B 50 Marksman Rifle sits against the wall at his side. How…long had he been there? Watching?

“What’re you doing, Sergeant?” Ghost asks sternly, that Manchester accent making him sound harsh. Grating like a rock being run against concrete. “I’m sure your Captain wouldn’t be thrilled at a scene like this, eh?” 

Blinking, you remind yourself to breathe before answering – voice tough and hoarse.

“I have my orders, Sir. You’re free to join me.” 

You turn back as a grunted huff falls from behind muted cloth. Ghost walks up to your laying form, standing on your left side and picking up the binoculars from the hanging hook in your station. As you look back through your scope you don’t know why, but you hold your breath; waiting for something.

“...Not a bad shot. You’re prone to firing more to the right, judging from the grouping. I’d fix that, less you miss a moving target runnin’ the opposite.” He lowers the object - staring from the side of his eye. From your position, your neck cranes to see his fingers twitch. “Wouldn’t want that, would we?” For someone you’d expected to be quite harsh – though you had no doubt he still was – Ghost was more sarcastic in his mannerisms. 

Backhanded comments that wound sting if you got on the other end of them.

“I’ll keep that in mind, Sir.” Shifting your grip, you move the stock farther up your shoulder, feeling an immediate release of tension, though the expansive trauma still leaves needles in your tissue.

“Hm, pay attention and you just might learn something.” You feel yourself quirk a lip for the first time in months; your mouth doesn’t stop to think.

“You mentor a lot of people in the middle of the night, then?” 

“Only the ones stupid enough to be awake.” He takes a step back, going to grab his own rifle as his footsteps don’t even make a sound.

‘Quiet for a guy with thighs that could choke me out.’ 

Your brows furrow at the heated thought, taking a slow breath and flexing your hands as the shadow disappears from over you. Why were your hands sweaty?

Were you…afraid? That…that wasn’t it.

“You’re up too, you know, Sir. Bit hypocritical.” This was the first time you’d had a full conversation with someone since you’d gotten in with this Unit. A mildly pleasant one, at least…you wouldn't really call this bonding.

“I can always leave ya’ to it, Sergeant.” Deadpanning the words, you clear your throat and fall silent at the threat. 

‘No,’ you wanted to comment, ‘no, I want the company so badly it hurts.’ 

You swallow saliva and reposition your ear mufflers back over your head, heart bruising your ribs, as you bring down a calming breath of air to still your nerves. 

The two of you don’t speak again, and you don’t ask why he takes the shooting cubby right next to yours, the nose of his rifle peeking out from the concrete wall. You certainly don’t ask why he’s up, either.

And in return, he doesn’t ask you the same.

—

When you find Golositá you’ve managed to sneak through the city unseen, taking every backroad and alley you could as the heat of the day increases to near sweltering. Panting, you stick to the thin shadows of the path across the street, eyes dancing over red cloth and flicking to faces; studying visages as one would a medical report. 

Your chest hurts, and you run a hand over your side, feeling the raised skin under your shirt before digging into the aching ribs. All this running around and little food to help keep your normal strength was troublesome, and it would only get worse if this Op from hell continued. 

I need new intel. Badly.

About to retreat, not finding anyone you recognize off the bat, a black-shrouded figure kisses the side of your vision as if a phantom. 

On the outside table, the farthest removed, a man sits stiffly with an untouched teacup in front of him. Smirking, you can’t help but scoff at the thought of Ghost using the thing – you’d think his thumb and forefinger would break the delicate porcelain in an instant. Like a spine over his thigh.

Your cheeks heat. 

He looked almost identical to what you remember – minus the gear, obviously – and your stomach twisted at the thought. Was a simple look enough to bring you to the breaking point? Why were your lungs tight?

As if feeling your stuck eyes, those icy blues shift from people-watching to lock onto yours immediately. As hollow as they always were, it seemed. He blinks and the blonde eyebrows on his sliver of visible forehead move.

Shit. Your hips trade weight. Look at you.

Loose shoulders under a rugged buttoned-down and painted balaclava make your breath go thin, not able to resist sneaking a glance at those tattoos you remember so vividly. Yes, that was still Ghost.

Jesus, is this how it felt to see someone you barely even remembered suddenly appear? Was it elation or caution that was making your heart race? 

Ghost doesn’t look surprised. His eyes don’t widen; don’t soften or light up. They blankly watch you as you shake away the shock and raise a brow in return. A sarcastic finger goes to your head, and you mock salute. 

What are you doing? You seem to ask, a mischievous expression growing as you start forward when he dismissively narrows his eyes. You look ridiculous. Are you asking to be spotted? 

The man leans into the too-small chair he sits in, one hand going to hang off the back and the other resting on the tabletop. Gloved fingers tapping morse in slow measures.

Clear. Come here. He follows you with his gaze, head stationary, as you enter the flow of traffic, smiling at people at your sides and letting off polite greetings when you could. Steadily striding, you weave through groups and individuals like water, legs steady even as your ears pick up every little sound. 

A comfortable middle point of visible excitement and strict business. Why were you so…happy?

When you approach Ghost’s table, you slip up beside him with a sly chuckle, pulling out the chair to his right. You, softy, lower yourself down into it, not turning to him but instead simply making sure no one had followed you with a quick scan. His heat only adds to the warmth of the day like a walk through damnation.

“Well, well, well,” you smile, addressing the SAS member with his shadow hanging over you once more; such a heavy thing, though you don’t mind. Your expression mellows to have it above you again. There was a safety to it, you had to admit. The cold comfort of death. “Trip to Italy, Sir? Take a little vacation?”

“Came to bail out a bird from my past,” You smell that scent again – smoke and ash; gun-cleaning solvent paired with a canvas tent. Dirt and metallic blood. “And if I ever went on a vacation, I sure as hell wouldn’t pick this place. ‘Bout to burst into flames; traumatize a few kids and their mums.” 

Hadn’t he changed even a little bit? 

“Now that’s dark.” 

“Never said it wasn’t.”

Of course he hasn’t, you answer your own question, feet shifting and skin pliable, why would he? He isn’t like me – didn’t have to reinvent himself based on atoms and in the wake of silent nights. 

There was a piece of you that believed that Ghost had always been this way, though you knew it was false. Nobody in this profession was just born like this, they were led to it. Whoever it was under the mask or balaclava didn’t matter anymore. 

They had died a long time ago.

“Not a fan of the history, Brit?” You tease, bringing up a hand to itch at your undereye, finally taking a peak at the form that nearly swallows you. 

Your lids try not to peel back, but you didn’t realize how close you’d sat next to Ghost – any closer and you would be in the crook of his arm; the relaxed spread of his knee bumping into yours and arm over the back of your seat. Trying to act nonchalant, you ignore the strange swirling in your gut with a hum and a twitching of your leg.

Stop that.

“Don’t care a smidge, just not a fan of the damn heat.” The gruff man responds with his inked arm on the table flexing, as though he was tenser than he showed. Ghost clears his throat, “needs a good downpour, eh?” 

“Try living underground for two weeks. Literally. Sun’ll feel like a blessing.”

“Fuckin’ hell…That’s why the radio wasn’t working, then.” While this was all cute – re-learning each other like a shaken puzzle – there were dangers to being this open. The Brit would be fine, but if you got spotted, well, there would be worse things to worry about than an achy side and a pile of bodies in a tunnel.

“You got something for me, or are we here just to stand out like bullet holes in a forehead?” Feeling his head tilt to you, snaking down your form, your body leans forward, palms sweaty as they lock on the table. “Price with you? The other two I saw on the feed?”

“Negative. Op in Belarus. Sent me in alone.” Your knees brush, delicately; like a touch of down feathers. You refrain from taking in a shallow breath, knowing he’s analyzing every movement with a hidden mouth and gentle huffs of air that rises his sculpted chest. Through a grunted sigh, Ghost tells, “The Old Man insisted. Laswell thought you’d be alright by yourself, regardless,” and falls silent.

What was he doing? Why was he talking with that rasp in his tone? Your heart swells at the comment about Kate, but a confusing feeling settles in your lower body. Why did the air feel thick?

The warmth of the sun was making your skin perspire, leaving a sheen of sweat over your arms. But the thought of heat stroke fled as you became hyper-aware of the man beside you, keeping careful not to touch you, though his gaze still bore into the side of your face like prodding fingers anyways.

He can’t quite figure you out, he admits to himself. So much of you was different – and he couldn’t tell how. 

She’s lighter, he tightens his face, not the same as when I left. 

But there had been an utter satisfaction when he’d seen you in that alleyway, even if you were different in a million ways, that would never change. Ghost’s body had loosened, his clenched jaw let go, and snappy answers to servers stopped entirely. 

Because those were still the same colored eyes that he remembered. He takes a long breath. 

Through the haze under your creased skin, a red alarm starts to sound off. Not because of the confusing way you felt the chilled form of Ghost on a near internal level, but because of the hooded individual across the street.

When your eyes lock, they back up three paces and bolt down the adjacent street, vanishing into the crowd. Your expression darkens, and Ghost shifts his attention from your face to the streets. 

His eyes blankly follow where you were looking.

“Come on,” you get to your feet, hand snatching at the SAS member's sleeve, dragging him with you as a mother would a toddler. It was ironic – if he resisted, you wouldn’t be able to force him to move, not in a million years, but he slid off his chair with fluid muscles. 

He doesn’t question you when he’s brought into an offshoot of the road, vacant of tourists or locals besides a stray cat and a few scavenger birds. Flies jump off garbage cans, buzzing through the air above your heads as you level Ghost with a serious stare. 

You nearly stumble over your words when you get to look at those long blonde eyelashes that you remember heatedly, but push through as they move to half-lid his blank eyes. Your heart skips beats as you spare looks up and down the space.

What the fuck is going on with me? Focus. This is serious. 

But, Jesus, he should really stop looking at you like that.

“You said you had a lead over the radio – anything on someone called Catello Tullio by chance?” You ask, voice like stone.

“Tullio?” Ghost hums in the back of his throat, all business, hips moving under him as he goes to glance at the street. His balaclava moves as he speaks. “Someone made a mention of it. ‘Fore I put a knife in ‘em, ‘o course.” Nodding, he huffs out, “On me.” 

Turning on long legs, he starts to walk farther down the path, and you follow at his side, peering up and eager to gain more intel. “You’ve caused quite a panic around here, Sunshine. Cell’s terrified of the ‘Reaper.’ I’m nearly impressed.”

He briefly flashes an optic to you, heart betraying him as he remains locked on your lips. Rotating his jaw, he turns back forward.

“Oh, my,” smirking slowly, you roll your eyes, “whatever will I do without your approval, great Ghost.”

“Dunno – kick the bucket probably.” Shaking your head in false annoyance, the slow, mocking, stain in the man’s tone leaks into your very DNA; coating it with honey. Like a warm sunrise, you clock a small hitch in his chest and equate it to muted chuckles when you laugh. 

“Don’t go placing bets, now. I’m not so easily broken.”

“Oh, wouldn’t think of it, Sweetheart. Wouldn’t be my handiwork if it happened,” his tone goes light, “don’t wanna take credit away from you.”

“Brit.” You spit with fake venom.

“American.” He grumbles back, but you clock the small spark in his iris, cold blue bouncing silver light like snow. 

He sounded…entertained? Snide in a sarcastic way. 

Your mouth rises in a stupid, dopey, grin as you stare from the side of your vision, chest jumping in easy comedy. What a strange pair you two were, but you find you liked his company even more, this time around. 

Or maybe he had changed slightly. Or maybe it was just you.

At the end of the day, you were relieved that it was easy to talk to him. Conversations with corpses are a bit one sided, after all.

Ghost’s lips had to be at least quirked under that dark fabric to achieve mischief like what he was spitting out, you leveled with yourself. At the minimum, the man wasn’t annoyed he’d been forced out of his own primary mission because of you. 

You remember he wasn’t averse to cracking jokes – particularly dark ones – but it had…it had never felt like his before.

Strange, you admit with a raised brow and a cocked head, cheeks burning for no apparent reason. You’d gotten him to chuckle? Holy hell, you deserve a Nobel Peace Prize for that. I’d think he would be pretty pissed about being sent here. He’s never been one to fuck around. 

You both continue in easy silence until you decide to speak once more, intent on asking where you were being led. 

Ghost’s head had perked up in what you assumed to be soldier-like attention, but then his head had whipped behind the two of you. Oblivious to his shift in mood, like a dark cloud, you open your mouth.

“Well, where are we–” 

“--Get down!” Hands slap on the back of your arm and jerk you to the opposite wall as a loud echo rings out. Whizzing over your head so close that you feel the breeze of it. 

Gasping, the air is expelled from your lungs in one fell swoop; your spine grating over the rough stone as your legs scramble to keep upright. Wiping away the shock quicker than an eraser over a whiteboard, your neck snaps to the problem; brain already hardwired to get over being shot at and the adrenaline that floods your veins immediately after. 

Across the way, Ghost’s fast hand was reaching to the back of his outfit – without a doubt going to grab a concealed weapon. Eyes fiery and arms tight. And as though you were seeing it happen in slow motion, you lock onto the hostile in the middle of the alley back the way you both came. And then onto the hooded silhouette ahead of you. 

Boxed in. 

Hyperfocused, all of it happens in only three seconds, two trained professionals protecting each other without even realizing it. 

One, you realize how this will have to play out if you don’t act immediately. You don’t know how you can trust Ghost to take the other hostile while you focus on the one ahead, but you don’t question it. Two, your gun lays heavy in your hand as your legs pivot. Three, you fire double shots with a loose finger and hear mirrored gunfire from the man beside you. 

You don’t bother watching him drop.

Snapping your head backward with a rageful expression to see Ghost’s corpse hit the floor with a cracking of a skull, shouts start to ring over the city. When you lower your weapon, you turn to notice the Birt examining your own downed hostile with a satisfied stare. If you hadn’t had his back, he would have been shot in it. 

But what you didn’t know was that he was thinking the same thing about you. 

Turning to stare at each other, your widened eyes lock; fingers twitching along the cool X12’s metal as those stormy iris’ only seem to darken further when they dart to your lips. Like staring into a wild animal’s gaze and pretending you’re not in a trance because of it – stuck in that moment of infinity and nothingness with not a single muscle moving. Waiting for either a mouthful of fangs around your supple neck or for the beast to turn away with grace and practiced steps. 

You swore Ghost’s mouth parted under that damned balaclava, but whatever he was going to say was lost when the world came back in a violent storm of screams. Panicking, you gape at the entrance – seeing multiple shadows shoving through the crowd to get to you.

“On me!” Keeping your pistol in one hand, you bolt, hearing heavy footsteps pounding behind you as your mind begins to run.

Ghost trails without a single doubt in his mind as to why he’s following you, and it makes him cautious. 

Catacombs, you decide, get under the city and backtrack to the outskirts. Survey and have Ghost tell me his intel before making a move…yeah! 

“Where are we headin'?!” Ghost shouts, keeping right your heels as you turn corners. Gunshots ring over your heads as you jump up small groupings of tile steps, blood pounding in your ears. You try to remember the maps you had stored in your files underground. Left…no, two rights. Shit! I need to be higher – see the streets like a bird would! “Reaper?!”

“Do you trust me?!” You call over your shoulder, and though it seems deranged, a smile forms over your lips. “I’ll need an answer in the next few minutes, yeah? I’m on a time crunch!” 

“What are you on, Girl?” The adrenaline speaks to you, propelling your legs faster and faster. You vault over a fallen trash bin and take the shock to your ankles as it travels to your thighs. Snickering, you feel the brooding man’s presence like you always could – just beside you like a loyal hound. His focus excites you as you put your gun away in the small of your back. “Bloody hell! Not giving me a choice?”

“Not if you don’t want to get shot in the ass!” Taking one more right, you find yourself rapidly approaching a dead end, tall walls, a balcony, and a large dumpster – the flap already closed overtop. Not answering the man as he barks out a comment, you throw yourself atop it with a puff of breath and spasming lungs. 

Laughing, your hands don’t falter. Reaching up with eager fingers, you grab at the black metal front of the balcony a small distance above and suck down a hot breath. Your arms strain, sickly sweet sweat on the top of your lip, and eyes wide with glee despite the gaining footfalls rising like a battlefield cry. Jerking your body up with only your upper-body strength, you slide your abdomen over the railing with barely a second passing. Once your feet are firmly on someone's property, you twist around and slap your hands to the metal with a twinkle in your vision; face wrinkled with all the animated amusement. 

A wide grin is stuck on you.

Ghost stares up with slightly widened eyes from the ground, arms poised on the garbage bin.

Oh, hell, when she smiles like that…

“But I can’t judge, can I?” Teasing, you extend a helping grip with a smirk. “Everyone has their fetishes, hm, Ghost? Maybe yours is just having a gun pointed at you.” 

He blinks at that, but knowing the urgency in the back of your throat, he pushes himself up with a grunt. You try not to watch his muscles strain, but spy the way the veins in his forearms grow larger as his alluring hips flex. They situate themselves under him as he crunches before straightening in an instant. 

Fuck, don’t drool, you scold, lips lightly parted like seven devils were flying in the back of your mind. Jesus, imagine the weight those things can carry…shit. Wouldn’t mind losing my virginity to that. 

A leather-coated hand slaps into your awaiting one. You snap back to a screaming reality and stare down into hypnotic sheens of ice and…wait…did Ghost have fucking green flecks near his pupils?

“You sure it isn’t yours, Sunshine?” He harshly comments, and his balaclava moves with a rising of his eyebrow. 

Clearing your throat, you murmur a weak reply as your face begins to feel like a blazing fire, squeezing his limb before pulling. He chuffs. Grunting violently, you know he does most of the work in helping himself up, though the Brit still slaps your shoulder in comradery when he’s stable. Kneeling down, he forces himself into the wall behind the two of you, fingers weaving to create a cuff over his knee. 

Tossing his head up, he motions with urgency.  

“C’mon. Be quick ‘bout it.”

Catching one foot in the basin of his clutch, you force down your illicit thoughts about Ghost and jump, pushing off with your opposite leg on his shoulder and his added boost. Scaling the wall, you arch and scramble - with a growing bite in your side – to the terracotta-shingle roof.

Following after and checking your six, the beast of a man joins just in time. 

Shadows dart around the corner far on the ground, and the both of you are speeding animals over the rooftops in the meantime. Against better judgment, boots pounding the tiles, you release loud bouts of genuine laughter. 

How long had it been since you’d had such fun? Enjoyed someone else's company like this? Running across homes, you look at your side, only to find Ghost’s eyes already digging into you. Unrelenting. Unmovable. Panting, you smile brightly, giggles making your sides hurt something awful but your pace doesn't slow for an instant. 

All it took was a glance at the streets – you know where you are now. 

“Enjoying yourself, Reaper?” He asks, arms pumping and barely winded, and you wonder for a moment how he breathes under that covering of his – it had to smell horrible by the end of the day.

“For…the first time in ages, Ghost.” He chuckles at that, and it is a betrayal of his nature. How could someone so violent, so cloaked in oceans of blood, produce such a soft sound? A genuine sound that makes your stomach flip? 

His bewitched eyes rove back in front of him, and he can’t deny the simplicity of speaking to you. It wasn’t a chore, just a conversation with a person who he wouldn’t mind having on 141 at his side. 

There were few people worthy of that.

You swallow thickly and take point, leading the shadow of death to your home underground so you can re-evaluate. 

You can only wonder why you don’t feel nervous as he watches over you, skin marked with horrors but his hand had fit so well in your own. And you also wonder how you can come to care for someone you haven’t seen in ages so quickly, as if you’d both been around each other for years. 

Had you really ever forgotten him? Or just tried to push the affection, both emotional and physical, for him out? But that was the problem, you tell yourself with a clenched jaw, that physical attraction. All of that was just…tied into a million knots. Complicated. 

You’d never had sex before.

And, Ghost questioned himself as he watched your legs move, did he forget you out of necessity? Because those eyes of yours won’t leave him alone, and he so very much enjoyed looming over you.

He sighs heavily and follows in silence.

—

When you first joined them, they all created rumors. This was long before you were permitted solo Ops, long before half of your file was filled and bleeding with black ink that would shame a warlord. When everyone just thought you were signed up because you were some unhinged kid, brimming with unchecked problems and willing to throw everything away just for the chance to prove yourself. Who got into it for kicks. 

They would say you enjoyed it, killing. Reveled in it, really. That it got you off when you were covered in blood and crimson guts as they pooled at your feet. 

You suppose that was what turned you away from sex in general – those heavy comments said with no remorse that stuck with you. It was fear almost, a genuine twisting of your mind to make it your fault. It wasn’t your fault, you knew that; you could sleep with anyone you wanted and the comments weren’t a brand on your skin.

You could forget about it. You should. 

But the words were so mean. Just cruel for the sense of being cruel. And it stuck with you.

If that was all anyone would see, why try and force them to look away? You kept to yourself, never spoke unless spoken to, and shoved all of it down like a kill switch. No sex, no relationships. Nothing to make you think about the rumors. 

Getting off on death? You were horrified at the concept, horrified that people would play around like that with you – with your life!

You just ended up telling yourself you wouldn’t feel it until it hurt too bad. In a way, you were right…but you can only force emotions down for a while until they break forward like a fist to the mouth. 

Besides Mutt, they had many names for you – titles and backhanded monikers. Rabid. Demon. Devil. Monster. Sometimes, beast.

But they all had the same meaning. Inhuman. Wrong. 

It shouldn’t have bothered you that much. It…It shouldn’t have made you stay up at night still thinking about the way they would laugh and pinch your arms as you were left shaking; drowning in gore not your own because they sent you into the heart of the Hot Zone for a few jokes. Teasing you about how you probably touched yourself because of it.

But it was just an excuse to make you too scared to leave. Your reputation…

“There’s that Devil for ya’, always ready to slit some more throats for us. You think you could do the next few, Mutt? You’ll love it, I know you will. I’ll give you a good report if you do it without alerting the guards – see there… ‘Course you will. Fucking freak.”

Your eyes stare forward blankly, Dirk leaving a dotted fluid trail over the dusty ground.

Why did they do this to you? 

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[dana-chan-the-control-brain]

Reading that post about Eclipse confuses me because my mindset about him hasn’t changed even with the tragic backstory (mainly because we were shown his bad actions first). Yes, it was sad that Moon left him in Sun’s head, but it does NOT excuse what he’s done after that. And I know he also said, “So why do I still care?” when he had slapped Lunar (which almost made me want to root for him to change), but he shoved that feeling down and continued on his dark path.

Honestly I never thought Eclipse was that big a threat.

Maybe it's the nature of a VR RP show, but all Eclipse did was monologue about how much Sun and Moon suck and he wants them to suffer.

The only real crimes he actually did was, idk, abuse his two creations and cause everyone in the Pizzaplex to think Sun and Moon were bad guys.

Other then that, his real crime is monologuing for too long and everyone panicking about what he possibly COULD do, rather then what he actually did.

Eclipse is kind of the reason that the Killcode thing became a problem and that Moon had to wipe his memories. But that was more of an unintended byproduct of anything. As we find out, Eclipse got big sad when Moon didn't know who he was.

Eclipse is also the reason July 16th massacre happened, but again, that was more of an unintended byproduct of him building BloodMoon just for the sake of having company and someone as "evil" as him.

To me, Eclipse read more as "Team Rocket" evil, rather then Marvel evil, like they were trying to go for.

Everything that is true evil he does, is always on accident.

And everything that is evil with intent, isn't that bad in the grand scheme of things. Not that I'm justifying his abuse to Lunar, but realistically, that's about all he did. (Well, and the maternity chip with Roxanne...which in retrospect, is kinda a subplot that went nowhere. But I don't like how they write Roxanne in the SBshow verse anyway)

Maybe I am way older then the target demographic for this silly YouTube show,

But I never understood Eclipse as a threat in his own show. In a narrative sense, and how other characters perceived him.

He was just a Cheeto who liked listening to himself talk at the end of the day, that everyone perceived as a threat cus he liked to burn ants for fun.

@ayyy-imma-ninja @twinanimatronics

#tsams #sun and moon show #danachan's replies

[tossawary]

One of the statements made during the “Is Shen Qingqiu possessed?” meeting between the peak lords is that it doesn’t make sense for him to be possessed because possession is done with a goal and Shen Yuan does fuck all.

Unable to resist, he said, “Wait. He... couldn’t have been possessed, could he? Wei-shixiong, how is your sword trials terrace? Did he visit?”

At the sword trials terrace of Wei Qingwei’s Wan Jian Peak, there was a mystical sword known as Hong Jing, which no person had ever been able to draw. But if something like a resentful soul or evil spirit were to approach the blade, it unsheathed of its own accord. If Shen Qingqiu really had been possessed by some impure creature, as long as he approached the sword trials terrace, Hong Jing would emphatically sound the alarm.

However, Wei Qingwei said, “He went three times and tried to draw it every one, and there was absolutely no sign of movement.”

“There is no demonic energy in his body,” Yue Qingyuan said slowly. “I could detect no signs that he has been possessed.”

Qi Qingqi spread her hands. “It doesn’t make any sense for him to be possessed. Possession at least involves some sort of goal. But he hasn’t been doing anything; he’s even more idle than before.”

- SVSSS, Volume 4, Chapter 26: Airplane Extras

Mu Qingfang is the one to suggest that the qi deviation caused memory loss and Yue Qingyuan is the only one who wants Shen Qingqiu to recover any memories. Someone straight-up says that this is an improvement.

Having reached the verdict, “The Qing Jing Peak Lord has lost his memory; celebrate and spread the joyful news,” the meeting adjourned.

- SVSSS Volume 4, Chapter 26: Airplane Extras

Ouch.

#tossawary svsss #tossawary rereads svsss #shen yuan #shen jiu #shen qingqiu #shang qinghua #mu qingfang #qi qingqi #wei qingwei #yue qingyuan #qijiu

[harmonyindark245]

Character Hate

This is 100% a rant and you don’t have to agree with me, but I really needed to talk about it. I’ve been trying to distance myself from the ACOTAR fandom because of all the toxicity, but I always find myself drawn back, especially with the new books coming out and everything. There is a big difference between hating and disliking. And I understand disliking certain characters because they don’t sit right with you. But one thing that I cannot fathom, is the hatred. Why has everyone decided to hate on characters that aren’t our favorite? I just wanted to point out a few specific characters. 

Rhys 

He’s secretly evil. Really? Did you all not read the first three books? I get the argument that we only see him from Feyre’s pov, but even Feyre disliked him until we found out his truth. Also, can we talk about the absurdity of this claim? The man who was SA’d for FIFTY YEARS, who hasn’t even shared his trauma with his MATE because he doesn’t want to burden her with it. The man gave it all up for his friends, family, and PEOPLE. As an Elriel shipper, I was pissed at Rhys for interrupting them, but I GET IT. He wasn’t sure if he was going to survive, if his mate was going to live. Then there was all the other drama that was happening. Of course, he wouldn’t want one of his close friends going out and dueling with the son of a high lord (and technically heir of a whole court). And at the start of ACOSF, Rhys has every reason to hate Nesta, and I don’t think that needs to be justified. And in HOFAS, as a High Lord, he again had every right to be pissed. I just feel like sometimes you guys forget that as well as being a part of their family, he’s also the High Lord of the Night Court.

Nesta

Yes, I will admit that she’s not a good person. But she worked through it. She went through traumatic experiences, that if anyone of us goes through, we would probably behave the same way as she did. But she worked on herself. She healed. She became a Valkyrie. Nobody could hate Nesta more than she hates herself. And I admit that I could never completely love Nesta because as someone who has been in a position that Nesta had been, I can’t even imagine letting my younger sister go through all of that to keep us alive. It’s a completely personal reason, because I would do anything for my sister, and the way Nesta didn’t do anything when they most needed it will always anger me. But I still admire her for how she tried to bring herself back. Because it’s not easy. Feyre was also the same when she was depressed and she also worked on herself. Even though I don’t like Nesta, she does not deserve the hate she gets. 

Feyre (?!)

If you hate Feyre, you probably should’ve stopped reading around the second book.

Elain

What is it with people hating on Elain? I never understood how you can hate someone who has done NOTHING to ANYONE. The only possible reason people could hate Elain is because she happened to like a boy. It’s not as if she didn’t want to help out with the court. She even apologized to Feyre. She even took part in the war. So what is the problem with her? Just because she doesn’t like Lucien and likes Azriel she deserves to be hated upon? She’s boring? She can’t give birth to Azriel’s kids? Is that really what we’re getting to? Again, I can understand disliking her because she wasn’t helpful during the cabin, or maybe because she was rude to Nesta or whatever, but hating her for such feeble reasons? Let’s not forget that it was Elain who convinced Nesta to let Feyre and the three unknown Fae males inside their house and offer it up as a meeting place.

Gwyn

Just because a group of people want to ship Gwyn with Azriel doesn’t mean that other people have the right to hate her. She has done NOTHING wrong. She hasn’t even shown interest in the man. She has her things she’s going through and she is also trying to heal. There has been not a single action done by her yet that deserves the hatred she gets. As an Elriel shipper, I will admit some people unnecessarily try to bring Gwyn down. 

Fans

We are all the same. We read this amazing series by SJM and love the characters and dynamics and want to talk about it share our thoughts and theories and write pieces of fiction for others to enjoy. It’s vile how many hate comments are passed around in this community. You enjoy what you love, and let others enjoy what they love. You don’t need to prove your likes by bringing other people and characters down. You may not realize it, but some of us relate to our favorite characters, and when you say hurtful things against the character, it truly feels like a personal attack. The main reason why I couldn’t stay in the fandom anymore was because of the claims that Elain didn’t deserve to be with Azriel because she couldn’t have his kids. As someone suffering from PCOS and might not be able to have kids, that statement always breaks my heart. Do people think that just because a woman can’t have kids she doesn’t deserve love? There are so many examples of such small claims causing hurt to the fans, which is not what fandoms are for. 

And with that, if you have something negative to say about my rant, then please keep it to yourself. 

#acotar #rhysand #feyre archeron #nesta archeron #elain archeron #gwyneth berdara #elriel #acomaf #acowar #acofas #acosf

[questionablequeeries]

Free Space (Too Far Gone? by Metallica)

Day 0

“Absolutely not. We need to put it outta its misery.” Hopper insisted as they recovered in the Harrington home. He grimaced when the sound of screeching and thrashing sounded from the basement, and Steve would have found the expression almost humorous any other day.

“He’s not an it!” Dustin protested, “And we didn’t abandon Will! We don’t leave party members if they can be saved!”

Nancy sighed, taking a gulp of water to gather her thoughts before she spoke, “Will was savable. Eddie is…Is he even Eddie anymore? He didn’t drop when the other democreatures did, but that doesn’t mean anything.”

“It means everything!” Dustin’s voice got a little louder, “I don’t know what final boss battle you guys were watching, but Eddie, El, and Will did most of the heavy lifting!” While tentacles (vines? Whatever, either way Steve wanted to pretend that hadn’t happened) pinned them down, Eddie had turned on Vecna. He’d bared his fangs and lunged, catching the monster offguard enough for Eleven to mindblast the vines (vines aren’t slimy. Definitely tentacles) off of herself. He had even caught a tentacle (but tentacles imply they’re attached to something and the majority weren’t. So…vines?) through the chest for his trouble. Apparently whatever had been done to him made him heal faster, so yay for small miracles.

“He’s staying.” Steve finally spoke up, “Hop, with all due respect I won’t hesitate to do what it takes to protect him.” His voice was even, the ‘from you’ left unsaid but still understood.

Hopper paused before he sighed, “We do this, you aren’t taking care of him alone. The second he becomes too much of a danger…”

“He won’t.” Steve said firmly. They would make it through the night and pull his heart into the day.

Day 1

“Wow, you look bad.” Robin grimaced at the sight of her platonic soulmate absolutely drenched from head to toe.

Steve sighed as he wrung out his shirt, “I had El restrain Eddie so I could chain him up.”

“And that required you to take a swim first?” Robin arched an eyebrow as she walked into Steve’s bathroom and gathered a few towels.

“It was for a bath. He hasn’t had one since at least three days before he died.” Steve grumbled, drying himself off, “I know he’s not exactly Eddie right now but the moment he remembered he had wings was the most Eddie thing I’ve ever seen.” He’d watched as Eddie had gone from thrashing in the plastic pool they’d brought down to flapping a tidal wave in Steve’s general direction, making an almost pleased sort of chirp. The bastard had even looked smug, and it was annoying, but it was all the proof he needed that Eddie still lived, was more than an attack dog. It was progress.

Day 10

“So, um, the party’s gonna deal with Acererak, but the twist is that he’s the DMNPC that’s been traveling with them.” Will explained his next campaign, glancing over to Eddie. The man had to be restrained when people were with him, and the kids needed an adult by their side, but he couldn’t help thinking that maybe the vampire wasn’t so bad. After all, being changed by the Upside Down didn’t mean you were automatically evil, just…different.

Steve smiled softly. He was pretending to read a magazine to give them some privacy, but he heard the curious chirps Eddie was making, the inquisitiveness spoken in a language Steve was starting to learn, and he couldn’t help speaking up, “I think he wants to know more.”

Will’s eyes lit up, “Okay, the big reveal’s gonna be at the end of the tomb…”

Night 35

Steve was woken up by screeching, mournful and terrified. He booked it downstairs so fast he nearly fell down the last steps. He saw Eddie in his little nest of sweatshirts he’d taken from Steve, wings wrapped around himself and brows furrowed, fighting some horrors his own mind had created. Without hesitation, Steve climbed into the nest and laid there, pulling Eddie into his arms and brushing his hair back, “It’s okay,” He whispered, “You’re not alone.”

Day 63

Dustin was sat right next to Eddie, reading from The Hobbit, when he felt a wing wrap around him, startling him out of the paragraph, “You okay? Do you need something?”

Steve grinned, “I think that’s mostly because he can’t do it with his arm.”

Eddie let out a confirming chitter.

“Let’s let him out!” Dustin undid the chains before he could be stopped though, considering it was just he and Steve, there wasn’t really a voice of reason there.

Eddie froze when he was freed, looking around the room as if this was a trap, a trick, and a soft whine pulled from his throat.

“No, it’s okay. Like this, see?” Dustin demonstrated by wrapping an arm around Eddie’s stomach.

Eddie hesitated before he rested a clawed hand on Dustin’s curls and ruffled them. What startled both Steve and his semi-child was the purr that rumbled from the vampire’s chest.

Day 86

Steve walked downstairs with breakfast. They’d found that Eddie could eat normal things but that most of his nutrients came from blood, so the adults had been donating when they could. Thankfully, he only seemed to need to be fed once a day, with Steve giving him human food the rest of the time. He frowned when he heard what sounded like hissing, an incessant ‘s’ sound, “What is it? You okay?” He asked in concern, setting down the cup and approaching his vampire.

Eddie let out an annoyed sort of grunt then continued hissing, shaking his head.

Steve crouched down in front of Eddie, resting a hand against his cheek, “What’s wrong? Do we need El?” Because Eleven was the only one who could communicate with Eddie better than Steve through her static blindfold mind powers (and Steve totally wasn’t jealous, no, why would he be? Totally fine with someone else speaking to his Eddie, totally chill and cool)

Eddie growled, hissing louder, until he stopped and took a deep breath. Robin had been teaching him how to control his emotions, though hers were mostly panic attack related. He leaned into the touch, closing his eyes, “SSSSSStevie.” He whispered.

Steve felt tears spill out, instantly throwing himself at Eddie, “Yeah, Baby, it’s me.” He murmured into a cold neck that still felt so familiar, “Welcome home.”

@steddie-week You can read the entire week here!

#stranger things #eddie munson #steve harrington #steddie #robin buckley #dustin henderson #creature eddie munson #fanfic #nancy wheeler #kas eddie munson #will byers #jim hopper #stranger things fic #steddieweek2023 #questionable writes

[em1e]

⠀ ⠀ ༝ i’m trying to be cool about it. feelin’ like an absolute fool about it. 

夏 // COOL ABOUT IT ⠀ ༝ ༝ geto suguru ⠀ ༝ ༝ 2.2k words ⠀ ⚠︎ angst :3 this is a sort of interactive story - at the end u get to pick ur own ending ! choose wisely ! ⠀ — it infuriates you beyond belief because that place hasn’t felt like home in months, and somehow he never noticed.

the temperature around you was dropping considerably fast - your ability uncontrollable at the best of times, but with the ground below you digging uncomfortably into your shoulder, into your chin, it’s easy to agree that this is not the best of times.  

and that’s not the reason you were shaking. 

“don’t hurt them.” you don’t recognize your own voice from the way it trembles, the way it breaks as the sorcerer steps in front of the cage holding the two girls you’ve spent the last few years taking care of. 

since their parents passed and they had no one, you were there for them; since the village went on a witch hunt and punished the three of you, you were there for them. 

and now, as this long-haired jujutsu sorcerer kneels in front of you, head tilting as he takes in your beaten form, you are here for them. 

“i-i’ll take all the blame, please, they didn’t do anything-” 

you whimper when something is shoved into the small of your back, fighting against the restraints keeping your hands together as one of the men from this godforsaken village places a heavy footed boot against it. 

“shut up, bitch. we know you taught them to be evil like you - like their parents.” someone behind you hisses out. 

“ple-ase.” you beg again, ignoring the protests your body screams against speaking more, against your better judgment to just shut up for once. desperation leaking out of the words for the girls. your girls. 

the man stands, towering over you and the men from your village at his full height. and he says those damning words. 

“what exactly is this?” 

⠀ ༝ ༝

he shelters the three of you after. 

provides a home and safety and warmth you hadn’t felt in ages, and the girls settle far easier with him than you do. 

still timid and shy, antsy when he approaches, but it melts away gradually when you see how good he is with them - how kind he is to you, too. patient. waiting until you’re comfortable with him, and that comfortability comes with ease as time goes on. 

until you’re not quite sure how to label what you share with him, but you know deep down you love him as much as you love your girls, and he seems to share that same sentiment and that is enough to move you forward, for you to follow in his shadow at his beck and call, ready to serve with an adoring glint in your eye when he asks anything of you. 

he helps you care for the twins, filling a void you could never compete with as the pair to your paternal figure for them. aides them in places you can’t with schooling and learning how to use their techniques better. it’s bittersweet watching from a distance as they grow older and begin to favor him to you. 

you, the rule maker, the party pooper, the square, the wash your hands before eating and set the table, the clean your rooms or no screen time, the no going out until your chores are done not faring well against geto’s rule breaking, party starting, fun to be around, go ahead and dig in, you don’t have to clean your rooms now, the chores will be here when you get back. 

and it’s infuriating as they become teenagers. because the older they get, the more argumentative they are, the quicker they are with retorts, words flying off their tongues before you can really get your say in anyways. 

“i asked geto and he said we could go, i don’t know why you’re being so sour about it.” nanako pops her gum loudly as you rub at your temples, the start a headache already seeping its way under your skull. 

“because i said so.” is the only argument you can come up with. because you did say so. because it’s been a week since geto’s been home and you want to have a nice family dinner and a game night like you used to when they were little, but those words don’t hold the same weight as they did back then. the twins share a look before nanako rolls her eyes and mimiko sighs heavily. 

“but geto said-” 

“said what?” the aforementioned male steps into the kitchen as if being summoned, arms wrapping around your shoulders and leaning down to press a quick kiss to your temple. 

you lean into the contact, far more tired than you originally thought. maybe a nap would be good before you started dinner- 

“that we could go to the mall then that new udon place downtown.” mimiko hums out, hopping on the counter and swinging her legs despite the many times you’ve told her there were chairs all around, surely she can find one to sit in. 

“oh,” geto’s eyes flit from you, then to the girls “yeah, i did say that.” 

“but (y/n) says we can’t.” nanako groans out, leaning into her palm with her elbow on the counter. she says your name with such venom, it almost leaves you recoiling, opening your mouth to comment on it but deciding one argument is too many for the day. choose your battles wisely, or whatever the saying is. 

“i did say that.” you agree instead, stare heavy on the two and sure that you will be labeled the victor since geto is here and they listen to him when he speaks and he sometimes listens to you when he sees how important things are to you-

but then he’s squeezing at your hip, nodding his head towards them with a small shrug. 

“we should let them go, yeah?” 

and that’s enough to leave it all crashing down. because geto has said his piece and what he says goes. mimiko hops off the counter, excited, while nanako rushes over to pull geto in a hug, saying a quick ‘you’re the best!’ before they’re both leaving the two of you in the kitchen. 

the kitchen that feels so much colder than when geto first arrived. 

he moves to pull you back to him, frowning slightly when you scoff and push him away to go to your shared room. 

“we have to let them be their own people.” he’s saying, but the words fall on deaf ears, with the only reply coming in the form of you slamming the bedroom door. 

that night, your room is far too cold to be comfortable. geto crawled into bed shortly after the girls came home. he lays on his back for a bit, drumming his fingers on his stomach as he decides what to do, before ultimately deciding against anything he could come up with. he turns on his side, and for the first time since you’ve began sleeping together, doesn’t hold you. doesn’t wrap his arms around you and envelop you in warmth, doesn’t push away the cold creeping its way into your veins.

you think the temperature in the room drops a few more degrees before you fall asleep. 

⠀ ༝ ༝

geto isn’t in the bed when you wake up, a note on your bathroom counter saying he’d be out for the day and potentially the day after that, and you hate how you’re still bitter from the night before - hate how that bitterness shapes the way your day goes. 

“why can’t you clean off the table?” nanako groans, “why do we even eat at the table anymore?” 

“i’m cooking, nanako. it’ll take like two seconds, and it’s mostly you and mimiko’s stuff on it anyways,” you search through the cabinets for the proper pan to cook the meat in, frowning when you can’t seem to find it, “i’m not even asking you to set it.” 

“yeah, you're asking me to.” mimiko grumbles, making a face when you give her a look. 

you slam the cabinet shut a little harder than necessary, temperature around you dropping with a small laugh passing your lips. it comes out in a puff of condensation, and usually you’re so careful to not let it drop so low, careful because the girls don’t like the cold, you don’t like the cold, but fuck - you didn’t ask for this.

you didn’t ask to become a caregiver at seventeen, you didn’t ask to get beaten for something you or the girls had no control over, didn’t ask to become a maid, cook, babysitter, something sweet to come home to after a long week of wrecking havoc, and you surely didn’t ask to be treated with less than respect from people you love and care about, from people you’ve only asked for the same in return. 

you untie the apron from around your waist and toss it onto the counter, throwing your hands up as you step away from the kitchen. 

“y’know what? order something for dinner, i don’t care. eat wherever you want. do whatever you want.” 

and you’re leaving them in the kitchen, unable to catch the way they shake from the cold or the look they share with a frown, the whispers of confusion when you’re just out of earshot up the stairs. 

“where did that come from?” “why’d they just snap at us like that?” 

you shove things into a bag haphazardly, throwing on a jacket despite it being mid june to fight against the cold biting into your skin, and don’t say another word to either of them as you leave out the front door. 

they stay in the kitchen almost an hour later, waiting for your return. until geto comes back home with flowers and a small gift bag with your name on the label. 

“they just yelled at us and left!” mimiko’s saying as he sets the bag and flowers on the counter, pulling the two of them in a hug to push away their clear distress. 

“did something happen?” geto tilts his head. surely something must have, but he’s uncertain who could be at fault. his girls could do no wrong, but you’re usually so level-headed. 

the girls share a glance before both look down, “might’ve . . . argued about cleaning off the table . . .” nanako mumbles out. 

“and about setting it after . . .” mimiko adds, hands finding themselves behind her back while nanako picks at a fraying string on her sweater. 

“i told you guys to help them when they ask.” geto sighs out, pinching the bridge of his nose. 

“but-” nanako begins to argue, only to be shut down by geto holding a single finger up. 

both girls' shoulders drop at being in trouble, and geto does well to console them still, patting the tops of their heads before he’s heading up the stairs to your room to see the damage. 

it’s in disarray, as he imagined it would be, your clothes scattered all around with some of your drawers pulled half open to be taken from. the promise ring he gave you a year ago glints mockingly on the bedside table. 

⠀ ༝ ༝

you heave a sigh, toweling dry your hair after your shower, opening the bathroom door and pausing when you see none other than geto hovering at the neatly made bed, flicking through the tv guide you’d left on the comforter after you arrived at this hotel. 

he looks up when you make an appearance, offering a tightlipped smile as he flips the book closed. he’s upset, you can tell, but you’re angry. 

even angrier as you look around the room and find the clothes you’d taken out of your bag to look for your pajamas were now folded nicely and placed back into your bag beside his foot. 

the temperature drops around you.  

but geto still only smiles, head tilting and brows furrowing. 

“why aren’t you home?” 

the question boils under your skin, fingers digging into your palm for some sort of grounding to keep yourself calm. it infuriates you beyond belief because that place hasn’t felt like home in months, and somehow he never noticed. 

“i obviously am not needed there. the girls are old enough to take care of themselves and you are busy doing whatever it is you do, so it’s not necessary for me to stay there.” you cross your arms over your chest for some comfort.

“and what about this?” he holds up the ring you’d left, sees how your jaw clenches at the sight of it, how your arms fold around yourself a little tighter, and how your fingers dig into the skin of your biceps. 

“what about it?” you manage out, lip finding its way under your teeth. 

he laughs a little, and the sound that used to make you swoon now prickles at your skin. it hurts. 

“is this your way of leaving me? of leaving the girls?” 

you want to argue. to remind him you just need a break because it’s all too much at once and you don’t have a leg to stand on anymore but no words come out. but geto, always good at reading you, picks up on your internal battle fairly easily. 

“c’mere,” he waves a hand towards himself, opening his arms for you, and your lip wobbles before you crash into his embrace. 

“i’m not gonna make you come back,” he starts, rubbing smooth circles into the small of your back while you hold the front of his yukata like it’s the only thing to keep you afloat, bunching the material in your fists, “but you’ll always have a home with us. with me and the girls.”

[ LEAVE ] ༝ ༝ [ STAY ]

#salmon rowe #suguru geto x reader #geto suguru x reader #geto x reader #suguru x reader #suguru geto #jjk x reader #jjk #jujutsu kaisen x reader

[animentality]

I saw a post in the Gortash tag once, can’t remember who the op was and I could never find it again but it stuck in my head SO much, but basically it was a headcanon that Gortash, after growing up in hell, has a very disassociated view of the world and doesn’t see other people as Real People. As in, (part of) the reason he can be so immutably pragmatic and effortlessly callous when it comes to his abuses of others is that he straight up does not see the people around him as people, just dehumanised objects. And that that this is why doesn’t feel the need to justify his crimes, because to him he hasn’t done anything of any real consequence on an individual level. Like sure, he’s making “people” suffer, but their individual suffering is utterly meaningless in the grand scheme of things because they are utterly meaningless in the grand scheme of things. People are just cogs and gears for his machines. Tools. Currency. Chess pieces. Playthings. Ladder rungs. Whereas Gortash himself IS a Real Person, and so if he’s been made to suffer that is Wrong. And he would not even see this as hypocrisy. (Imo this would also explain why he has his “you to the exclusion of all others” approach to Durge, because Durge is the only other Real Person to him, and therefore they can be his equal where others can’t.)

I could never stop thinking about this headcanon not because I’m the kind of person who needs to rationalise an explanation for why a favourite character committed soulless atrocities (i.e. whatever else may or may not have influenced him, Gortash committed soulless atrocities first and foremost because he is an evil compassionless terrible power-hungry person). But I liked it because of the parallels of Bane consuming souls with no regard for their previous personhood, and Gortash metaphorically “consuming souls”/using people with no regard for their personhood either. (It also just makes a lot of sense that Gortash would view people as a devil would, and you can almost draw a line between the way Raphael toys with and torments people and the way Gortash does, I guess he learned from the best 😬)

This is an excellent analysis of Gortash as a character. Right on all accounts, especially given the way he was raised by Raphael and later worshipped Bane.

Of course people are just commodities. And it goes back to the Ketheric Thorm line, how people are copper pieces to be traded by the gods.

Dehumanization is one of the best themes of Baldur's Gate, which they did fairly well, given how all the companions have elements of dehumanization and the corruption/abuse of power in their stories.

Gortash in particular, though, had it real bad. He was literally enslaved by a devil as a CHILD, and of course it's going to ruin how he sees humans.

How many humans has he seen give up their souls, when he was never given that choice?

He would think of them as fools, who want to be controlled.

And hence, a little fascist psychopath is born.

#enver gortash #baldurs gate #bg3

[spaceyaceface]

Sorrow - Safety Ch 6

Ominis Gaunt x f!Ravenclaw!Reader (Reader is not MC)

Word Count: 3.4k

Warnings: Angst (but also fluff)

Summary: Y/N L/N had always despised Ominis Gaunt. He was everything she hated about her life. As the only daughter to a wealthy pure-blood family, she knew it was inevitable that she would someday find herself in an arranged marriage.

But why did it have to be him?

Or, a classic arranged marriage, enemies to lovers, slow burn.

Also available on AO3

Chapter One | Chapter Five

He should have known better. 

That’s all he could think from the moment Constance had stormed off, the fresh wounds from her words still bleeding out. It’s all he thought when he made his way to the Undercroft, allowing a fire of anger to burn to keep a sea of tears at bay. It’s all he thought when he heard her voice, when he turned away, ignoring the painful sting in his chest as he left her there. And it was all he thought when Sebastian came, dragging him back up to the common room, insisting he at least try and sleep. 

He was glad his fallen tears had dried long before Sebastian came for him. Anger was an easier emotion to describe—it was one Sebastian had seen on Ominis before, and could therefore understand. But that deeper hurt—that feeling of betrayal and remorse that made his eyes burn—that was one he didn’t want even Sebastian to see. 

Ominis couldn’t sleep. The words that Constance had said—words she had once said—still echoed in his mind. 

Look at you, nothing but pure evil. A disgrace to magic.

No wonder you had to precure a bride—no one would willingly choose you. 

I pity the monster you are. 

There were more things Constance’d said. An entire torrent of insults, of partial truths, of words he’d tried for years to stop saying to himself. And it was all back in a flash. 

To think, it had all come from the first person he’d put his trust in in years. 

That was what hurt the most. Not the words themselves. Not even Constance’s cruel tone of voice. No, it was the fact that just that morning, he’d smiled a bit at the idea of greeting her. Mere moments before, he’d hummed the simple song he’d taught her on piano. He’d let himself think for even a second that she could see past the blood that ran through his veins. 

And it all tumbled down. 

So he paced, unable to sleep, in the Slytherin common room. Sebastian sat on a sofa, and after a good several minutes of his friend’s relentless steps, he sighed. 

“I thought you were going to try to get some rest after coming up here,” he said. 

“And I thought I’d told you I’d be in this state whether here or in the Undercroft. You should have just let me stay there.”

“I couldn’t do that,” Sebastian said, quietly. 

Ominis whirled around, facing his friend. There was something in his tone. Some sort of admittance. “Why? Why have you dragged me up here?” 

“She…” Sebastian hesitated a bit. “She didn’t have anywhere to stay the night.”

Ominis’s jaw dropped, and his shock quickly gave way to more fury. More betrayal. “So you pulled me out for her sake? After all she’s done?”

“She hasn’t done anything,” Sebastian said, standing up from the sofa. “Last I checked, it was Constance who came to torment you.”

“And where did Constance get all that?” Ominis fired back. “You think she came up with all that herself? She was just repeating what’d been fed to her.”

Ominis knew this much to be true. A lot of what Constance had said had been echoes of Y/N’s words when they’d gotten the news of the engagement. Coming from her, with anger over the situation, with knowing that she had never known him before—well, that was easier to forgive. To look past. But having been lied to, tricked into thinking she viewed him differently only to be proven completely wrong was painful.

“Y/N told you she was wrong about you,” Sebastian said. “Her friend’s opinions are her own.” 

Ominis’s lip curled in a near snarl.  “She didn’t even try to stop her from coming to me.” 

“She didn’t have the chance.”

His eyes narrowed. “What do you mean, didn’t have the chance?”

“Constance stole a letter from her parents, and she went off to find you while Y/N was still in class. She had no idea, not until she fought with Constance and went to you to apologize.” 

Ominis frowned, taking in Sebastian’s words. “They fought?” He asked. 

“Yeah. It… must have been pretty bad. She didn’t tell me much, but it sounded like she took your side. She was—well, she was a bit of a mess over all of it. Over hurting you.” Sebastian gave a small, humorless chuckle. “Kept asking how you were.” 

She’d… defended him? The memory of them outside the Undercroft came flooding back to him. Her tone, shaky and desperate. And his returning voice—defensive and fierce. She’d just stood up to her friend, her best friend the moment she spoke out against him, and he’d returned the favor with nothing but more anger. Would he have done the same? If Sebastian had confronted her, would he have thrown all caution to the wind to stand against him, risking it all for a newly formed friendship?

He wasn’t even sure. 

She couldn’t even sleep in the same room as her friend. That’s why Sebastian had taken her to the Undercroft, wasn’t it? To stay away from the friendship she may have just shattered for his sake. 

What was the last thing he had said to her? I should never have let you in.

His heart fell. He had been so quick to let his emotions control him. He’d chosen to forget how clear the regret had been when she’d apologized in the past, how just as much as he’d let her in, she’d done the same. 

He’d figured she still thought the worst of him. And in fear, he did the same. 

He ran a hand through his hair, sitting silently on the sofa. “Merlin, I…” He let out a shaky breath. “You… you said she was a mess. Is she alright?” 

Sebastian sat down in the chair across from him. “She will be, I think.” 

“I should go talk to her. Apologize,” Ominis said, preparing himself to stand before Sebastian interrupted his thoughts.

“Let her get some sleep,” he said. “You can talk to her in the morning. You’ll both think clearer after some rest.” 

Ominis scoffed a bit. As if he would be able to sleep at all. But he figured he’d done enough damage for that day—best to leave something for tomorrow. 

He dragged himself up to bed, not even bothering to lay under the covers as he settled there. In the morning, he thought to himself. In the morning he’d try to make things right. 

-

The night had dragged on, until finally, he simply couldn’t wait any longer. He pulled on his uniform and rushed to straighten his hair, bypassing the typical care he gave it. It was only a few minutes before he found himself trekking down to the Undercroft, the familiar creaks of the door sounding as he entered. 

She wasn’t there. 

Instead, all he found was a few neatly stacked blankets, tucked into a corner. He brushed his hand over them, noting the sweet scent of vanilla still clinging to them. He frowned a bit. Perhaps she had gone back up to the Ravenclaw tower sometime in the night. Maybe she’d fixed things with Constance, realizing she shouldn’t have tried to offer any of her sympathy for him. He couldn’t blame her if she had. 

Ominis stayed there a moment, wondering what to do. He needed to think. He left his secret sanctuary to head for another, walking the familiar path to the music room. 

And unlike every other time he’d arrived, someone was already there. 

The piano player was clearly inexperienced. The notes were choppy, and more often than not, wrong. But he could still make out the melody through the mistakes, and it brought a small smile to his lips. 

She hit one particularly sour note, and he stepped into the room before he could overthink his approach. “It’s a c, not an f. Though your choice certainly has some sort of flair to it.” 

She whirled around, hands dropping off the keys in a sudden lurch of silence. “Ominis,” she said softly. After a slight breath, she began a torrent of words, standing from where she was sitting on the bench. “Ominis, I’m so sorry. I had no idea what she was doing until she had done it, please don’t think I still think those things of you. I’m so—”

He said her name gently, approaching her. “Sebastian explained things to me. It’s me who should be apologizing.” 

He heard the sigh that left her lips. “No, this is all my fault. You were hurt. I can’t blame you for being angry. I… I don’t even want to know what things she said. What things… what things I used to say to her.” 

He reached out, placing a careful hand on her arm and pulling her down to sit on the bench once more. He sat beside her, letting his hand fall away. “But you don’t think those things anymore?”

It came out as more of a question than he had intended. He realized he needed to hear her say it—to reassure him. Thankfully, she was more than willing to give him that. 

“Of course not,” she said. Her voice was thick, as if she were on the verge of tears. “I would take it all back if I could. Every word. You… you’re good, Ominis. And kind, under all that sarcasm of yours.” 

He chuckled a bit as she continued. 

“Kinder than I deserve.”

He frowned. “Well, I wasn’t very kind to you last night. I… I didn’t mean what I said. I’m sorry. I value our friendship, despite it’s strange beginnings. I hope it can continue, even after all this.” 

Her hand came back up to the keys, tracing over them. “I would like that,” she said softly. 

The relief that filled him so completely surprised him. He hadn’t been wrong to place his trust in her. She had done the same—and they’d managed to navigate through this storm. But another worry still ate at him. 

“You and Constance,” Ominis said. He felt her tense up beside him. “Sebastian said the two of you fought?”

“Yeah,” she muttered. “I can’t blame her for being angry with me. I lied to her. But she—she shouldn’t have taken that letter. She had no right.” 

“I agree,” Ominis said. “But can I ask… Why did you lie to her in the first place? I’m not saying you were wrong to, but why keep that from her?”

She hesitated before speaking. “I wanted something to feel normal,” she said softly. “I wanted… I wanted something to stay unchanged. Something to not feel like it wasn’t falling apart. Let myself pretend it was all fine, you know?” 

Of course he knew. He knew all too well. 

“It wasn’t fair of me, but I forced her to be that.” She laughed bitterly. “Funny. Now I doubt things will ever be the same with her again.”

“You don’t think she’ll forgive you?” 

“I haven’t got a clue,” she admitted. “I took my side when we fought. And I didn’t choose her.” 

You chose me, Ominis thought. He hated the small bit of warmth that thought brought to his chest—hated it because something she cared for had been broken, but it had been for his sake. 

“I’m sure she’ll see sense in time,” he assured her. “She made her own mistakes. I’m sure she’ll recognize that she wasn’t fair to you, either.”

“Maybe.” The word sounded so full of defeat it nearly broke Ominis’s heart. He wished he could fix this for her—it was a strange desire, one he had never felt before. Not even for Anne or Sebastian. When they made mistakes, when things went wrong because of choices they had made, it was usually easy to step back and let things play out. Of course he would comfort them—but he also knew they had to deal with their consequences. That was just how it went. 

But for her… well, if he had the power, he’d wave his wand and set everything right. 

Unfortunately, he didn’t think there was a spell for that. 

He placed his hands on the keys, beside her own. “You’ve been practicing.”

“Not much,” she admitted. 

“Still,” he said, small smile curling the corners of his lips. “You’re improving.”

“Ah, yes, my lovely rendition of the song you heard when you arrived surely proved that.”

He chuckled. “I very much enjoyed the melodic liberties you were taking.”

“I’m glad someone was. Sounded awful to me.”

“Not awful. Just abstract.” 

He felt her mood lighten. Perhaps he couldn’t fix everything. But he could make it a little better. 

“Would you play something?” she asked. 

Her question took him a bit by surprise. But he found himself unable to turn it down. “Of course,” he said. She took her hand from the piano, and laid it on her lap. He allowed himself to spread his fingers over the keys, and began. 

He wasn’t used to playing for an audience. But any nerves he may have disappeared the moment the music began to swell. That was how it always was. He could get lost in the notes and chords, and he’d stay there as long as he could. 

Even as he found himself in the music, he found a small thought in the back of his head hoping she felt the same. That he could let her escape with him, even for a few minutes.

When those minutes ended, when his song was complete and he lifted his hands from that final chord, they let the following silence linger for a moment. It was… intimate. Sacred. It was a little overwhelming, if he was honest, and he found himself needing to break it.

“Breakfast will be starting soon,” he said softly, hardly more than a whisper. 

“Yes,” she said. 

“You can sit with me and Sebastian,” he said. Then he realized that that was quite the suggestion, and that it was perhaps too much. “If you want, of course. I just thought I’d offer, considering…”

“I think I’ll accept your kind offer.” There was a hint of a smile in her voice. One he couldn’t help but be glad to hear. 

“Well then,” he replied. “I suppose we should be off before my menace of a friend steals all the pastries.” 

She laughed, and he felt lighter. 

-

If Sebastian was surprised to see the two of them walk into the Great Hall together, he didn’t let it show in the slightest. He was quick to scoot down a bit on his usual place on the bench, providing room for her. It wasn’t unheard of for students of other houses to sit at different tables—really, the only time the unofficial ‘rule’ was strictly followed was the grand feasts at the beginning and end of the year. Still, she seemed a little tense. He could hear he she shifted nervously in her seat, the way her breath was just a little more shallow than normal. 

“Apple tart?” Sebastian said, offering it out to her. She took it. 

“Thank you.”

“Do you have another?” Ominis asked. 

“Nope,” Sebastian said, eating the last bite of his own tart. She chuckled from beside the two of them. 

“Wonderful. Glad to see you’re already favoring your new friendship,” Ominis said dryly. 

“Well, she hasn’t ever done anything to piss me off,” Sebastian reasoned. 

“I can’t promise it’ll stay that way,” she said. 

Sebastian shrugged. “S’alright. I’ll still prefer you to Ominis any day.”

Her laugh was cut short, and Ominis quickly assumed why. “Is she looking at us?”

“She did for a moment,” she said softly. “But she’s gone to sit down now. She… she seems fine.”

The three were quiet for a moment before Sebastian changed the subject by offering her some bacon. 

-

The days passed much the same as that breakfast had. It was strange, Ominis thought, that she hadn’t been by their side for so much longer. Letting her into their group had nearly been effortless. Part of Ominis thought it was because he and Sebastian had always been so used to a trio. She filled the space Anne had left. But it was more than that—she brought her own things to the table. They were quick to realize that she was a Ravenclaw, through and through. She was always learning something new. From practicing charms to memorizing her favorite poems to picking up new hobbies, there was always something. And she was always eager to share it with the both of them. 

Ominis found it quite endearing when she would track him down in the library, tossing a book on the table, ready to show off whatever new trick she’d learned. She didn’t always get it perfect, of course—at least not on the first try. But her determination to figure out where she had gone wrong was impressive. 

“What are you doing now?” he asked, hearing her fiddle with something as they sat across from each other in the library. 

“Knitting,” she answered. She paused for a moment, observing her work. “At least, I’m trying to knit. I’m not sure I’ve quite got it right.”

“Knitting?” he asked, small smirk on his face. “Is there anything you haven’t tried your hand at yet?” 

“Oh, plenty. But I’ll get around to them eventually, I’m sure.” 

He chuckled, leaving his textbook on the table as he turned his attention more fully to her. “What sort of things have you already mastered?”

“Mastered is a bit of a stretch, but there are a fair few things I’d consider myself adequate at,” she said. “I’ve tried my hand at embroidery, sewing, crochet… there wasn’t a lot to do in the manor growing up. I had to entertain myself most of the time, so I made it a habit to try whatever I could.” She smiled. “There was even a summer I got pretty good at baking. Of course, when my father caught wind that Diane was sneaking me into the kitchens, he put a stop to it real quick.” 

He felt the slight shift in her mood, and knew her mind was wandering into unpleasant memories. It was a feeling he knew. 

“Diane?” he asked, hoping to shift away her worries for a moment. 

“She’s a servant at our manor. She’s… well, she’s wonderful. Raised me more than my parents ever did,” she said. “She’s the only thing I miss when I’m not home.”

He hummed. “Seems like she would get my approval, sneaking you into the kitchens and all that.”

She laughed. “What about you? Any Dianes you have, or did I just get that lucky?”

Ominis smiled fondly. “My Aunt Noctua. Truly the only good thing to ever come from my bloodline,” he said. 

“Besides yourself,” she amended. 

“It’s all thanks to her,” he said. “She always treated me kindly, even before I got my wand and could prove myself. When my mother would complain about how hard it was to raise me, she’d take me to her home for a few days, telling me I didn’t have to believe her. I didn’t have to believe any of them.” 

He trailed off a bit, getting lost in the strange mix of hopeful and heartbreaking memories. “She was the only person I ever considered real family.”

She was quiet for a moment. “Was?” she asked softly. 

He gave a solemn nod. “She disappeared several years ago. No one knows what happened to her. My father didn’t ever seem too concerned about her fate, and I was too young to do anything about it.”

“I’m sorry,” she said. 

“It’s alright,” he said. “I miss her terribly. But having known her makes me all the more determined to become someone she’d be proud of.”

She reached across the table, placing a hand on his wrist. “I think you’re well on your way to doing that,” she told him. “It seems a part of her lives on in you.” 

He didn’t know what to say to that, mouth gaping open as a strange prickling started behind his eyes. He cleared his throat. “Thank you. She’d be happy to see me have a friend like you.” 

The topic changed after that. He asked more about knitting, more about baking and Muggle books and poetry. She didn’t hesitate to share these parts of her. And he didn’t hesitate to memorize every word. 

Mere days before, he’d worried his worst fears were true. That there was no one he could trust. That he was doomed to be as lonely as he’d always been. 

How glad he was that he was wrong.

-

Chapter Seven

A/N: Oh my gosh thank you thank you THANK YOU for all the kind comments and asks I've received recently for this series!!! Seriously, it's made me so excited to keep writing it! You're all amazing, I hope you enjoyed this chapter :)

TAGLIST:

@skarathewitch (it wouldn't let me tag you ahhh I'm sorry! @cherryflavoredcoke @phoenix666stuff @wt-fxck@shameless0shenanigans @fitzs-trained-monkey @mxmia @vee-mage (same with you sorry!!) @myrachondria

#ominis gaunt #ominis gaunt x reader #hogwarts legacy #ominis x you #ominis x reader #ominis x mc #ominis gaunt imagine #ominis gaunt headcannon #ominis gaunt x mc #ominis gaunt x you #ominis #hogwarts legacy ominis

[cotagillumis]

Illumi x reader - “you were late.”

Summery: you’re Illumi’s fiancé suddenly feeling a strong aura after a mission and when you approach you see someone you did not expect to see

Pairings Illumi x reader

Your nen ability (name it as you want)

Is creating an arrow and a bow thought very powerful.

————————————————————

After finishing off a mission you we’re very exhausted only needing sleep now. Walking out of the hotel you were staying in to the car that will bring you to the Zoldyck Mansion, you suddenly felt a very familiar aura, a strong nen though there was another strong nen.

Feeling curious you decided to tell the driver to wait a bit as you made your way to a forest where there aura came from.

As you got closer, sneaking on them behind a tree you saw the one person you didn’t expect to see laying on the floor about to be attacked. Your eyes widen in schock as your blood ran cold.

“Killua ?”

You muttered quietly, just as the enemy was about to end his unconscious body you stepped in. There were multiple people all of them were surrounding you wanting to jump you. You quickly used your bow and arrow throwing it at everyone around you while making sure killua is in your sight, laying unconscious next to your feet.

Finishing off all the weak ones, you turned to face the one you assumed was their leader. A rat looking lady.

She smiled an evil smile before speaking, her voice sounding venomous.

“Oh I see, You’re quite strong I must say but you cant fool me !”

Jumping in the air throwing multiple punches your way, you dodge every single one, using your bow and arrow trying to hit her.

Her speed is incredible… I cant fight keeping Killua in my sight.

Feeling helpless you decided to take killua and make a run for it, so you took him under your arm and ran putting him in a safe place so you’d be able to fight, but as you didn’t pay attention to her, she landed a sharp cut on your cheek as you tried to dodge.

Curs her !

Landing killua on the floor next to your feet again, you decided to stop those games.

“Oh you like games yes ? You little rat !”

You had about enough of her when you tried to trow another arrow her way, instead of attacking you like you expected, she aimed at killua.

Your breath hitched in your throat.

Without thinking you jumped in front of him getting hit with venom in your hand.

Killua was immune to venom.

You were not.

As the pain hit you felt numb, sweat dripping down your forehead as your vision became blurry.

You fell to your knees looking down unable to to even stand straight.

She laughed in amusement.

“I must say, you’re quit pretty how sad you have to Die- !”

Just as she was about to finish her sentence, a hand pierced through her chest, pulling out her heart.

You tried keeping your head up to see, expecting another enemy but you knew who this hand belonged to right after.

He threw the heart away making the rat lady turn to face him trembling as she knows she will die in a second.

“H-ho-“

Shes done.

A sigh escaped your lips as she is now laying on the floor, giving you a clear view of who was standing there.

As he walks over bending down to your level, you wondered how he knew, he speaks with his usual cold voice.

“You were late.”

As if he knew what you were thinking.

He takes you on his arms and looks down on killua’s unconscious body.

“He will be fine, I’ll send someone to take care of him.”

By then my vision was nearly completely gone.

I sigh as he looks at the hand that got the poison. He pulls out a cloth and wraps it tightly around my hand.

“It hasn’t spread too far but just to make sure”

He says as he makes his way to the car that was parked there.

“Next time let me know if anything happens, you are my fiancé after all.”

I smile as that’s the last thing I remember before i fainted.

___________________________________

#illumi zoldyck #illumi zoldyck x reader #hunter x hunter

[1960z]

I changed my mind: I do have things to say. spoilers for the latest r&m episode (unmortricken)

ok so firstly I love love love how purposefully anticlimactic and unfulfilling it was. when I, and I think when a lot of other people too, envisioned this episode it was always an episode that looked a lot like rickmurai jack, which had so much build up, both in the overarching and immediate story and so many things were revealed that suddenly made sense of everything and it felt epic and emotional and just so cathartic. that’s what I always imagined this would be like. it wasn’t, and that was the point.

instead, we got this mid-season out of basically nowhere. we know rick’s been hunting prime for a while now, but it’s always been in the background for the most part. this didn’t feel like the culmination of everything, it all just kinda happened. and then at the end of the episode rick kills prime and it’s over. nothing. no explanation or understanding of why prime did what he did — rick just gets his revenge and now prime is dead and it’s done and nothing feels like it’s really changed because it hasn’t. which perfectly mirror’s rick’s own mental state about the whole thing. it wasn’t the satisfying closure he’d always envisioned in his head (even if he’d never admit that’s how he envisioned it lol.) evil morty even points this out: “how’s it feel? better? no? exactly the same? yeah. it always does.”

like in the back of our minds we all knew that killing prime wasn’t actually gonna fix anything for rick, but because of the general understanding of how stories are supposed to work we, or at least I, put that aside an expected to get to indulge in the fantasy that the end of this revenge plot would feel anything but hollow to someone actually experiencing it. and the way this episode was set up completely shattered that.

and the look on down from the bridge rick potion #9 call back really hammered all of that home. the ending to that episode is kind of what everyone thinks of when people think about the “nothing matters, we don’t matter and we’re all gonna die” mentality of the early seasons and making a call back to it… I don’t think it’s a return to that mentality but rather showing having that mentality didn’t save rick. he always looked down on caring about “the little things” because he knew none of it really mattered. but a cosmic multi-dimensional cat and mouse game ending in a revenge killing in the name of his dead wife? now that’s something to care about. and now it’s done and it didn’t really feel all that different to all those little things he insisted were unimportant. how does he find meaning now?

more than that, it’s also a good callback because of the revelation that the scenario is basically the same. in rick potion #9, the scene is a demonstration of morty’s shell shock of taking the place of a dead version of himself like it’s nothing and then having to live on in the monotony of said dead morty’s life as if it’s also nothing. and as prime aptly points out, rick is basically doing the same thing with prime’s life. rick slotted into the life prime left behind and is now living the life prime would be living if he hadn’t gone rouge: “hang out with my grandson. raise echoes of my daughter… I just walked into your garage before you walked into mine. but eventually you did. you lived in my house.” and now, prime is dead. queue look on down from the bridge.

“hope you’re happy with your choice.”

#shut up abe #rick and morty #it’s so good. it’s so GOOD #post credits scene was great too. that was really sweet while also emphasising rick made the completely wrong choice lmao

[maybeitsalivescribbles]

VH - Turn over

A menacing silhouette stepped into the prison and stared at the hero in silence. Behind the bars, the prisoner raised his shining eyes, looking very frail and helpless.

“Oh no,” he whimpered, twisting his hands. “I’ve done nothing wrong. I beg of you, Villain, I’m-”

The other cut across him, shaking his head:

“You can stop.”

“But-”

“I know who you are. You’re the hero who’s an invincible vampire, aren't you? You don’t have to pretend. I surrender.”

“Ah.”

Hero slowly grinned, showing his pointed teeth, looking a lot less helpless:

“Good.”

Villain nodded slightly and sat on the chair in front of the cell, his eyes fixed on the ground, his hands clasped in front of him. The other tapped on the bars to get his attention:

“I gotta ask, do you imprison every guy who you surrender to?”

“I know this can’t hold you for long-”

“Nope. Absolutely not.”

“-but I wanted to talk.”

Vampire Hero groaned:

“We’re not doing that. If you think I have time for listening to how amazing or blameless you are, I’d rather drink you until you collapse.”

“No, I have a question.”

“Shoot.”

Villain hesitated for a moment, then said, avoiding his gaze:

“When did you realize you were on the bad side?”

“Uh?”

“Before you switched, I mean. When did you realize you were...well, evil?”

Vampire Hero tilted his head, intrigued:

“Since the beginning? I mean, I liked to cut animals and make my whipping boy suffer when I was a toddler. That wasn’t really hard to put two and two together. I'm an asshole, not an idiot.”

“A whipping boy, you mean-”

“A literal whipping boy, yeah. Father offered me one and punished him every time I misbehaved. That was a good birthday gift, a long time ago.”

“So being a vampire hasn’t corrupted your soul or-”

“Nah. Can’t corrupt what’s already rotten.”

“I see.”

There was a moment of silence. Villain didn’t move. Vampire Hero huffed a little, his patience growing thin.

“How can you look so lost in your own prison?”

“It wasn’t like that for me.”

“Oh there we go, the monologue. Keep going, and I’ll rip off the bars of the cell and come for you next.”

“Go ahead, I won’t use it anymore.”

A bar creaked in answer. Villain didn’t look up once.

“I thought my work was for the best,” he said after a while. “I thought us with powers deserved more of society. Don’t you think so?”

“I don’t care.”

“Surely you must have. A little.”

“We’re not from the same time, remember? I had a castle and servants and human toys. Society never bothered me much.”

“It must have been nice, not having to care.”

Vampire Hero shrugged.

“I’m not sure,” he admitted. “Didn’t work out that great for me, did it?”

“I had to care. I had to cling to life every day to survive. I was nearly killed by people thinking I was a freak because I had powers.”

“It doesn’t look like they did a great job, then.”

Villain raised his head a little:

“I just wanted a place where we weren't bullied all the time, so I created my own group. As it grew, so did our ambitions-”

“Aw man, that is gonna take a while.”

Sulking, the vampire threw himself on the ground and began to fidget with the bar he had ripped off. While he bent it as easily as it was clay, Villain kept on, barely giving him a glance:

“I thought that no one listened to us, you see? So we had to make people listen.”

“Except that it doesn't make sense. Since when are powers a problem here? I don’t know much about the outside world, but even I know that heroes are adored and stuff. They have fanclubs and everything.”

“But you have to be a hero, that's the problem. If you can teleport and want to be anything else, like a baker or something, you’re shamed by society unless you hide who you are. If you’re born with powers, the hero agencies are already breathing on your neck.”

“I find this expression offensive. Look, I’ve made a noodle!”

Villain glanced at the twirled bar the vampire was playing with:

“Very nice.”

“Thank you. I used to twist any iron bar that I had in my hands. It makes so much more damage when it pops out of the body.”

Villain stared at the wall for a second and cleared his throat:

“...Anyway, we were building a community. I met my first friends and my lover there.”

“Congrats. I don’t care.”

“As with all communities, tensions grew. I wanted to take more action. I thought that protests weren’t enough.”

“Yeah, I’ve read your file. Killed a lot of humans and exploded a lot of stuff. Classic.”

“I wanted to be heard! Our group went from inefficient to dangerous, but where is the limit? Where is the perfect middle spot?”

“No idea.”

“Me neither. My husband tried to bring me back to protests, but I wouldn’t listen to him. We argued until the moment when I- when he-”

Villain turned his head away:

“I tried to keep on, but it doesn’t make sense without him. Our community is riffled with conflicts. None of it makes sense anymore. So I surrender.”

He stood up and pulled out the key of the cell from his pocket. Vampire Hero squinted at him, curious despite himself:

“So, how did you kill your husband?”

Villain looked at him, horrified:

“What? I didn’t! He left me.”

The door opened. Vampire Hero jumped on his feet and burst out of his cell, chirping:

“Let’s go!”

He passed next to Villain and went through the exit, leaving the latter staring at him:

“Are you- Aren’t you going to drink me or something-”

The hero shrugged and patted his arm, a little smile on his face:

“Eh. I’m not hungry.”

*

Vampire Hero is a recurring character. His job is to troll current villains. Check the Vampire Hero Masterlist or Tag for more snippets with him.

Or back to Hero x Villain Masterlist.

#hero x villain #villain and hero #hero villain community #writeblr #writers on tumblr #original fiction #my writing #writing snippet #writing dialogue #villain x hero #creative writing #vampire #heroes and villains #hero and villain #writers #writing community #original character #hero x villain community #heroes and villains community #oc #just a quick one #vampire hero #VH doesn't listen except maybe he does

[hazelnut-u-out]

If God Exists, It's Fucking Me!

(Post 2/2)

A lot of this is a follow-up to Post 1, but I broke it up because I'm rambly.

Sidenote: I didn't realize how much Rick and Morty tries to confront the viewer with the question of what makes a god a god. Take from that what you will, lol.

Having a god complex is an essential component of Rick’s character. He can’t pull his sense of identity away from his relationship to God. 

'If God exists, it's fucking me!'

Even though someone may no longer believe in their god, they were still raised or programmed to serve them before they serve themselves. It becomes instinct.

I would imagine a god-like intellect could blur the line between one’s own needs and those of their god even more. For example, if Rick can value himself above God, then who’s to say he can’t do all of the things God has done for his own purpose? If Rick can prove that he exists and not that God exists, then what morally stands in Rick’s way? This is what makes Rick a good representation of what religious trauma can look like in someone exceptional. Working on the basis of this assumption, his god complex would arguably be inevitable. 

The final layer of tragedy is that C-137 isn’t all-powerful, is he? There’s one Rick that took something from him he can’t replace; one Rick– someone he can prove exists– is more powerful than him. How can C-137 argue that Prime isn’t in the right while still following the logic that his own power is what gives himself the right to ‘invent, transform, create, and destroy for a living’? Without being able to condemn Prime’s actions, what can C-137 do other than try to become him? 

'You think it's cool being the smartest man on Earth, but once we give you this technology, you become the smartest thing in every conceivable universe -- the Infinite Rick, a god.'

All of this relates back to a take I have on Evil Morty’s character. I believe he’s a lot like C-137 in that way, but his god; the being he was ‘programmed’ to serve; the creator he had to ‘defy’ was… Rick. 

Because Rick made himself a God. 

Even though Evil Morty and Morty Prime don’t seem to have faith in Rick, they were still bred to serve him. Evil Morty justifies his behavior because it’s nothing Rick hasn’t done. If Ricks justify their behavior through their abilities, then there can’t be anything wrong with being Evil Morty… Can there? 

Morty Prime, on the other hand, still serves Rick even though he doesn’t believe in him anymore. 

‘That's something you can't have when Rick shows up. Everything real turns fake. Everything right is wrong. All you know is that you know nothing and he knows everything. And, well -- well, he's not a villain, Summer, but he shouldn't be your hero. He's more like a demon or a super fucked up god.’

Morty Prime, despite believing in Rick’s power, also believes in a set of moral rights and wrongs that’s unadulterated from those demonstrated by Rick. Evil Morty operates within the set of moral rights and wrongs defined by Ricks on the curve. In my opinion, our Morty shows more potential to end the cycle than any Rick or even Evil Morty. 

Evil Morty didn’t break the cycle (though I 100% believe him breaking out of the curve was symbolic of that concept), he’s perpetuating it. He didn’t do what he did in the name of justice, he did it for himself and justified his actions with his ability. In the same way that Ricks had to create the curve to become a god, Evil Morty had to leave it. To become exceptional, Rick had to reject God’s exceptionality. Similarly, Evil Morty had to reject Rick’s. 

There are some important distinctions I want to point out that differentiate Evil Morty and Morty Prime on a fundamental level. 

- Selfish vs Selfless:

We can see a difference in the priorities of both Morty Prime and Evil Morty as early on as Season 1. 

‘Hey man, you seem to know how this place works. Is there any way we can… shut down that grid and rescue all those Mortys outside?’

‘It would be pointless. Mortys have no chance of defeating a Rick.’

I would just like to point out that no Rick put those Mortys on that wall. No Rick designed that 'symphony.'

But a Morty sure as hell made this one!

‘Alright Mortys, listen up! My name is Morty Smith, from Earth dimension C-137! I know you’re scared, because I’m scared! But that’s no reason to accept our fate. We’re Mortys! We’re not defined by our relationships to Rick. Our destiny is our own!’

Morty Prime proves that it is possible for Mortys to band together to take down Ricks. Evil Morty’s plan didn’t have to be at the price of hundreds-of-thousands to millions of Mortys’ lives. Evil Morty was prioritizing himself, justifying his treatment of other Mortys through his power to extort them. 

As a follow-up to this concept, Morty Prime tries to save as many Mortys as they can while Evil Morty finally escapes the curve. 

- Rick Complex:

Evil Morty, right from the start, believes that his abilities are an exception. (One could call it a Rick Complex, in this case, lol.) I believe that it’s actually his confidence, not his ability, that differentiates him from other Mortys.

Morty Prime, on the other hand, believes that Mortys are not defined by their relationships to Rick. Just like Rick is obsessed with being defined by his relationship to God, Evil Morty is obsessed with his identity as it’s defined by his relationship to Rick. He has to be better than Rick. Morty Prime seems more than happy to be the ‘Mortyest Morty,’ but let’s remember who’s the Rickest Morty. 

‘Because Ricks hate themselves the most. And our Rick is the most himself.’

I guess that means the Rickest Morty would hate himself, too, which checks out. Evil Morty, very intentionally, leaves no surviving Mortys on the Citadel. When Evil Morty is confronted with the result of abuse on another Morty, he never stops at hating Ricks. Instead, he opts for, ‘Pfft, you sell-out Mortys kill me. I'd hate you more than the Ricks you worship if there was any point.’

In conclusion of this pretty pointless blurb, I think Morty Prime is closer than anyone else to escaping the cycle, and I’m so proud of him. I hope it’s not too little too late. 

#rick and morty #rick sanchez #morty smith #evil morty #morty prime #rick prime

[artist-issues]

Hello! My ask is about The Rise Of Skywalker. I would like to read your analysis of Reylo's scenes such as their dialogues in the film, Rey's declaration to Ben ("I did want to take your hand. Ben's hand."), Ben's return to the light side and the reylo kiss. The declaration, Ben's return and the kiss, for me, are the only good things about this film.

I thought all of the Rise of Skywalker was really terrible. Terrible writing, terrible plot, and even some pretty terrible characterizations. (I thought the actors did their best, though.)

Basically, ROS had several threads that TLJ and TFA had braided together. All it needed to do was tie those threads off. But instead, it unraveled them and tangled them up and said “done! All tied up!”

For example:

Thread 1: Finn’s journey from fear to faith.

Thread 2: Leia’s hope for her son.

Thread 3: Poe’s journey from hero to leader.

Thread 4: Hux’s growing, rabid desire for control. (It’s why the organization’s called the First “ORDER”)

Thread 5: Kylo Ren’s learning that power won’t make him feel secure.

Thread 6: Rey’s learning that she doesn’t need to be “somebody” because it’s all about something bigger than herself.

Thread 7: Kylo Ren and Rey learning their respective lessons by finding the answers in each other.

TLJ took what TFA started and got you those threads. Then TROS said “never mind, we don’t like those threads” with most of them. For example, Poe and Finn suddenly have nothing to do. For example, Finn is not doing anything that requires the faith he began building at the end of TLJ; he’s just following Rey around. Poe is not learning how to lead, he’s just info-dumping and trying quick three-man hero missions, unlike the lesson he learned at the end of TLJ. Hux is not strategizing with rabid extremism for control; he’s just pettily throwing his life away to get back at Kylo Ren. Et Cetera. The threads all get unraveled or tangled up or left dangling uselessly.

EXCEPT for Thread 7.

They make an attempt at “Kylo Ren and Rey learning their respective lessons by deepening their bond.” The problem is, without the other threads, that one just doesn’t fit any better than the rest of the story.

First off, I 100% agree that Kylo Ren and Rey would be involved romantically, in some way, eventually. There’s literally no way around it. Romantic attachment is choosing to commit to someone on an intimate level. Because they’re Force Bonded, and because they are the only people in the universe who have similar identity crises and deep family-related angst, they were bound to intimately understand each other. They started caring about each other in TLJ. All TROS had to do was fan the flames of that care up in a way that led to their character developments concluding.

Rey just needed to demonstrate more of the letting-go she demonstrated at the end of TLJ: she wants Kylo Ren to be Light, but she realizes there’s nothing she can do to force it, even if she begs and pleads, so she just keeps doing the right thing on her end and trusts the Force, believing he’ll come to the right conclusion in the end no matter how much evil he’s done. What’s that ladies and gentlemen? It’s called ✨ unconditional love. ✨

Then Kylo Ren just needed to see that love. Literally, just see and continuously experience it. Even if he’s trying to hunt her down and kill her or take everything from her or whatever, she just keeps refusing to kill him and believing he’ll turn good. After all, that’s more than his parents did for him back when they sent him away—and since then, whatever unconditional love Rey shows him is strengthened by the examples of unconditional love Han Solo and Luke showed right before they died. Plus the alternative to accepting unconditional love—murdering everything that might give him a sense of power—hasn’t been making him feel any better. So he was primed for redemption via Rey.

That’s all they needed to do in TROS. Not so hard, just write a reason for her to save his life or spare it again, even after their previous encounter and even given his new status as Supreme Leader. He’s halfway there. Continued pushes are all that’s needed.

Just like Luke Skywalker in the Revenge of the Sith, Rey and Kylo Ren don’t really need to develop much more in the final movie of their trilogy. They just need to put what the first two movies taught them to a big final test.

Anyway. With that in mind:

Let me give you the bite-sized version 😅

The Force-Searching Scenes - I don’t like these because they’re all Kylo Ren searching for Rey, with little to no engagement from her. She feels more like she’s given up on him in these scenes and is just trying to win an argument whenever he barges into her brain. He, on the other hand, might be looking for her, but it’s with one hand on his grandfather’s mask. Which is totally the opposite of him “letting the past die. Kill it, if you have to.” So he’s taking weird steps backward, toward TFA, as if TLJ never happened… and that tarnishes his motives for finding Rey, in my mind. If he’s going back to trusting the past and the idea of his grandfather, then why does he want to turn Rey to the dark side? When Vader failed to turn Luke, he tried to murder him. Kylo Ren knows that. So meditating on a mask he should be giving up on in order to find and turn Rey makes no sense, so it takes the tension out of those scenes for me.

Fight Scenes - Again, it makes no sense that Kylo Ren would still be pursuing turning Rey to the dark side so doggedly. Neither of them could convince the other at the end of TLJ. They split a lightsaber in half to prove it. Now, that doesn’t mean they should be giving up on each other completely. But Kylo Ren should be acting like he’s given up on her, even if just to convince himself. That’s what he’s done this whole time: turned to killing the people who fail him to make himself feel more powerful. She has a reason to keep believing in him: she’s on the Light Side of the Force. But instead, she’s the one acting like she wants nothing more to do with him. He mentions how he’s going to turn her to the dark side multiple times in the movie. But she doesn’t say more than one quipped question hinting that she still wants him on the light side. So the “attachment” focus of their fights loses all it’s tension because again, it doesn’t make sense. After TLJ, he should be at least trying to give up on her and pursue killing her, if anything. And she should be steadfastly believing in him, while pursuing doing the right thing no matter what he does. That’s where they were in their character development. More fighting barely makes sense.

Healing Scene - I liked this scene only when Rey heals Kylo Ren. Their fight beforehand, and her ramming his lightsaber into him, still makes no sense. She’s angry at him because of her connection to Palpatine and she’s fighting him like that’s going to exorcise her identity…but Rey being a dark, angry descendant of Palpatine never made sense (it unravels her whole character development.) So her motivations in this scene don’t make sense…until she heals him. Then, suddenly, there’s a glimpse of that Rey we left on the Millenium Falcon in TLJ: she’s healing him, even though he might just stand up and attack her again, because she genuinely believes he’s Ben and she just needs to show him mercy until he comes around to believing it. And THAT is part of what turns him. So I like that: I just think it was executed really poorly. She should never have been healing him from a wound she caused.

The Kiss - The kiss was just basically the TROS storytellers confirming that they were romantically attached instead of just enemies-to-friends/Allie’s attached. Because…for some reason they had to confirm that visually. I just think, again, that they didn’t set it up and execute it well. They have no conversations and no significant attention paid toward each other between the healing scene and the final battle. They might be force-linked, but the audience needed to see that bond turned romantic, or him turned good before any overt romantic gestures, much earlier on. Other than that, I like that he healed her. I love Adam Driver’s acting in that whole scene. Makes me wish they gave him more to do.

The Death Scene - This should not have happened. It was lazy. Kylo Ren is a character who has been trying to fulfill himself by making BIG, final (emphasis on “final”) choices. Having him make one more big final choice, to end his own life, was not good character development. He should’ve had to live with what he’d done so he could learn from his mistakes. That’s where his whole character was headed. He’s always failed to learn from his past: he thinks he can just erase it. You know what giving up your life for a different hero and then fading away is? It’s nice, but it’s just another “erase” choice. Additionally? It’s terrible for Rey’s story, too. She finally had someone she chose, someone she waited for who actually came back, somebody who understood her…somebody who’s redemption rewarded her long faith…and she’s left alone again. That’s just the worst. Plus, what did she need him to heal her for? What exactly did she die of? He was way more injured than she was.

What they should’ve done was, Kylo Ren and Rey save the day, and then he’s condemned to death for his crimes by the New Republic, but in honor of Leia’s life of sacrifice and belief in him, he’s given enough of a pardon to simply be banished to the unknown reaches. And Rey goes with him, because she can finally stop waiting, she loves seeing the galaxy, and they can learn about the Force together…plus, they’re obviously deeply connected. And that would be a great homage to Leia’s legacy as a character who never gives up on hope, and that hope is ultimately rewarded. Instead of having her give her life to reach him…so he can live for an hour or so before also dying.

Long story short…you’re right! I just think all the elements you liked should’ve been way more central, built up to, and placed where they fit in a better movie!

#TROS #TROS hate #TROS salt #Reylo #Rey #Kylo Ren #Ben solo #Leia organza #TLJ #TFA #the force awakens #the last Jedi #Star Wars #sw #j.j. abrams #rian johnson #daisy ridley #adam driver #solo #Skywalker #critique #AU #rewrite #meta #character analysis #asked #answered