#I don't remember if the whole eye is canonically one piece but that makes more sense in my brain

[halcyone-of-the-sea]

Choke On The Sun

PAIRING: John Price x F!Reader

SYNOPSIS: You'd known John ever since the Academy, and even after losing touch, the love you had for one another was never gone. Like a snake, it had stayed hidden in unseen places. But it was always there.

WORDCOUNT: 13.8k

WARNINGS: Blood, intense gore, torture, detailed descriptions of torture i.e. electrocution, loss of a finger, gunshot wounds, knife wounds, discussion of torture, canon-typical violence, death, near-death experiences, guns, weapons, abductions, betrayals, intended for mature audiences, happy ending, etc.

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

You remember a story you’d been told when you were a rookie—fresh off the cut and eager-eyed with far fewer scars. A more of a glass-half-full type of outlook on life, unknowing of what you’d experience during your years with the SAS: what choices you would have to make.

It went something like this. 

There was a herd of deer that had jumped over the side of a bridge. On either end of that bridge, there were two trucks with their high beams on—not moving but sitting there; the deer got pressured. Spooked. One by one they just…hopped over and died on the rocks below—no noise above the breaking of bone and the clatter of antlers shattering to pieces. 

You have to wonder if it was the fault of the first one who had jumped over for leading the rest to a quick end, or the drivers of the cars just trying to get where they needed to go; ignorant of the way they’d been ogling to see the panic in wide, black eyes. Either way, a whole herd of ten met their fate and left their bodies to feed the larvae and the birds. 

The story had been told over drinks at a pub, at the time you’d taken an interest in it with no more than a slow comment of ‘poor things’ before you’d brought your glass to your lips. You don't know why you’re thinking about it now. 

The timing could have been more opportune.

You send a bullet into the man’s kneecap, hearing the bone disintegrate and the flesh open like a flower. His scream follows, loud and hoarse—sobbing trapped behind a bitten tongue that drips blood down his chin. 

Hand snapping up, you grasp the lower half of his face with a grunt, head shoving itself forward until you lock onto fluttering eyes and get consumed by a whining sob.

“I asked you a question,” you lick your lips, tasting sweat as it slithers down your skin. Your voice is slow and even, grip tight. With a shove, you push back the man’s face, wrist limp with the Basilisk as you wipe at your nose with it, unblinking, when you get to your full height. 

The room wasn’t anything different from a million other black sites you’d been to. A single chair where your mark sits tied up, a desk that had been pushed to the wall, and a single door placed into the cracking foundations of a concrete wall. No windows. No vents. 

Hotter than hell, too, and that place was something you were acutely in tune with. 

“Anthony,” you say, waving your free hand as the scent of blood gets stronger, pools of it already on the hard floor. “I’m gonna call you Tony, alright?” 

Tony yells, wrenching his arms against the zip-ties and screaming until his voice is hoarse. 

“Damn you! I told you I don’t know anything!” He sobs. “My leg—I can’t feel my leg, oh, God it hurts.”

You frown, glancing at the door. 

“Stop lying to me,” you look back, eyes unblinking in the low light. “You still have one left—tell me where your buyer is and I let you keep the ability to walk upright with a cane.” 

“I don’t know his name—!”

“I don’t need a name, Tony,” you growl, irritated. “I need a location.”

“Copenhagen!” He wails, body spasming and hair dancing atop his head. “The warehouse is in Copenhagen, please, that’s all I know!”

You blink. 

“Denmark?” You mutter, brows furrowing. 

“Fuck!” Tony screams long, his skull tilting forward as he releases his guts to the floor through quick gasps. Backing up a step to stay out of the spray, you watch him silently; thinking. The flood of the man’s crimson fluids ripples. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!” 

“Denmark,” grumbling to yourself once more, you shake your head and sigh aggressively. “Of course.” 

Without another glance, you turn and exit the room, pushing your Basilisk into its holster as the gear on your chest clinks lightly like the sound of rain hitting a metal roof. The door closes behind you, voice calling to one of the guards as he looks up quickly. His face is pale. Tony’s wails still echo out; water filling a bucket. 

“Get a medic,” is what you settle with—slipping past on a fleet foot and new intel to pass on to Laswell. She’ll be intrigued, no doubt. 

One step closer, your mind hisses to you. Just a little bit longer.

It’s too late to gain a conscious now.

Emmett Kinsman had been dodging you for years—dodging the Task Force—but with one of his suppliers giving away a location you’d been unable to pin, there was hope for a swift resolution to this mess. 

The radio on your chest sizzles to life.

“Hart, sit-rep. How’s it lookin’ on the black site.” Kate’s American accent leaks into the earpiece attached to you, the cord looping the back of your neck and inserted into the shell; a device of black metal and plastic. 

“I have a location for Kinsman. Copenhagen,” you ease out, moving a finger to the earpiece and pressing. Glancing at the rows and rows of doors in this endless hallway of dark smoke and obsidian mirrors—you’re eager to get your boots to the ground. Your other hand snatches at the rag swinging from your belt, taking it out and rubbing at your face with it until the stain of oil and flecks of blood smear like frosting on a cake. “Where are the boys? I need to be wheels-up to meet them ASAP.”

“Coming to you.”  

“They’re here?” Your face twists as the words settle in, confused. “Why? Thought they were tracking another lead in Romania.” 

Kate’s voice is smooth in your ear, moving like water as you turn a corner, stuffing your rag back into your belt. 

“Are you surprised?” The woman jokes in a monotone; you’d only taken it as such because you knew her dry state of humor. “Really, Hart, you know he can’t stop until you’re back at his side. I was going to tell you sooner, but you were…occupied.” 

Your feet pause for a moment at the beginning of her sentence, instinctual heat moving the length of your neck until you clench your jaw and continue onward at a slightly slower pace—eyes narrowed on the floor ahead of you. 

“It isn’t like that, Kate,” you mutter. A low hum echoes the line and you fight a scowl as a group of soldiers walk past. Itching at your forearm, you shake your head. “John just likes having everyone together on missions like these. If it had been different, I’m sure he would have told me to fly back to them regardless of the intel. We’re tight on time.” 

“I’ve known you both for more years than I can remember,” Laswell sighs. “Don’t try that with me, Captain.” You frown, clicking your tongue. “They’ll be arriving on the tarmac—get ready for a quick exit. We need Kinsman by month’s end.” 

“Copy,” you utter, removing your hand from the earpiece and glaring ahead of you. A still-air silence envelopes the hallway, the only sound of your boots to the concrete and the reverberation that booms after. 

It was so quiet here. 

John Price—Captain Price—and yourself had a… complicated history. You’d joined up together; gotten through SAS selection neck-and-neck until time and its grubby fingers had forced your lives in different directions. Like two vines of reaching ivy, it had only been three years ago that you’d seen the other again, though you’d heard stories as you’re sure he had about you. 

Hart: not the kind that beats but the kind that bleats, you had to explain to most—you weren’t unknown to the darker side of the job and the people that specialized in it. Your file was stretched with so much black ink that when you’d gotten the call on your phone, an unknown number, you’d recognized the gruff voice behind it and the first question you’d asked was how the hell he’d gotten clearance to track you down. 

“No hello, then, Hart?”

“Not one for pleasantries, John. Explain. Quickly.”

“Business as always.” He’s wasted no time, voice going to a low grumble over the line that day. “Laswell took in a favor. You’ve been busy, Love…Room for one more joint-Op?”

It hadn’t panned out to only ‘one more joint-Op’. 

After the mission was over, it had been raining on base. The sky had shed tears from clouds deeper than the gray shades of your gear, splattering packed dirt and concrete. Above your head, the thin overhang off of the armory door had spared you some of it, but when the wind had shifted your clothes absorbed specks of water like spots on a fawn. Your eyes had been looking out—expression open. 

When the man exited the building and came up beside you, you both didn’t speak for a long time. You had been aware of his form, devoid of vest and gear, while yours was still layered with it to the utmost degree. You’d expected to leave that night—a good old-fashioned Irish Goodbye with a C-17 already waiting for you to board. To carry you off to another hellish deed done with ravaging cruelty for the sake of people who would never even know you existed.

The storm had stopped you…or, maybe something else had.

“Good to see you again, Hart,” John had stated, still not looking over at you as his arms had crossed, feet situating themselves. “Been too long.”

You had stayed silent—watching. The drain across the street was flooded. Sticks and leaves stuck at the drain as a whirlpool formed; only dangerous to bugs and the bits of garbage blown in by the wind. 

Only after the wind shifts again did you speak.

“And what has John Price been up to in that time?” Your eyes had slid to stare, piercing in the low illumination of the armory’s outside light. 

A huff of a chuckle, the one you’d remembered in the days of selection—coated in mud from crawling through man-made trenches and a sharp smirk of a snap when the barbed wire had grazed his back. 

There were too many stories here. Too many. So many it became impossible to wonder what could have been and what couldn’t—all that existed were the little moments of fondness.

The two of you were nothing else but souls long past redemption; stuck on that knife’s edge and waiting for the hand to shake and send you through it. 

You are made of memories. 

“That’s a story told over bourbon,” John’s lips had flickered, and you’d blinked slowly, head tilting. “Not anything worth reliving, yeah?” 

“Everything is relivable, Captain. You just need to find a reason as to why.” 

The man had nodded his head your way, conceding with his blank eyes ahead to the rain. A rumble of distant thunder had flown out, making your ears twitch. You couldn’t stop watching him now that you had the chance—the brunette strands; the fatigues, and that accent. The muscle you don’t remember him having in that specific place all those years ago. The wrinkles on his forehead from age and stress are shown in yours as a mirror. 

Tall; formidable. 

There was a tension in the air that you chose not to dwell on—the same that had been brewing for as long as you’d known him. 

“I want you to join up with me,” the sudden comment had made your body tense, eyes snapping away. In your pockets, your fingers twitch with surprise. 

“Join?”

“Thought I’d catch you before you disappeared again, yeah?” A sheen of slight embarrassment is over your skin. John chuckles again. “Extend a formal offer—Laswell was the one who suggested it.”

“Well,” you’d huffed, licking your lips. “Now I’m surely not accepting.” 

“Let me fuckin’ finish, Love,” John’s lips were pulled in a slight smirk—beard shifting. A pause as the wind whips again, shaking the trees before he grunts. “One-Four-One. My Task Force. Been thinking I’d need someone like you, but I knew you’d never agree to it.”

“Oh?” Your brow raises. 

“Not bloody stupid.” He sighs. “Thought I’d ask anyway. Give you a proper goodbye if you weren’t so keen on handing it out.”

“I don’t like goodbyes,” you mutter, hearing John’s feet shift—his boots scraping. 

“I know.” It’s low and even—not a prod or a dig. An observation. 

A hand is moved out to you, hovering. 

There isn’t any need for words when you glance down at it, and then up at him; staring into those blue eyes that so perfectly illustrate the hues of a roaring river, hidden away in the confines of a verdant forest.

A slow smile pulls at your lips, and you see the corner of the man’s eyes soften.

“Knew I’d get one out of you again,” he mutters as you slip your hand into his, a firm and all-encompassing heat of flesh and care. 

“Don’t get used to it, John.” Shaking his hand, you smirk, legs shifting. 

“Never,” he chuffs, squeezing your limb. 

You don’t know why you stayed under that overhang with him that night. You don’t think you’ll ever be able to explain it as you had looked up and seen the C-17 fly off without you in its cargo hold, hands resting on your vest collar and blue eyes watching you, slightly narrowed. 

You never even verbally told him you were sticking around…it had happened like a stray cat under the porch of your childhood home; taken in and cared for. Just the same, John never mentioned it beyond paperwork. 

Shaking your head, you blink back to the black site, turning that last corner and making it to one of the exits. Pushing the metal-reinforced door open, you shift outside and move a hand to cover the glare of the setting sun from your eyes, grunting. 

Laswell’s voice peaks back in as you jog toward the far-off body of a whirling plane, three figures just managing to walk down the ramp. 

“Hart? It’s Laswell.”

“Copy,” you say, knees taking the brunt of the heavy items you carry in pouches and have strapped to your form. “What is it?” 

“The Task Force is a go for Denmark—when you get there, I need everyone searching; we can’t lose him again.”

“Affirm. I’m on it, Kate.” You breathe. “John and I’ll get him. It’s personal for us, you know that.”

“That I do. Make sure to keep your heads on with this, Hart. Out.”

You lick your lips, nodding even if she can’t see you. 

Slowing as you near the plane, friendly smiles spark up from the two Sergeants. Gaz comes over, grasping at your shoulder and speaking above the engine behind him. 

“Ma’am! Good to have you back.” Soap chuckles, tilting his head your way as you grasp Kyle’s forearm—squeezing in greeting with a twinkle in your eye.

“Surprised to see us?” The Scot calls. 

You scoff. “Laswell gave you up.”

“Damn,” Kyle moves back, fixing the cap atop his head and glancing back at his fellow Sergeant. Simon nods from behind the two to which you respond in like. “She bloody betrayed us.” 

“Not as much as Kinsman,” the mood sours; lips thinning as you speak firmly. “Where’s John?” 

“Right here,” the man in question comes down the ramp, blue eyes meet yours. A second of inspection passes, eyes from both parties flickering up and down forms for any mistreatment—any ailments. “Kate already told me. We’re leaving now that we have you.”

Bumping Simon’s fist with yours as you pass him, you ascend the ramp, Soap muttering under his breath about the flight time from behind. 

Standing beside John, you pause like a bird, eyes half narrowed. “You didn’t have to pick me up, you know? I could have gotten another plane.”

The man the same rank as you hums, making sure the men are all inside and taking one last look out to the black site, eyes missing nothing down to the concrete structure to the lights that will soon illuminate the pure nothingness of the fields of this area.

“Wait time would have put us back.” Tiny eyes blink, a hand coming up to rest on his collar as his face shifts to you. “You good?”

“Always,” you mutter without hesitation. “Nothing from Romania, then?”

He grumbles, clenching his jaw and taking in your words. “Negative.”

A silence settles in which you quirk your brow—a small flicker of a smirk makes him turn away and stalk back into the hull, grunting in annoyance. You follow on silent feet. 

“That’s it? It must have been horrible, then. Care to explain?” 

“Get in your seat, Captain.” 

You hold back a low chuckle, walking beside him until you both come to the back of the plane—easing back into the hard plastic, you huff as you clip in your seatbelt. 

It’s all relative silence until the large metal beast is in the air; everyone's bodies shifting as the floor evens out. John and you take long breaths and, feeling the occasional jostle of the plane, you occupy yourself by picking at the dried blood all over your hands as the flight begins—Tony’s blood. 

Blue eyes blink down at you, watching from the side.

“He know anything important?” You stifle a yawn on your lips, one hand coming up to cover the open-jawed expression of tiredness. 

Glancing, you shrug with a slow response of, “Only a location. Even then I don’t know if it’ll pan out like we want it to, John.”

Everyone had been hoping for more, but they also knew that you were the best at interrogations and information retrieval. If you had called it that the man only knew a city and nothing else, John wasn’t one to question you. He knew better. 

A large hand shifts to grasp your right bloody one, picking it up and bringing it to his lap. You let him do it without protest, shoulders loosening at the roughness of his calluses moving across yours until the familiar ritual begins to take part like a black mass. 

Fingers twitching, you hear a hum as John takes out a rag from his pocket, opening it with a flick of his wrist. Moments later, the water bottle on the seat next to him is taken and the droplets that are left are scattered like rain over the fabric until they absorb. 

“All dirty, Love,” he grumbles as your eyes soften, watching him trace the lines of your palm with the wet rag—dabbing away the beads of red. Watching, you listen as he continues. “We’ll figure it out, eh?”

Blue locks with you, holding your gaze until the permanent set of his brows slowly loosens. “We will,” he reaffirms firmly.

“...I should have shot him when I had the chance,” you whisper to John, words low and tone nothing more than a mouse’s murmur; a small pebble hitting the ground. “Don’t lie and say it wasn’t my fault.”

“You’re going to fucking ruin yourself with that, Hart.” He advises, his cleaning of blood coming to a slow halt. “You did what you thought was best,” John leans in closer, not blinking as you try to move your head away with a half-hidden scoff. A damp hand grabs lightly at your chin, shifting it back as you blink in mild shock into John’s face. He doesn’t falter. “It’s all any of us can do, yeah?” 

As if it were nothing, he lets you go and shifts his focus back to cleaning your hand. You watch for a long moment, oblivious to the elbows hitting sides from farther down the hull, quick glances tossed between Sergeants and a Lieutenant who quirks a brow under his mask, huffing a sound in his throat.

“If I had,” you force back the stutter in your voice. “More people would still be alive.”

“Maybe,” John tilts his head, the rag brushing the length of your fingers. “Maybe not. We don’t know that, do we? No use wasting our breath talking about it then. What matters, Hart, is how we fix this.”

You sigh, repressing a shiver as his thumb brushes scars and blemishes, moving like moss over stone. 

“And we don’t leave our bloody problems for the next poor bastard, do we?” You puff air from your nose, shaking your head at the smirked comment. You watch John’s beard move with it—taking in the crinkling of his eyes and the way his knee hits yours. 

“Wonderful pep-talk, Captain.” You lean your head back against the netted sides of the aircraft, letting your eyes flutter shut; oblivious to the way he watches you. “The service is lost on you—therapist is right up your alley.”

“Fuck’s sake,” John scoffs. “I’d sooner go back to the academy than that.” 

“The food was utter shite, wasn’t it?” You agree.

“No need to bring it up,” John comments lowly, amusement thick in his words. 

You don’t know when you fell asleep, but you do know that the pressure around your limb stayed there for a long while—the rag moving over every sliver of skin until only the base was left behind; like a painter creating an ocean scene, shrouded in mist, every bit of red was gone. 

Your dreams are plagued by Emmett Kinsman. His sharp face; his sly eyes and his knack for being undetected.

He’d been a part of your and John’s class in the Royal Military Academy—when all was done, he’d graduated and begun to serve in the 22nd SAS Regiment just as the both of you had. There was never much interaction there, beyond shared drinks and a few good words, a single operation, but the bonds of brotherhood run deep. If given the chance over any deployment or service, John or yourself would have given your lives for him—for the boy you’d bled and persevered with to a point of utter loyalty akin to beasts; unrestrained by any threat of violence, sharp attitude, or past faults.

And in the end, he’d thrown that all away to get into bed with terrorists. 

Location: London, England

Time: 1718

Operation: ‘Purple Cloth’

Your eyes rest behind the glass of the bookstore, gazing out over the street from the second floor with a level of new-found skill and a surety in yourself. Fresh off the cut, you aren’t overly eager for this, but you’re assured in your abilities. 

There can be no failure.

Emmett is down below, sitting at a café and sipping tea as John is stationed at a building farther down the street; waiting. Another man, directly relaying information to Emmett, is at the café as well, sitting in the corner reading a newspaper and facing the individual you’re supposed to follow. Only the four of you for this, and you’re not overly familiar with half of them. John was your only shining grace. 

“Target’s getting the bill,” you shift your head into the collar of your shirt, muttering. “He’ll move soon.”

“He carrying?” John’s voice slithers in, a soft murmur. 

You stare, expression lax at the large body that shifts and stands with a tight shirt on, waving off the barista when she tells him to have a good day. “If I had to guess? Negative. Nothing big—no bulge at his spine. At the very opposite end, I’d say an X13 could be concealed and accessed via a slit in the pant’s pocket and in a holster at his thigh. They’re baggy enough for it, but the draw time’ll be longer. Drug runners are sloppy.”

John grunts, and you address Emmett. “How are we doing, Mate?” 

A smooth, suave, tone moves into your ear. “Not too bad, Sweet Thing. Else, I'd be better if you were sharing a drink with me before I disappear.”

“Only in your imagination, Kinsman,” John interrupts, unimpressed drawl taking your attention. “Keep on it.” 

“I swear I rank the same as you, Price. Where do you get off ordering me around like your dog?” The comment is so easily dismissed as a joke between comrades that there’s no hostility there.

“Since I was given oversight,” the amusement is easily taken in John’s voice. “I’m the one keeping your arse alive, eh?” 

The other addition to your team speaks up, a voice that in the future you’ve already long forgotten. He says to cut the chatter, and you have to agree. 

Emmett and the target are nearing an alley. 

“I’m heading down,” you utter, already turning and heading to the stairs, swiftly moving down them and exiting the building. 

“Copy,” John’s voice fizzles the line. “I’ll head them off.”

“Emmett,” you move to link up with the fourth member of the team as he joins at your side, both of you sharking a glance and a jerk of your heads. “Keep him away from civilians. We can’t deal with casualties in this populated of an area.”

“He won’t have a chance to shoot them,” the comment makes your brows furrow, the tone not a cocky gloat but rather...quiet. A moment of silence wafts out. “What in the bloody hell is that supposed to mean, Kinsman?” You frown tightly, your gut swirling with something unidentifiable. The X12 in the back of your baggy sweatshirt is heavy—suddenly ten times more so. 

In the corner of your eye, you see John far across the way shift, leaning before on a trash can, now standing upright. You swear you lock eyes with him, both gifted in all sense when it comes to war. Perhaps it was ingrained into both of your DNA—a knowledge of all things deadly; of threats unseen. Some primal and horrible understanding spanning back to when man had first raised a fist to another. 

“Oi,” your voice pushes. “What does that mean?” Feet pivoting, you move closer to the alley where the light shade of hair disappears. 

The line is silent. 

Silent before a loud gunshot rings.

Birds scatter, and you instinctively duck down, hand snapping to your service weapon as your eyes go wide. Head snapping about, you dash to the alley opening above the screaming; pushing past fleeing people.

“Hart!” 

“He’s in the alley!” 

“Do not engage until I get there, do you hear me?!” You’re already at the entrance, X12 ahead of you, and the safety flicked off with a heavy finger. “Hart!”

The body of your mark is on the ground—a bullet in the back of his skull. 

“Fuck!” You shout, feet slapping the concrete as you zoom past. “Price—target’s down, Emmett shot him in the damn head, on his tail now.”

“Fucking hell.” The man is growling out at you, voice heated.

Your eyes snap this way and that, weapon at the ready as you take a sharp turn. At the very end of the opening, you see him. 

Kinsman slips his service weapon back into the base of his spine, pulling at his shirt to cover the grip as a mass of the crowd is just behind him. He rushes quickly on long legs. 

“Emmett!” Your voice makes him freeze. There’s a long pause before anything is spoken; you have your sights trained—a perfect line-up to the roundness of his skull. 

“I had hoped to be fast enough,” the man tells you, head tilting to the side, “but I should have known you’d move head-long into danger without backup.”

“Hart,” John’s voice nearly startles you from the line. “Sitrep, now!”

“Why would you do that, Emmett?”

“There’s more to this than being pawns, Hart,” Kinsman growls at you. “I play my game right, I always come on top. I needed to earn their trust; our target had a price on his head and no one else could get as close as me. Well,” he pauses, “us.”

“I’m taking you in,” you grit your teeth, hands tight on the gun. You don’t even want to think about what he means by ‘their’ or his ‘game’. It was always word puzzles with this man—one second you had the right piece, and the next the entire picture had changed like sand in the waves of a tide.

“Are you really that torn up about a drug runner?” A scoff makes you hold back a snarl, but your resolve is shaking. This was a man you had trusted—now fast can something that was forged with steel break?

“He was just some filthy nobody, Hart.” Emmett starts walking into the crowd ahead of him, and in your mind you know if you take that shot you run the risk of shooting an innocent civilian. “I’ll be more than a nobody. Or a grunt soldier. People are going to know me.” 

Bodies flee quickly—screams. Mothers, children, husbands.

Kinsman smirks, and as your finger tightens on the trigger, he’s already swallowed by the hoard. 

“I’ll be seeing you.”

John and you sit in the safehouse, for a moment, surrounded by quiet and the smell of hot tea. One week in Denmark, and you have no leads. The other three are away, sleeping in the rooms down the hallway. 

“You’re still thinking about him,” John speaks up, eyes on you. It’s blunt, but that was just how he was. 

You peek your eyes open slowly, your body slouching in the chair and feet outstretched under the table. Your boot lightly touches John’s own. A long sigh exits your nose, grumbling on your tired lips. 

“John,” you level, drawing the name out like the years of your life. A thin warning. 

The man clenches his jaw slightly, bringing up his cup and taking a slow slip. You see the flesh of his throat bob with the liquid as it goes down, the overhead light of the kitchen only a single bulb of warm glow. 

“Been chasing him for years, Hart,” he says when the item is back to the woodgrain. Voice a deep murmur—a scrape of vocal chords. “We both have.”

“He knows too much,” you reply. “I can’t let him get away again. Strategies, operators, everything.” Your eyes shift as your head raises, blinking away the sleep in your glinting orbs. “For years he’s been under our nose, getting away with who knows what—”

“Hart,” your rant is interrupted, and you stop with a snap of your teeth. Blue eyes lock a concerned sheen to them. “Breathe.” 

Your face moves away, arms loosely crossed over your chest tensing. 

John’s body shifts to you, leaning forward until his elbows are resting on his knees. He stares, brows a line on his flesh. You send a swift glance, lips pulling. 

“...Stop that,” your voice murmurs, echoing off the walls of the kitchen. John blinks, not speaking as you move in your seat. The man tilts his head, a slow something making his lips go back slightly. Gradually, your face goes hotter, blinking at him a few times; sucked in like a fox to a trap. “John, quit it.”

“M’not doing anything, Love.” 

“Bullshit,” you try and glare at the looseness of his expression, his smirk that makes your gut tighten. Goosebumps move up your arms. “You’re a horror.”

A low chuckle wafts out, John shrugging casually before he leans back. 

He takes up his cup again and takes down the last of the remnants. “Go to sleep,” hits your ears as your pounding heart takes a breather. It’s a grumble on the air—not as much an order as it is a suggestion. “It’s late.” 

You decide to sip at your own drink as well, eyes drooping at the steam that wafts around your face, nose twitching to the scents. 

“You?” John hums, looking you up and down; seeing the fatigue you carry. You’d been relentless for the week you’d all been here, holding the few strings of the lead you had to your chest—five-fingered grasping with a desperate prayer to all things unholy.  

“I’ll be here.” You tilt your head his way, eyes still half-closed in your seat. Your answer is easy, pushed out in a slow sentence. 

“Then so will I.”

John sighs under his breath. It’s a moment before an exasperated chuckle moves through your earbuds. You smile, eyes slipping closed fully. 

Yet, they startle back open as the cup is taken from your hands, your chair moved back firmly. 

“Up you get, then,” John grunts, and his arms snake around you. Blinking quickly, your jaw is slack as you get taken up into a tight carry; John’s chest firm and your nose brushing the side of his chin. 

Air getting sucked into your lungs, you stifle a hitch in your breath. 

It’s only after he starts walking forward, hiking you farther up into him, and his fingers gliding over your clothes, that you start to relax. His heat seeps like a warm fire.

Head sagging to the side, you grumble into his neck as you miss his eyes looking down at you, eyes soft in a way only you would have been able to see. “Can walk, y’know.”

He hums, head shifting back to the hallway as he carries you to the last door on the right, bumping into the wood with his shoulder and shifting to walk in sideways so you don’t let your legs on the frame. 

“Remember Preu? 05’?” John asks you, moving over to the bed and setting you down slowly, a tiny huff exiting his mouth. Your body sinks into the mattress, head to the pillow as your hand comes up to rub at your eyes. The man moves to grab the blanket at the end of the bed—knowing your trained habit of sleeping atop the comforter on operations; not tangled up in sheets just in case. He slips off your boots. “Carried you two miles.”

“I recall it,” you grunt, a tired flicker coming to your lips. “Bleeding out and all.”

“Well,” John hums, quirking a brow. “Wasn’t about to let my Hart die on me. Blood was the least of my worries.” 

Your pulse flutters at the title, even if it’s just your codename and not the beating muscular organ inside of your breast. 

My Heart.

But it’s never that simple. 

A hand moves up your cheek, a kiss pressed to your forehead. 

The both of you already know you love each other. It wasn’t a secret. You were smart; eyes sharper than a blade—you caught the way he watched you, saw the softness of his expression, and felt the drag of his hand. Just as he caught the way you stayed beside him, an ever-present pair of eyes watching his six. The content nature that only you showed him. 

With feet so eager to leave at any moment, it said much that you chose to exist near him simply because you wanted to. 

You loved each other. 

Boil it down, and you’d both known even back in the Academy that it would be the two of you at the end of all things. The rivers said your name. The valleys rustled with the breeze of your breath. You saw John in the bits of water that sloshed the rocks and in the earth beneath your palms. 

Over the years you’d been apart, the yearning hadn’t been any less sharp—any less potent. In every birdsong, the echoes of the other's voice flew and disappeared on wingbeats. In everything that existed, there was a fraction of what should be. 

What should be. 

“John,” your voice is a whisper, nothing more than a rustle of a cloth. He keeps his lips to your forehead, resting there for a moment against all sense and responsibility. John’s eyes droop down, lashes resting on the swell of his cheeks. “You know I love you.”

He takes a breath. Rain is in the air—the movement of a storm’s wind. A leaving C-17. 

It’s a low mutter into your flesh.

“I know.” 

You grasp at his wrist, pulling lightly. Without a noise, John slips in beside you, kicking off his boots with a single clop of the soles to the wood and the movement of your blanket. He grunts, pushing his nose into your scalp, arms going around your middle. Your head slots under his chin, lips to his Adam’s apple.

The house is silent beyond the murmur of the pipes—the buzz of awaiting electricity. 

So many memories. So many lost dreams. It was akin to two skeletons lying in a grave of their own making, forever holding the bones of the other. Duty and honor are etched into the fractures. 

But he still holds you, he still murmurs into your ear, “Sleep, Love.”

“And you?” You ask, mirroring the conversation in the kitchen.

John’s lips move along your flesh, moving into a soft smile as he glances down at you. His beard scrapes you delicately.

“I’ll be here.”

Then it is here you’ll stay, dreaming of deer and the way nothing could compare to how he held you in his arms.

—

“I have eyes on,” your head snaps up, blankly staring ahead as your fingers hover over the hanging beads of a wind chime. You stand outside of a restaurant in the heart of Copenhagen. 

Laswell had sent in more eyes for the Task Force to use—local soldiers that knew the layout of the city better and where would be a good place to look. For days you’d been moving through the streets; far-off storage units and hidden buildings providing fruitless harvests. Anthony had said a warehouse, but that was panning out as nothing as well.

False information? Possibly, but unlikely. The man had been genuine in his pain and pleading, and it only served to confuse you more.

You had Gaz with you and five others, taking over as the leader of this fireteam while John headed the other with Johnny and Ghost. They were on the opposite side of the city, and you can’t help but compare this to the moment Emmett had become an enemy. 

But divide and conquer was the only option in times like these.

Emmett had become someone, just as he said he would. The man was in charge of supplying arms to terrorist organizations all over the world, and with his knowledge of how the SAS operates as well as any number of special forces, he’d utterly disappeared off the radar.

A wraith of lies and murder.

He had locations all over the globe with his goods, shipped out for money and power. 

And now you have a positive ID.

“Where are you,” your voice is hard and stiff, the body already moving back from the chime and leaving its little bits and bobs swinging. 

“Café down the street,” feet nearly locking together, you continue down the street to where you know Gaz’s last position was. “He’s just…sitting there.” A pause. “You want to know what it’s called in English, Ma’am?”

“The café?” your brows furrow, jogging across the street. 

“‘The Warehouse.’” Growling under your breath, you shake your head and send a curse into the air after a pause.

“I think the man thought he was clever,” Kyle’s voice is smooth and teasing. 

“Should have shot his other leg,” you grunt. “You told Laswell? John?”

“Negative, I’ll get on it—”

“I’ll do it,” you interrupt. “Tell the others to group up at your position and spread out to create a choke point; we can’t let him get away.”

“Rog. Will do.” 

You patch into John’s frequency.

“We have him,” you instantly breathe out. “Down Holbergsgade—café called ‘The Warehouse’.”

It’s swiftly that an answer hits you. “Get him surrounded, we’re coming.” 

Your heart is moving rapidly, fast in your chest as you pass people and business quickly. You didn’t like this—didn’t like the similarities, the…nostalgic dread that builds. A café of all places? Sitting down? Waiting?

It was so ironic it made alarm bells go off.

“John,” you lick your lips, glancing at faces as they pass. “I think he knows we’re here.”

“Explain.”

“A café?” John’s low grunt lets you know he understands. “Just sitting there? He knows—he’s not dumb enough to throw away all of his secrecy just as we so happen to get here and begin looking for him.”

“How sure are you?” The man takes your words into account, and you hear his breath puffing as he runs to your location. 

“Ninety,” you breathe. 

“Then I’m callin’ it off.” Your eyes widen, feet skidding as you come to a stop. 

You have no clue as to how far John will go to keep you safe—even if it means potentially letting one of the SAS’s highest HVTs go. There wasn’t anything that could compare to the thought of you getting in harm's way. Not you. 

John had spent his whole life watching soldiers die in the worst ways possible; they haunted his dreams and he knew they’d follow him to his grave—men he’d led down paths that they never should have been on. 

Not you. 

Losing you would break what little was left of him, the remnants held on by tape and sheer stubbornness. One of the last old faces he could still look at anymore; could draw comfort from in the thin hours. To hold and to love. 

You both knew you wouldn’t stand for it.

“No,” your voice cuts across, monotone. “I’m not allowing that.”

“Bloody hell, Hart, listen to me—do not,” John growls, making your spine tingle, “go after him. If he knows we’re fuckin’ here, we need to pull back and close off the area.”

You’re walking forward, that same pressure of a gun at the back of your spine. It was almost poetic. 

A thought sparks. Years of knowledge and understanding lighting up. 

Emmett was a snake. 

A snake that liked to play games and prove points; greed stuck into his brain for reasons you can’t quite say for certain. Even if you did catch him, he would never tell the locations of his goods or the buyers.

But there was one way to find out. One way this might turn.

“There’s a tracker in my arm,” you speak, growing more sure of your actions with every fast movement of your body. The café is just up the street, and a head of blonde hair is a knife to your vision. “I asked Laswell to insert and monitor it years back when I had to infiltrate a cell before I joined up with you again. Cautionary procedure since I had to forgo my rig and gear.”

A sharp bark. He knew what you were insinuating. “Hart!” You were going to get yourself taken hostage.

“Get Kate to watch it, John.” You move off his frequency before he can comment again, half of a roaring refusal cut off. Speaking to Gaz with a restricted throat, you say, “Kyle?”

“Right here, Ma’am.”

“Good. Don’t engage—I’m moving in.”

A stiff breath is taken in. “W…what was that?”

You don’t reply, only saying, “Whatever happens, I order you and the others to stay back, yeah?”

Your hand pulls the earpiece out and shoves it into your pocket right as you slip into the chair directly across from Emmett Kinsman. 

“Emmett,” you say in greeting, moving up a few fingers to a barista with a low call of your order. The individual nods and moves off before you lock on green eyes; they nearly make you flinch. 

You can only imagine what Gaz is telling John right now. 

Kinsman blinks at you, but he isn’t surprised. You were right.

“Hart,” the man smiles. His voice is still the same, though he looks older. “Pleasure seeing you again. Enjoying the sights of the city?”

“Not particularly,” you stare at him.

He chuckles, tilting his head before he brings his drink to his lips. He swallows and continues. 

“You always were serious. No fun.” You take the insult without any emotion, blinking at him slowly. What was his play?

“Why?”

“You already know why,” he shrugs, dressed in a nice suit. “I’ve made a name for myself—my name will be remembered for ages.” A twinkle in his eye. “SAS soldier turned weapon supplier; isn’t it exciting.”

“It’s a disgrace,” you lean forward, only stopping your voice from rising as a cup is placed down in front of you by the barista. 

Your face plasters a fake smile and you nod, moving it in front of you. Emmett watches with a smirk.

“I call it a change of heart.” He sighs, smirk simmering to a casual smile. “But I am glad to see you, you’ve been creating a big mess of things and I took it upon myself to have a meeting between us as old friends.”

“I’m not your friend,” you growl. “You’ve killed innocent people for no more than a fucking paycheck.”

“Well,” he snorts. “I don’t kill anyone. I’m the middle man—there’s a difference.”

Rage makes your eyes go to slits.

“And innocents, Sweet Thing?” Emmett leans in closer, face so smug and open you want to pull your weapon on him and worry about the consequences later. “What do I call what you do then?”

“A necessary evil,” you huff. “One I carry on my shoulders just like every other soldier does. One that was far better than supplying terrorists.”

Kinsman shrugs, moving back and picking up his drink, swirling it. “If you say so.” He hums. “You have to try the pastries here, you know. They’re very good.”

“I know you’re here because you expected us to find you, what I can’t figure out is why you broke your cover in the open instead of turning yourself in.” You look around at the faces in the outdoor seating, studying them trying to pinpoint if they’re civilians or in league with Kinsman. “Tell me before I decide to shoot you right here and now and end this regardless of hidden goods.”

“You already tried that, Hart,” Emmett laughs. “Pointing a gun at me didn’t work last time.”

“I’m not going to use a gun,” you ease out. “I’m going to take the butter knife on the table and slit your throat.”

“Uncivilized,” Emmet grumbles, frowning at the silver object near your hands. “It isn’t even sharp.”

“Good.” Green eyes narrow, unimpressed. He sighs, fingers moving in an outward gesture of exasperation. 

“If you must know before the main finale, I wanted to bring you here to say that I’m thoroughly impressed with your drive.” You try to stave off the shock in your stomach at the words coming out like a charmer’s flute. Raising a slow brow, you’re caught off guard. Emmett chuckles. “You nearly caught me at several instances throughout our game of cat and mouse. Many times I forget who the assigned roles were even given to; I’m telling you that I had fun.”

You stare, face tight. 

Emmett hums and his eyes go to slits. 

“But every game has to come to an end. I’m growing tired of it.”

The building across the street erupts into a great ball of fire.

—

John hears the explosion in the air, the shockwave that leaves his body halting to look into the sky in time to see black smoke.

“Fuck,” he says under his breath. “Fuck!” 

He rushes into the panicked crowd, memories stuck in his head and a bone-deep fear he’d been feeling since you cut the connection in your earpiece. Gaz had been relaying to him what was going on action for action—a football game, only the difference was that your life was on the line. 

“Kate,” John shouts. “Get the authorities down here now! We have an explosion on Holbergsgade.”

“Explosion?” The woman’s voice is sharp and disbelieving. “What’s going on—”

“Hart’s in the bloody crossfire, there’s no time!” John’s face is tight, wind whipping past his ears as screams fly on the wind; crying. “The fool is trying to get herself taken fucking hostage for intel!”

Whatever else was said was lost to the wind—Gaz comes over the line, calling to him in a panic as Johnny and Simon join in. 

“The entire building just went up in—”

“Fucking Christ—”

“Price, what is this?”

“All of you get down here!” John sprints past people on the ground, ripping his gun out of the back of his waistband. There’s no arguing. 

When the Captain turns the last corner, carnage greets him. 

The building across from the café was reduced to nothing but rubble and a still-burning flame. Eyes wide, John only looks at it for a few moments, too preoccupied with you.

Where were you? 

His jaw clenches, eyes burning with rage. Such a perfect soldier yet such a flawed sense of teamwork, he had a feeling you’d try something like this—had left Gaz with you for that very reason. Fuck he should have been at your side. He should have known. 

A low grumble moves through his lips, head snapping all around. There are bodies on the ground. Blood pooling under thick building material—fabric in the breeze. 

“Hart!” John yells, running to the café and seeing the remnants of a fast fight. 

The Captain’s heart drops to his feet, face burning with hellfire so much that a sheen comes to his cheek. His hand moves out to touch the handle of a butter knife that had been slammed into the table now half-fallen over, eyes stuck on only one thing on the ground under it.

Through the wails and the call of sirens, the man stares at the two long fingers sitting in the dust.

Never in his life had he felt a fear like this.

—

“I wanted to be kind about this,” Emmett fiddles with the wrappings of his bandaged left hand, only three fingers remaining. “I was going to make it quick.”

You’re locked in a cell-like room, head to the side and blood leaking out of a cut face. Burns travel up your arm, the sticky puss leaking out only serving to make you shiver. You don’t know where you are—don’t know what happened after you severed Kinsman’s fingers with that knife.

But you know the pain isn’t something that you haven’t already gone through before. 

Your voice is hoarse but firm as it leaks out of you, vision spotty. You’d been thrown in here after a ride in the trunk of a car. The ground is concrete. 

“...Don’t make me laugh.”

Emmett growls, eyes wide with hatred. 

“Pathetic!” He barks eyes looking you over with disgust. “Look at what you did to my hand!”

His other hand connects with the bars of the cage, producing a metal ringing sound as you push yourself up with one arm, eyelids flinching in pain. Sitting up, your body falls back to the wall behind it, and you grunt when the air in your lungs is expelled. You lick at your dust-coated lips, your head ringing and your focus failing. Concussion. 

“Least of your worries,” you roll your jaw, a wave of pain making your body seize up and your hands tense with quivering shakes. Your mouth opens with sharp pants. Bile pools in the base of your throat. 

It’s nothing. 

John will come soon. The tracker. If Laswell can get it working again, you’d be out of here and you would have whatever this location turns out to be and the intel that it can offer you—computer databases would be a one-and-done game. You would get names, coordinates, and buyers. It could all be over. 

Your clothes are melted into your skin, and when you move, they peel away with the remnant of your epidermis. The flesh of your left thigh and arm had taken the worst of it—and the cut from flying debris over your left cheek hasn’t stopped bleeding. 

Blood drips from it, and a loud ache makes your head pound all the worse. 

You’ve gone through worse.

“I don’t know why I bother,” Emmett snarls, the crimson bandages thick over his hand. “But it isn’t a problem,” he says, moving his other hand to slick back his hair. “It isn’t a problem,” the man utters again. “You’re going to help me. Yes…I’ve made up my mind. I need you to understand why I do the things I do.” 

Your brows furrow, but above this burning in your head, it’s hard to understand what’s being said to you. Shadows move and Emmett orders one of his men to open the cell door.

You fight the black dots at the sides of your vision, leaking until you’ve accepted the reality of yourself going unconscious. As your body slouches to the side, hands ruthlessly grasp under your arms and drag you to your feet. 

“Everyone has a breaking point.”

—

“What do you mean,” John glares at Laswell, his arms crossed over his chest; hands tightly grasping at his biceps. “You can’t find her?”

“The tracker was old, John,” the woman tries to explain, furiously typing at her computer that rests on the table in front of her—her spine bent over as the rest of the One-Four-One stay in a limbo of anxious looks. “To get it working again, it would need something to restart it. I don’t know if you can see,” Kate’s eyes are hard as they lock with his, “but I can’t do anything if she’s not here first.”

“Well of course she’d not bloody here Laswell, fucking Kinsman has her!” He shouts, hands moving out in a display of aggression. 

“Captain,” Kate rises to the challenge, hand moving flat to the table and glaring with the heat of a thousand missiles. “Do not take that tone with me.” 

John snarls and jerks his head away, feet on the ground trading weight. 

The man was borderline feral—all snapping teeth and sharp glances. Gaz had seen him like this only a handful of times, MacTavish even fewer. Ghost, of course, knew, but even his brown eyes wouldn’t leave his Captain, absorbed in the way he was unable to stay still for even a moment. He was in full gear, too. Had put it on directly after returning to a local base. 

John was ready to go to war, down to the rifle that swung from a strap at his side, the ammunition stuffed to his chest—sidearm at his thigh. A rabid dog with intelligence and the knowledge of where teeth needed to be applied to a neck for a clean kill. Simon doubted he wanted it to be clean.

John was ready to rip people to pieces. 

“Give me something,” the Captain says in a low growl, beard shifting. “Give me what I need.”

Kate splays her hands. “All we have is surveillance of a car leaving the area—the smoke covers all chances of the drone we had flying picking up a clear picture. John,” Laswell eases, standing up, “there’s only so much we can do. We need to wait—”

“We can’t bloody wait,” Gaz speaks up, “What’ll he do to her in the meantime?”

“Garrick’s right, we need to be on the ground with this.” Johnny nods, mohawk bobbing. “That’s one of our own—we’re not sitting around with our thumbs up our arses, Laswell. Not with Hart.”

Simon blinks, humming. Laswell’s eyes shift to him, near pleading for one to be on her side with this and see sense. Ghost shrugs. “I’m with them. Hart’s one of our own; we’ll do what needs to be done.”

John’s chest swells with pride while his eyes get stuck on your file on the table, your printed picture, and your black ink—he’d never loved an image more, but nothing could beat the real thing. He needed you back. He’d gone through hell with you for his entire life; you’d suffered with him and only locked your hands together and held on tighter. 

That was love—that was duty.

John Price wasn’t against skewing his morals for the sake of your safety. You would always be his most important mission. The man didn’t want to think about what might happen if he found you too late.

“Give me the video of the vehicle,” he grunts, jaw tight and his eyes beady. His body slightly leans forward to Kate, love going lower. “Or I’m going out there myself.” 

Laswell frowns tightly at him. 

“I just sent it into forensics—they’re trying to get a match. Go out if you want, but I won’t be able to stop the firestorm that comes out of it.”

She closes her laptop and moves past him, sending one last comment into the stone man as he towers ever taller.

“She’s strong, John. If you’re smart, you’ll keep yourself out of the crossfire until we have a definitive hit.” 

Her voice echoes from behind him as his hands slowly move to clench into knuckle-whitening fists.

“If Kinsman gets a tip we’re still onto him—you’ll never see Hart again.”

—

Day Three:

Your days start blending. One moment you hear the snapping of your bones, and then the next you’re wasting away in this cell—ears ringing and eyes buggy. So much blood. Blood on the walls—blood on the chair they strap you into in the other room; even stuck in the groves of your flesh. 

You don’t think you can stop closing your eyes and seeing a deer at the bottom of a bridge drop-off. It’s stuck in your head like a virus; those car lights in the back of your mind just waiting for you. 

There’s no sense as to what they do to you—all its purpose is, is to prove a point to Emmett. A sort of broken retribution for your interference and his fingers. 

Vain man, really. You’d told him as much when he was watching you get your own finger torn off my pliers; spit it at him as the blood from your bitten tongue stayed his suit. You remember the feeling of the knuckle popping first, and then the burning heat of the flesh being twisted to the side. Two firm yanks and the flesh had sprung like elastic, fissuring, the tendon snapping. 

You think you blacked out after that, but you can’t be sure. All you remember doing is screaming. 

You woke up with your left pinkie finger completely gone, resting outside in the hallway to mock you from past the bars. Your eyes could see the bone sticking out of it, and all that was left on you was a badly cauterized stump. 

When Emmett had come to gloat, you started slurring out laughter. 

“I’m going to rip you apart.” Your broken body had jerked back and forth like a marionette doll, only succeeding in spreading more red over the floors as green eyes widened and went dumbfounded. 

It sounded like a choking fish.

All he’d done was left, quickly passing the pinkie left limp on the ground.

Day five:

You can’t move your body as they dump you back into the chair—the drain below you flooded over with crimson and bits of hair; vomit and torn-off fingernails. You’re unable to open your eyelids fully. 

A hand grasps at your face, yanking it up into the overhead light until a bucket of water is dumped directly over your head. Your body jerks, coughing and darting forward until you’re shoved to the back of the chair and the rope is tied around the front of your shoulders, the second at your wrists.

Trying to suck down air, you shiver with the strength of an earthquake. Whoever said that they would never be afraid while being tortured was a liar; whoever thinks that they would be able to push through it—a fraud. Emmett was right, everyone had a breaking point.

But you admitted yours would only come after your death.

Your legs are seized, bent up as you hiss as well as you’re able, teeth snapping. 

They’re dumped back down into a bucket of ice-cold water as droplets drip from your nose—wet skin for the moment only holding streaks of gore. Even with your scattered mind, you know what this means. 

Heart tight and eyes widening, you try to push back in the chair; try to fight the rope and the way your body won’t respond. 

A battery is rolled up beside you on a metal cart. Jumper cables. 

There’s a low chuckle at the way your face goes fearful. 

—

John shoves open the door to Laswell’s temporary office, already talking before it hits the far wall. 

“Do we have her?” His hands move beside him, brushing the grip of his sidearm. He hadn’t been out of his full gear for more than five minutes in days. Waiting day and night for any word; sleeping in it, eating in it. The forensics team had been stumped, unable to get more than a model out of the picture. 

But this might finally give him something to act on. 

Kate is moving, grabbing documents and her laptop, speeding past him and out of the door. 

“Kate!” John shouts, following after. “Hey,” he calls, grabbing at her arm to stop her. 

The woman only halts to say, quickly, “We have a hit. Follow me.”

John’s heart is rampaging, pulse wild under his skin as his gloved hands twitch. Finally. He can only smoke so many cigars—only think of so many scenarios until he feels he needs to vomit. You’d been gone for too long. Every moment had been like trying to walk with a cloth over his head; lost. 

He’d grown stiff. Stiffer than normal. Everyone had seen it.

“Where is it, then?” John asks as Laswell pushes open the door to the meeting room, the other three already inside.

“A property outside of Copenhagen—bought through a proxy on a fund that was linked to blood money in South America; it all went directly back to Kinsman. It was found only ten minutes ago.” A pause. Electricity in the air. “But that’s not how we found it.”

“How,” Simon asks, moving closer. 

John gives the woman his full undivided attention, hands moving to rest at his collar in a soothing gesture. 

“Her tracker came back on.” Eyes go wide, all sharing rapid glances as Kate opens her laptop and opens a man, turning the device for them to see. “Same location.”

Johnny blinks, his eyes narrowing. “And what does that mean?”

“That can’t have just done that by itself,” Gaz mutters, brown eyes sliding over to John who’s stiller than a wolf. The Sergeant pauses. 

His eyes are dead set on that screen. His thighs were so tense it was nearly like the Captain was about to sprint out of the room. Kyle’s face goes blank at that, never quite seeing the extent that your disappearance had on the man. His superior had bags under his eyes; far more pale than usual. His apparel was ruffled, too. Even in the more serious of situations, the Sergeant had never seen John so…out of it. He was always the one with the even head, even if he had a short fuse with certain things. Nothing was ever done without thought, he should say. 

But this is something else. 

“Torture,” Simon gives his two cents and John’s cheek twitches at the word. “Electrocution. They jump-started it and didn’t even know.” 

“Bloody Jesus,” John breathes. Everyone had already had a hunch, but no one had wanted to name it. 

It’s a low rumble that makes the rest of them freeze, though. It was so dead in tone that it even made Kyle’s spine lock up; Johnny’s eyes went a smidgen upward. Simon, although his face was covered, felt his lips twitch.

John looks at nothing but that dot on the computer screen.

“Am I green, Laswell?”

Kate looks at John. It’s like setting a hellhound loose. 

“You’re green, Captain.”

—

You’re tossed into the cell and your body rolls along the floor, bouncing and flinching until your back slams into the wall. Air is forced from your lungs, coming out in a loud grunt before you land on your stomach in a heap. Staying there, your nerves are fried. 

Every moment you think the twitching of your fingers will stop—the dance of your muscles responding to the aftereffects of electrocution, it only starts back up again. Your eyes blink rapidly; your clothes have the scent of smoke to them. 

Gasping for breath, you feel like you’re drowning and being set on fire all at once. 

Yet the question in your head was a simple one, one you’d been asking for days.

Where was John?

Emmett enters the cell, clicking his tongue as the metal hinges squeak. 

“I’m not surprised it’s taking this long,” he explains. “But I am surprised you’re still alive, admittingly.” 

A boot comes out and places itself atop your shoulder, pressing down slowly until its full weight is on top of you. Your mouth opens in a shuddering sound of a dying animal, blood dripping from your ears and nose. 

“I know you’ve taken torture before—even taken a part of it,” Kinsman sighs. “But, shit Hart, you really do scare me when I know you’re strong enough to get through th—”

Your body jolts up, grappling Emmet’s leg and twisting it to the side. Regardless of pain—of agony—there’s such primal rage inside of you that what little adrenaline you can bring forth is all that more addictive. 

The man collapses in a heap, gasping, but you’re already on top of him, wrestling your hand to his neck, missing finger and all. Blood moves, staining his precious suit and dripping from your mouth into his hairline. You bare down your weight on him, teeth clenched and eyes wild—one orb holding nothing but red from burst veins and the other full of a vicious gleam of ferality. 

Hands snap up to your wrists, mouth opening in flapping panic. 

But Emmett has grown weak; he’s out of practice. All of those years out of the SAS, giving up on the training of the body to match the mind. The idiot wasn’t even carrying a gun when he walked into the cell of a charging stag, its antlers dripping gore, sharper than any knife. 

When the flaps of his eyes fall there’s no gloating speech—there’s no snort of a tall and proper victor. All you do is take the front of his face, grasp it, and start sending his skull back into the concrete floors. 

Crack.

…Crack.

….Crack.

Only when the sound of his head breaking open meets your ringing ears, do you force your wheezing lungs to take a large breath. 

Emmet Kinsman died as he lived. 

A fucking piece of shit.

“Fuck you,” you spit on his corpse, saliva bloody; his jaw is loose as you release the man’s face, eyes bulging. Falling to the side, you groan in pain, your body curling into itself until you resemble a sleeping fawn. You’re shaking more and more with every second, coughing with the force of an earthquake until your shredded vocal chores force you to stop. 

But the brain is a funny thing. 

In times of danger, survival is the only thing that takes priority. It was why, in a long shove of your hand to the floor, with your bones creaking and your vomit meeting the ground, you’re able to stand. It isn’t enough to help you heal the snapped bone of your right leg, however, and in a steadily failing stupor, you drag it behind you. In this state, nothing else matters to you besides a simple command: get out.

Your shoulder slaps the metal of the cell as you stumble out of it, careening into the far wall and letting out a loud shout. 

Eyes fluttering, you connect your temple to the cool concrete, trying to breathe. 

It hurts too much, your mind says. God, I can’t feel my limbs. 

A long trail of blood follows you down the hallway as you slide along the wall, using it as a brace. 

You want to see John, you whisper inside of your head. You want to be held by him—be taken into his chest; cared for away from all of this fighting. 

A trip back to Herefordshire with him, to go deep into the country together; rest in the green grass where no one can find you for just a few good hours. It didn’t have to be forever, you would say. Just a few hours. A few hours of sky and earth wrapped in a time loop of just your own. 

You want to kiss him there. In the open, out in the wild. You want to stay by his side, your mind thinks as you stumble over the three dead bodies in the left corridor, bullet wounds in their heads. You want to be by his side forever, no more gaps in years, not more longing. It’s so close you can nearly reach out and grasp it—

Your name is yelled on a heavy breath, and hands capture your shoulders as you fall straight into them with no more strength.

Blue eyes lock with yours as you’re hurriedly settled to the ground, body limp and eyes trying to stay open. 

Blue eyes on a grassy hill.

“Hart, fucking hell.” Hands move your body, pressing and sliding—finding every opening and spreading blood like water. “Fucking hell! Hey!”

You’re yelled at, and the ripping of pouches and the familiar sound of bandages being wrapped come to the back of your brain. A hand shakes your head, locked under your chin as you take slow, broken, breaths. 

“Please, fuck sake, please,” it’s a desperate growl, so familiar and yet a world away. Your body is moved and manipulated as every leaking wound is packed with so much gauze it hangs out of you like you’re a mummy. The burns along your flesh are crust and infected, open skin peeling back. 

But the pain is lesser now. Easier to manage. 

There’s such a ruckus that it’s hard to focus on John—the man on the hill. In the grass and the wind. Brown hair moves in the breeze as white clouds roll past. On the air, there’s the scent of rain, and in the far distance, you can see a group of ten deer grazing, ears twitching.

Maybe you’ll ask them if they blame their leader, or the two trucks on the end of a bridge.

“Keep your eyes on me!” You blink into John’s tiny blues, that mist rolling back. You stare for a moment as he frantically screams into his radio; night vision rig on his head and all-black gear covering him from you. His face is pale, his eyes glossy. “Look at me, hey,” he blinks as he notices you watching, surging forward. “Hey, keep 'em open, yeah? You keep them fucking open, Love.” 

Your chest is heavy. 

“John,” you push out a flicker coming to your lips as your vision slightly unblurs itself to the sight of a flood of blood on the man’s body—an unimaginable amount.

“I’m ‘ere,” his accent grows deeper with emotion, one hand holding your cheek and the other at your shoulder, keeping you still to stop any additional damage. “I’ve got you, you understand me? I’m not letting you go, so don’t you think that I will.” 

It’s a double-edged sword.

A smile peels back your chapped lips, red running from the corner of your mouth. You glance at his stained gear again. The abyss swirls at the corners of your eyes.

“Is that your blood, or mine, John Price?” 

You hear him scream for a medic, and then it all goes numb.

—

You dream of deer on a hill, but every time you search for John, he isn’t there. You go past rivers—

“She’s dropping!”

“Get me the defibrillator!”

—past copses. Your voice goes high and low, but all the while you look, there’s nothing but a nagging feeling in the back of your head that you shouldn’t be here.

“Again!”

It’s a strange nagging, truly. Like falling asleep in the middle of the day and waking up in the night without any remembrance of what had happened prior. A displacement of the mind. 

“We’ve got a pulse, Doctor, do we stop and—”

“No, I need to finish off the internal bleeding or else she won’t make it another day. Get me the cauterizer, now.”

You blink and grip your chest, a sudden pain sharp in your heart as the grass moves about your ankles. Coughing, you bend over, your eyes fluttering rapidly. In the deepest part of your eardrum, you hear a murmur of a voice you can’t place.

“The man came back, again. He’s been out there for days. He just…sits there, waiting until someone tells him something. He can’t come in, and I’m sorry about that. I’m sure hearing his voice would help more than mine, but you’re in too much of an unstable condition for that. If you get another infection, you won’t…hm, I shouldn’t talk about that. Everyone in school said only to talk positively to patients when they’re like this. I…I’m sure he’ll be able to come in soon. I think everyone calls him John if that rings a bell?”

“John?” Your eyes flutter open, sharp light above you making you snap them back closed. No one answers. 

It’s a long moment before you find the strength to breathe in the oxygen from the mask over your face, taking a long and deep inhale before a slight cough makes your abdomen tight. You flinch at the pull of stitches, all coming from so many places, that it’s unwise to move too much. 

Gradually, you open back up your eyes, pushing past the sting. Inside of your throat, the skin is so dried out you can feel it cracking at every articulation of your words. 

“Where's…John?” When you shift your head to the side, no one’s there. No one’s even in the room, either.

Blinking through the haze, your lips twitch on your face, skin tight. With a slap of your weak hand, you grasp the oxygen mask and pull it down to your neck, grunting in mild annoyance at the medicated numbness of your form. 

Your leg is in a cast—and your left side is tightly bound by wrappings to hide away the burns where skin grafts most likely live. With a glance, you see the missing pinky and the bandages that cover the strange remnants. 

The facial wound will scar, you know, but right now it’s patched over and healing. That’s all you can ask for. 

Sighing long, you blink slowly at the ceiling, licking your lips. You need water.

Outside, the murmurs are missed to you as your unmarred hand reaches for the nightstand table, where a half-drunk bottle of water sits next to a tray of food. Even if your stomach rumbles, water takes precedence. Your throat was like the Sahara desert.

“Forget something, John?”

“Bloody fork. The bastard gave me the slip. Dropped mine, needed to go back and grab another.”

“Oh, that’s alright—you could have asked one of us to get one for you. We’d hate for you to miss any time for visiting hours.”

“It’s fine; gets me moving, eh?”

“Just grab us if you need anything else!”

A low grunt is accented by the opening of the door; immediately you tense and pause, neck fighting itself to shift forward once more.

Wide blues lock with your own, and it’s like every pain fades away. 

John’s jaw is slack hidden under the layers of his beard bristles, brows going atop his head in an instant. The sound of a dropping metal utensil echoes through the room. 

You both stare at one another for a long time, and the murmur of nurses accumulates to some peaking through the crack; their expressions also going to shock. A few scurry off, probably to get a doctor. 

“What?” Your hoarse voice asks, unnerved by this. 

At the sound of your voice, John flinches forward on his boots. The nurses get shut out with beaming faces as the barrier closes with a small click of metal.

Walking to the side of your bed, John clears his throat, eyes looking you up and down in two glances. A million things are hidden in them. After an opening and closing of his mouth, which you watch closely while squinting, he speaks.

“How are we feeling, then?” You breathe slowly and in tiny puffs. John looks at the oxygen mask as if telling you to put it back on, but you refuse for a moment. 

“Like shit,” you utter, voice cracking.

With a huff, John pushes away your reaching hand and gets the water himself, unscrewing it. Bringing it to your lips, you take it down as he speaks.

“Easy, Love.” 

When you’d had your fill and the ache settled, you brought a hand to your head and rubbed at your injured cheek before John sighed and grabbed at it, intertwining his fingers with yours and lowering the limb back to your chest.

You stare at him, and he stares at you. 

“I don’t know what to ask,” you confess. 

“You don’t have to ask anything,” John mutters, and his face is tight with worry. “You’ve been in a coma for three weeks, all you need to do is ease back into it.”

Your eyes snap back.

“Tell me if it hurts,” He speaks slowly, moving on one word at a time so the realization doesn’t dwell in your brain. “I can get someone to come in, yeah?”

Your hand in his burns, and John pulls at the chair by the nightstand until he’s able to sit down in it fully with a tiny grunt.

“No,” you say, “no, it’s…I’m fine.”

Better now that you’re here, but your body is tense. Three weeks?

“Just need to take it easy,” the man states, thumb running up and down your knuckles. “You’ll be better soon.”

A dry look is sent his way, and he hides a soft quirk on his lips. “You’ll be better, Love.”

You hum, head moving back more heavily into the pillow. 

“When do I get to go back?”

“When you’re healed,” he grunts. “Not a fuckin’ moment sooner.”

“We get anything on the other locations of the—”

“Hart,” you’re interrupted. Blue eyes stare at you heavily, digging past every shield you’d put up and every fear. What happened was still heavy in your mind; it pained you to imagine it, even the way John had found you—even if it was all glimpses. “Slow down. That’s not an order coming from a soldier, it’s a caution from an old friend.” John says, squeezing your flesh. His other hand comes to your shoulder, sitting there heavily. 

“Breathe,” he orders, face gruff. “We always figure it out.” 

You close your eyes and sigh, frowning. 

A low chuckle moves along the air a second later. 

“Never sit down, do you?” A flicker dances over your lips like a butterfly. “Impossible, you are.”

“You’re one to talk,” you huff, eyes shifting back to him. 

He’s smiling at you, and you can’t help but mirror it right back at the sight. Your facial injury pulls and tightens, but you would welcome an ache like that for as long as it stayed. A scar born of the stretch of lips is one well-earned. Only John could ever make it a reality.

The man stares at your lips, his wide build eager to stay over you in this state. He can’t stop himself from caressing your skin; to feel you alive and breathing. Talking.

“Scared me,” John admits under his breath. 

You blink, your smile fading slowly until it was like it was never there. Your body builds with guilt; also something only he could bring. “I’m sorry, John.” 

A small thinning of his lips is what you get, accented by a hum. 

“Hart,” he grunts. “I…”

John’s eyes closed for a moment before opening back up—spearing you with their gaze. Your tired eyes crinkle in confusion.

“What is it?” Over the tingle of your flesh from where he touches you, it isn’t hard to forget the world is around you when he’s here like this. You’re nearly trapped by his eyes, yet you welcome it eagerly. His voice moves out, accent and natural gravel, all. 

“I love you.” 

Your nose lets a chuff exit. Was that all?

“I love you, too, John—”

“No, Hart,” he pushes slightly harder, moving closer and licking his lips as he glances away. “No,” John looks you dead in the eye as you lay here battered and broken within an inch of your life—a risk that you took willingly as if it had meant nothing. The both of you weren’t new to this; you both knew that on any day you or he would do it over and over again until it resulted in death. That was the way of this game; this trial. 

You had both always been content with that, but when had it changed? 

Why was the thought of losing you more fear-invoking than anything else he’d ever encountered?

You watch him as his lips utter the words, lips close to yours and your eyes locked. 

“I love you.” 

Your voice is caught in your throat, stuck in the throws of a quick gasp. Not blinking, the man waits for you—waits for an answer to the earth-shattering confession. But it all came far easier than you would ever admit to anybody besides him. It was already known, after all. 

All that remained was the pesky words.

“I love you, too.” You beam, words low with intimacy. “I think I always have.”

John chuckles, a large smile pushing at his reddening cheeks. “Good,” he nods, clearing his throat. “Good,” he says again. “Well, I—”

You softly connect your lips with his, and you feel him pause, breathing you down for a moment as hearts beat at the same tempo. He sighs, one hand coming up to capture your cheek, holding it there for you as you sag into it and live in this everlasting moment. 

It’s there you had a revelation.

It was never Hart to him. John had never been calling you that. 

He’d always just been saying Heart.

You breathe out a laugh, when you separate, beaming in a happiness you thought was long gone from you—stolen in the dark nights and sold through even darker deeds. Neither of you was worthy of this, of the love that breeds in broken things. Yet, here it is regardless. Here, among blood and the blue eyes of a man you’d known since knowing anything became important. You had always known it was John. And finally, finally, finally.

“I would marry you in an instant, John Price,” you breathe when you separate, not weak enough to stop the words from exiting from the deepest part of your soul.

His crinkled eyes watch, reverently gazing at every blemish and mark; everything he could learn new again. John’s eyes are as soft as you ever imagined them to be, and he gives them over freely to you.

He kisses you again and leaves the taste of his heavy, happy, chuckle tingling across your lips.

“Seems I’d better get on that, then.”

A/N: This fic is strangely nostalgic for me even if I just wrote it - I remember the first ever fic I posted on here was a rescue fic, as well as a John Price fic; it's amazing to see how far I've come in regards to overall content/story building and how my understanding of the character has evolved. This might not be the best work I've posted on my blog, but I'm glad to say I'm proud of myself and how far I've come. It's so wonderful that I can have this feeling for such a big moment and still feel so drawn back to the past at the same time. Totally not tearing up at the thought rn.

Thank you all very much for your support.

TAGS:

@sheviro-blog, @ivebeentrashsince2001, @mrshesh, @berryjuicyy, @romantic-homicide, @kmi-02, @neelehksttr, @littlemisstrouble, @copperchromewriting , @coelhho-brannco, @pumpkinwitchcrusade, @fictional-men-have-my-heart, @sleepyqueerenergy, @cumikering, @everything-was-dark, @marmie-noir, @anna-banana27, @iamcautiouslyoptimistic, @irenelunarsworld, @rvjaa, @sarcanti, @aeneanc, @not-so-closeted-lesbian, @mutuallimbenclosure, @emily-who-killed-a-man, @gildedpoenies, @glitterypirateduck, @writeforfandoms, @kohsk3nico, @peteymcskeet, @caramlizedtomatoes, @yoursweetobsession, @quesowakanda, @chthonian-spectre, @so-no-feint, @ray-rook, @extracrunchymilk, @doggydale, @frazie99, @develised, @1-800-no-users-left, @nuncubus, @aldis-nuts, @clear-your-mind-and-dream, @noonanaz, @cosmicpro, @stinkaton, @waves-against-a-cliff, @idocarealot

#cod #cod x reader #cod x you #call of duty #x female reader #cod mw22 #call of duty x you #mw2 #mw2 2022 #cod john price #john price #captain john price #captain price #cod price #john price call of duty #john price cod #john price x reader #john price x you #captain john price x reader #captain john price x you #cod mw #cod x female reader #john price x female reader #x fem!reader #captain price x female reader #female reader #cod mw x reader #mw x reader

[queer-reader-07]

a love letter to trans romance

because i can't be normal about media and i'm making it y'all's problems

hi hello and welcome to my mildly unhinged ramblings about love and gender. this post comes to you in three sections, enjoy <3

--

t4t romance novels made me believe in love again

the first romance book i ever read was The Feeling of Falling in Love by Mason Deaver. TFOFIL is a t4t (trans for trans) romance that follows a teenage trans boy, Neil Kearney, and a figuring-out-their-gender teen, Wyatt Fowler, as they get themselves wrapped up in peak YA romcom shenaniganary and eventually fall in love. cute, right? just a fun little romcom, not much more to it?

yeah well that's what i thought going in, but coming out of that book i was in tears. tears because i'd never read a story about trans love before. tears because at that point in my life i'd never allowed myself to fully claim the word "trans." tears because Wyatt made me feel so seen and so real.

there's this one scene where Wyatt is talking to Neil and they describe themself as being the kind of person who sometimes wants to wear makeup and dresses, but other times they like their body hair and scruffy beard. and i just remember nodding along and then absolutely melting because Neil takes it in stride, he comforts Wyatt and let's them know that they don't need to have it figured out just yet. Neil makes it clear that he's there, and that Wyatt doesn't need to come out to anyone unless they're ready.

Mason Deaver has another t4t romance, Okay, Cupid. and that similarly had me in my feels because there is something so special about finding people who embrace you for all that you are.

every t4t romance I've read has one thing in common, the fact that the love interests do not love each despite the other's transness. their transness is not an obstacle to love or to attraction or to adoration, it is an object of it. their transness is something to be admired and to be loved and to be cared for. it is not something the other has to "get over."

reading The Feeling of Falling in Love was the first time i ever thought to myself "maybe, just maybe, i can call myself trans and still be loved." because up until that point i hadn't let myself accept that i was some flavor of trans. up until that point i'd said "not cis" without ever saying trans because i was so scared my being trans would make me unlovable. t4t romance books showed me how wrong i was. they showed me that my ability to be loved was not dependent on my girlhood.

ha you thought i could write something this long on tumblr and NOT mention good omens? think again bestie

i have held a trans reading of crowley since i read the book and the show only solidified it for me. crowley canonically plays with gender.

he's dressed femme during the crucifixion scene, his modern look is a mix of men's and women's pieces, his hair is a Whole Thing in and of itself. i could go on but i digress.

but it's not just the way he plays with gender that informs my trans reading of him. it's also how his character arc can very easily be read as an allegory for transness.

an angel who falls (a girl who isn't a girl anymore)

a fallen angel turned demon (a girl who is a boy now)

a demon who isn't really a demon anymore (a used to be girl, a thought to be boy, is now nonbinary)

girl = angel and boy = demon is entirely arbitrary in this please don't read into it

now, you may be thinking "A how in god's name does this apply to trans romance?" to which i say, aziraphale falls in love with every version of crowley. aziraphale beams heart eyes at angel!crowley before the beginning and loves crowley as a demon for millennia and is so deeply and unabashedly in love with crowley in his not-quite-demon form of s2.

aziraphale loves all the versions of crowley because crowley's angel or demon-ness (gender) is not the reason aziraphale loves crowley. aziraphale doesn't love crowley because he's a demon or because he used to be an angel, aziraphale loves crowley because it's crowley. crowley in whatever clothes he chooses to where, crowley with whatever hairstyle he's fancying at the moment, crowley as he inhabits the shades of grey just a little more.

to me, that is so easy to read as a trans love story. you could argue it's t4t depending on how you read aziraphale, but to me, it's at the very least a love story between a mostly-demon who gets down to some gender fuckery and an angel who loves him very much.

fuck it let's talk about fanfiction

i don't think i could make this post without mentioning @ineffabildaddy's fic I'm Beginning to See the Light.

i have a complicated relationship with my body. i don't plan to ever medically transition because i don't want to make any permanent changes to my body. but there are days where all i want is to have a flat chest and hips that are flush with the rest of my body but instead i'm stuck with tits and an hourglass figure cis people always seem to focus on.

i don't hate my body, but the idea that anyone could look at it and not just see A Woman is beyond me. i walk through life being perceived as a very feminine woman even on the days that i feel the most androgynous. the idea that a lover could look at my body and still see me for who i am feels like a dream that could never happen.

and IBTSTL slapped me (lovingly) across the face with the message that, actually, i can be loved as my whole self and that there are people out there who don't look at me and see A Woman and those people don't love me any less. IBTSTL made me feel safe in my trans body because it said "you are worthy of love and adoration because your transness is not something to get past it is something to admire. it is something to love."

--

i think the point i'm trying to make here is this: trans love stories are so special to me. they've been so vital in my own journey to love and accept myself. they're the reason i can imagine myself maybe having romantic love in the future.

representation matters, it can quite literally change your life.

#well wasn't that fun? #now excuse me while i go hide from the internet because my feelings are being perceived #anyway #trans love everything! #good omens #trans books #t4t romance #trans

[tinycheesecakedetective]

...I'm baaaack.

I mean, I made one post about Swap!PV and then got distracted for months, so I wouldn't really call this a comeback. The moment I did come back though, apparently a bunch of lore just fell from the sky! Beast Yeast is upon us and all of a sudden I remember making an alt. version of this goober.

Turns out there were a few things I wasn't satisfied with in the first one, so here I am with my Swap!Vanilla 2.0 human edition! Even after all this time I still don't have a name for him. There's more white in his design, he has four horns instead of two and they form a crown on his head(that might be a bit hard to see), he also has a halo, his staff changed drastically, and he lost his soul gem. Instead he has two new smaller gems on his "ribcage".

This time around I tried to invoke more death themes, hence the ribcage, more wrappings, the halo, and the burn marks from, y'know, being re-baked and essentially reborn. The halo also makes for a nice double meaning, showing his somewhat good intentions behind the violence and spreading chaos gig.

Speaking of intentions, I maybe or maybe not have mentioned the only swaps happening in this proposed AU are between PV and WL and [possibly] Black Raisin and Red Velvet. I say maybe because if I checked, all the writing would disappear and I would have to start over again. However, I have wondered if those two swapped, how would PV handled the kingdoms? Would it be the same as DE or would the fates of each kingdom end up being swapped as well? It's something I definitely need to think on and develop.

Anyways, ramble break, here's a few doodles I did for Swap!PV!

Yeah, I had a lot of fun doing this. SO! A few changes not mentioned prior. Eyes! There are more eyes, especially on his coat. I took a bit of inspiration from a certain blue jester and his realm of nightmares. It also plays nicely with the whole "truth revealed" theme. Why not give the holder of the light of truth a bunch of opened eyes to represent his awakening? Also they looked good and his cape-coat was too plain without it.

Fun Head Canons: He's always floating, even when he's relaxing his feet never touch the floor. This PV still has a lily garden, it's just hidden away because while he still misses WL despite everything, he refuses to show weakness in front of others. His coat can take the shape of angel wings when angry and multiple eyes can appear when furious or in distress. Speaking of eyes, the ones on his coat glow. Those gems on him are pieces of moonstone that got corrupted after saving him.

As for the story behind him, I had to make a few adjustments. For one, DE and WL are two halves of the same whole, and the only reason either of them exists is thanks to precautions taken by Elder Faerie. Which means Pure Vanilla somehow has to get the stuff from Lily, who came to Beast Yeast without saying much of anything to anyone beforehand. Secondly, it means the Pure Vanilla Kingdom can't be the last kingdom explored. Pre Beast Yeast, the order in which the kingdoms would be explored would change, where White Lily's area would be explored first instead and the Vanilla Kingdom would be last. I'll address the second issue on a different post related to White Lily, but first things first. Fair warning, I wrote quite a bit.

~~~

After forming the seal, White Lily falls ill due to the immense amount of power used. She's not used to using so much of her soul gem, much less creating a seal to lock away ancient evils. Seeing her faltering state, Elder Faerie takes her away to his palace to help her recover. During her time in the palace, White Lily becomes distressed because not only does she feel like she's being a burden, but she won't be able to continue her research on how cookies were made. That was the whole point of coming here, after all. She left her friends and home behind to find the truth and ended up sick and bed ridden instead. The least she could do to redeem herself was to find the truth.

Racked with guilt and regret, she asks Elder Faerie for two favors; she wishes to know the secret behind cookies' creation, and she requests a pen and paper to write with. Before long, White Lily gains a messenger(Silverbell) who gives her books from the library to read, and a way to reach the one other person she understands. Someone who should've known where she was most of all. Pure Vanilla Cookie.

From there the two keep exchanging letters as White Lily brushes up on fae and beast lore. But eventually White Lily would learn about the Night of the Witches in a similar enough way to canon, i.e. finding the book about it. While she's recovered enough, she's still not well enough to go, and Elder Faerie isn't risking her well being and safety for a banquet. She's devastated that her questions may never be answered. If only she could go, if only there was some way to witness it while being in the Fairy Kingdom. And then... she realizes something. Perhaps there is a way for her to know after all...

White Lily, in the discomfort of her hospital bed, writes a letter to Pure Vanilla and asks him to go to the Witch's Banquet in her place. She knows that this is a huge ask, and he has every reason to refuse the favor, but it would mean the world to her if he did. Elder Faerie hears about this and is rightfully worried, telling her about the dangers, and any cookie that goes doesn't come back the same, if at all. He sends his own letter to Pure Vanilla to warn him of the dangers that lie ahead. A few more letters come in from WL apologizing for her request, saying it was out of line and inappropriate. "What a selfish request," she thinks, "after leaving him in the dark for so long, I have the nerve to ask him for anything at all?"

However, despite everything, he eventually decides to go. He knows that this means everything to her, and a part of Pure Vanilla secretly wondered about it as well. White Lily searched heaven and earth to find the truth so she could help others. Why would he keep avoiding it for so long? If he knew the truth as well, perhaps he could use these secrets to help the people of Earthbread alongside her. Maybe now he would finally understand White Lily more.

He wrote a letter addressed to both WL and EF about his final decision. White Lily is surprised at his decision, and is eternally grateful, while Elder Faerie is more resigned and concerned, knowing that he won't be able to change his mind but still wanting to help. He asks her to help write her next letter, and the two send a package to Pure Vanilla. Inside was another letter with the faint smell of lilies, as well as a map to the location of the banquet and a moonstone from Elder Faerie as a show of goodwill and for protection. He in turn sends what would become his final letter to her, unbeknownst to the two reading. He expresses his gratefulness to both WL and EF and declares his determination to find answers both for her and for the sake of everyone, stating, "Let me be your hope when you have none, and you my guiding light in shadows..."

Pure Vanilla proceeds to head to the Witch's Banquet, discovers the bitter truth, and in his attempts to save the other cookies falls into the ultimate dough. The fleeting scent of lilies is the last thing he grasps in his final moments, and the faint glow of a moonstone ensures his survival. His soul gem shatters under the weight of the truth and is scattered across the world, longing to be made whole once again.

~~~

Well! I think I have said everything I can say about him for now. I'm sure I can come up with more things later, but if you read this far, thanks for reading! I did not know I was going to say this much, so yeah. Next post is for White Lily specifically, I hope. I'm also taking suggestions for ideas about the other kingdoms and ways this could go, so if you have anything to suggest, let me know. Y'all have a good evening!

#crk au #crk art #cookie run kingdom #pure vanilla cookie #white lily cookie #elder faerie cookie #cookie run fanart #pure vanilla crk #cookie run au #why did i make this so damn long #fadinglettersau

[pentacentric]

I probably think way too much about how very little Sam knew about Mary. How John and Dean gave him almost nothing, to the point that she wasn't even really like a ghost shadowing his life, more like the story of one overheard in bits and pieces over the years. And yet, his whole life from when he can first remember—every bit of motivation or guilt, every point of pride or shame—is built around his mother, this person he isn't allowed to know.

I've written a lot of bits and pieces about it before, but never a standalone. This is actually an excerpt from a longer story, but I modified it some and I think it works on its own, hopefully (he knows about hunting already but that's really the only canon difference).

..........................

When Sam's in fourth grade, and has to write a page about his favorite memory, he asks for Dean's help. All he can seem to dredge up at the moment is just too weird or too farfetched. Things that say far too much about the way they live for a teacher to read.

So he asks Dean what he would write about.

After some teasing about his best memories being of all the times Sam's embarrassed himself (and a well-aimed pink rubber eraser hitting him between the eyes) Dean quiets down and turns thoughtful.

"Well, I dunno what my most favorite memory would be, really. I guess…" He bites his lip, chews on it for a second, gaze directed absently into the distance. "I think it would prob'ly be my first memories? It musta been, like, when I was three and four maybe. They're…of Mom."

"Oh." Sam's chest gets a little tight. He speaks quietly, cautiously. Dean—Dean and Dad both—they don't talk about her much. Sam's seen her picture, the one that Dad keeps in his journal, a few times, but he knows so little about her. Just that she was pretty (beautiful), with a smile that reminds of him of Dean's and wavy blonde hair. "What was she—what are they like?"

Dean smiles, maybe a little sad, but it's more than that. Warm, wistful; gaze still unfocused and distant. "Mostly…happy. Like…bright. She'd sing to me a lot, and, like, I didn't know the songs back then, but, when I hear 'em now, I can hear her voice singing them. Beatles, Beach Boys, Simon and Garfunkel, um…Peter, Paul, and Mary, maybe…" Dean chuffs out a laugh. "I remember Puff the Magic Dragon, at least…I think I even remember Dad teasin' her about how she better sing me some real music, too, not just sissy crap, but, I dunno, maybe I made that up."

Dean pauses, that bittersweet expression on his face, still, and Sam doesn't want him to get lost in it. He also doesn't want to miss this opportunity, if he can help it.

"I dunno. He'd say somethin' like that." Dean spares him half a smile, still somewhere else in his head. "What…what else do you remember? What'd you guys do together?"

"Well, not a whole lot. I guess mostly just the normal stuff you do with a little kid. Like legos, I remember we'd build castles an' fortresses and stuff. I wanted her to build me a car but we didn't have enough black bricks, so she made me a little boat instead. Dad said it looked like a bathtub." He smiles. "Um, she'd dance with me, sometimes. To the radio. Make lunch—I mostly remember sandwiches and Mac n' Cheese. I'd sit in that little seat in the cart when she went to the grocery store, and she'd ask me what was on the list and I'd pretend I could read it and make up dumb stuff."

The silence is longer this time. Sam breathes out, carefully. "What kinda stuff?"

"I dunno. Just silly things, like 'elephant steaks!' Or 'a unicorn!' Or 'poop n' rhubarb pie!'"

"Gross." Sam wrinkles his nose.

Dean grins at that. "I think you're, like, the only kid ever who never found poop and fart jokes funny."

"'Cause they're not."

When Dean laughs, muttering little weirdo, Sam looks around for something harmless to throw at him, pouts.

"Don't worry, Sammy, if anyone wonders why you're so weird I'll just tell them it's 'cause you still poop your pants, and you're kinda sensitive about it an' all."

"Dean."

Sam decides that his pencil is perfectly fine to throw after all and, as a concession, doesn't aim it at his head. Dean grins, not seeming too annoyed by the assault, so Sam decides to push his luck.

"Did Mom think it was funny? Your lists?"

Dean's melancholy little smile is back. "Yeah…yeah, I think she did. She'd always laugh, anyways. An' she had the best laugh. I'd make up stuff that just got more and more ridiculous just so I could keep watchin' her laugh." He sighs, shrugs. "Anyways, yeah…that's Mom. That's what I remember."

It gets quiet after that, and Sam can see Dean's face starting to shutter over as he withdraws. It's rare for Sam to get to see his brother so open and unguarded any more. Over the last few years, Dean's started to change; Sam can tell. Still fun, still charming, still affectionate, at least with Sam (mostly when there's no one else around to catch him being so uncool). But, even though they're not always alike—Dean doesn't usually brood, rarely explodes, and he never gets that kind of burning cold John does when he's focused on something—sometimes now he kinda reminds Sam of Dad. He's been more closed off, the way Dad can be, his deeper emotions pushed farther away, out of Sam's reach. Doesn't show when things get to him, like he used to.

It's actually kind of lonely, sometimes.

"So, what are you gonna write about, Sammy?"

When Sam shrugs, Dean suggests the time they ran out of gas on a back road in central Florida. They'd only walked two miles before an Oscar Myer Wienermobile came barreling down the road, seemingly out of nowhere, and gave them a lift to and from the closest gas station (still a good eight miles away). Sam counters with the night in Montana that Dad got so drunk he started fighting with the motel owner about yetis (Dad coming down hard on the side of 'hoax'). They ended up getting kicked out at two am after Dad had cut down the guy’s “Bigfoot Crossing” sign with an axe. They toss back and forth increasingly ridiculous ideas until they're both laughing so hard they're in literal tears. When John comes back, they can't even stop long enough to answer what's so funny. Dad just smiles, bemused and fond, and shakes his head before heading off to shower.

Sam thinks maybe he can add this afternoon to his Good Memories pile.

In the end, he waits until that evening, before bed, and easily fills up a page-and-a-half about the time, last summer, when Dad was on a hunt out west and he and Dean had spent all afternoon exploring tidal pools in Yaquina Head, Oregon, marveling at the tiny little aquatic worlds they found. He invents an older teenage cousin that tagged along so the teacher won't question why two young kids spent the day alone in a national park.

He gets an A.

From then on, Sam keeps his eyes out in thrift stores for cassettes from the bands Dean mentioned; pockets them when he can to listen to later on the beat-up Walkman knock-off Dean stole for him for his sixth birthday. He likes a lot of it, but he's careful about what he keeps; only his favorites. He stashes them in the bottom of his school bag, in the hollowed-out book that Bobby showed him how to make last year, on a rainy day when Sam got bored with watching old Westerns.

For some reason, he doesn't want Dean to know about them. Doesn't want him to feel like Sam's trying to take something away from him. So he slips them in when he's sitting in the back of the Impala alone, on long trips, and closes his eyes. Lets the albums pour into his ears over the headphones; shuts the rest of the world out. Sgt Pepper's. Pet Sounds. Bookends. He tries to imagine his mom, Mary, singing the songs to him, in a sunny kitchen.

But he can never really pull together a complete image of her; just bits and pieces, blurred-together impressions: yellow hair, the smiling face from the picture (looking kind of flat, like a mask), a flowered dress he'd seen in a shop window. And he doesn't know what her voice sounded like, so it kind of just ends up being a composite of the voices of some of his favorite teachers (along with the mother of a classmate back in Indiana who drove him home once when she spotted him waiting for the rain to stop under the playground slide).

So he gives up on trying to picture her, and, instead, just tries to sink into the music, sees if he can feel what she was feeling when she listened to it. Imagines the conversations they might have: which songs would be her favorites, why she would have liked them, where she was the first time she heard them playing.

When he hears those songs on the radio now, or over the speakers in a restaurant, it makes him feel kind of happy and sad at the same time.

They remind him of her.

(Except for America—for some reason, that one makes him think of Dean.)

#spn fic #sam winchester #dean winchester #weechesters #mary winchester #john winchester #sam's lonliness #motherless sam #supernatural fanfic #my fic

[ravensmadreads]

The Mess of Us

A/N: i have no excuse honestly. I've imprinted on David York for reasons unfathomable to my own brain. This is my attempt at giving him a redemption arc? A softer backstory? My heart and soul? Who knows.

Warnings: uhhhh lots of angst (i mean i tried), almost entirely canon compliant, vague-ish attempt at smut, mild cursing, insane use of italics. (Also: english is not my first language and im faking being a writer but i think this came out okay??? Pls be kind he's my lil babie!!)

Summary: I gave david york my heart and then proceeded to bash it with a sledgehammer - forgive me :p this is the same universe as What Love Means

Taglist: @fuckyeahdindjarin cause i wouldn't be writing without you; @chronically-ghosted thank u to listening to me cry about Dave, and my writing, and myself - i owe u my life; @wannab-urs you absolute maniac i adore u; @timelordfreya u were so kind on the accompanying piece for this i hope you like this too <3

David York

You've known that name for a long time. Stayed with the man that inhabits it even longer. He goes by Dave now. Lives in a suburban home. Has two daughters. An "office job". A respectable man. A good man. A little misguided perhaps. A little bit more jaded than he used to be. More broken than you remember. The light in his eyes all but snuffed out. But a good man.

He was always a good man.

Even when he was no longer yours.

Even when he was no longer David.

****

David York and his sunshine. Neighbours. Best friends. Light of each others lives.

You're two halves of one whole in a way that makes no sense from the outside, but when you tread close enough you can pinpoint the exact strands that join your soul to his. The way his heart is an exact mirror to yours. The way your smile reflects the sun in his eyes and his warmth leaves you feeling more loved than any being in the entire universe. You'd stumbled across him, buried between the pages of a book twice the size of his head, and you thought: Oh God. It's you. It's going to be you. And you decided you'd never let him go.

Until he decided to leave.

He's so excited when he gets the call. When he makes his plans and packs his bags. When he tells you all about the good he's going to do, the hero he's going to become.

"I'll be back soon sunshine. You won't even know I'm gone."

You try to convince him to stay. With everything you've got in you. All your jokes, all your warmth, all your schemes. When that fails you give him your heart. Your tears. Explain that you can't live without him. That he can't expect you to live without him and not fall apart at the seams because he's the thread that holds you together. And when you see the anguish on his face at your confession, you revel a little because you think you've won. He's going to stay for you because of course he is. He's your David. He cups your cheeks in his hands. Lips meet your forehead as his words break your heart:

"I'm sorry sunshine. You know I have to go. I have to do this. You know."

So you wipe off your tears and you smile. Because that's what you're supposed to do for a friend and that's what you do for him. Give him a hug and a kiss on the cheek. Tell him to be safe.

"Don't get your butt kicked too much David. I need you back in one piece."

And that's the first time David York turns his back on your smile.

****

You wait for him. Like the inexplicable fool you are. Wander aimlessly in the streets around your childhood home like a spirit too tired to haunt anyone but itself. Waiting for him to come back and spark you alive again. Awakening for the few weeks of leave he has before reverting to your state of nothingness the minute the door closes behind him. Flitting like a ghost of yourself, nothing tethering you to this place, but still incapable of moving on without him.

Because he was David York. Your best friend.

Your good man. Your solid rock.

Until he wasn't.

Until he left.

****

You learn to make your way without him. Stumble, fall and scrape your knees more than once, without him by your side clucking and fussing like the mother hen he was. Without him to hold you up and bring you close:

"You’ve got to be careful honey. I can't be losing my sunshine."

You find a purpose and make your stand into the big bad world but all of it feels hollow without him by your side. You learn to stitch people up, bandage their wounds, hold bleeding skin in place and snap broken bones back together again. He laughs when he finds out, equal parts amused and proud.

"Looks like you became the anti-Dave sunshine."

And you smile for him, because of course you do. You don't tell him that everything you're learning, you're learning because of him. Because of the sheer wall of terror that's settled in your spine since the moment he walked away. Because of the David that comes to you in your dreams. The one that crumbles in front of you; broken and damaged and begging for help. The one you're trying so hard to save.

You may be his sunshine, but he was always your sun, and you'll protect him, even if he doesn't want you to.

****

The David that comes to you now is not yours. He's an off brand version of himself. A cheap copy. An imposter that calls himself Dave and smirks in a way that makes your skin crawl. He wears Davids skin but has none of his warmth. The sunshine in his smile is replaced by an ice cold sharpness and you hate that shivers it sends down your spine. His eyes have lost most of the humour they used to have, and when he hugs you he lets go a little too soon. A little too fractured, a little too cold. You hold on; assessing, caring, and wondering. Go to ask but he shakes his head; the look in his eyes silencing your questions before the words can form on your lips. The worry in your heart worsens.

When he walks you home you try again but he anticipates it. Like the predator he is now, he sees your strike coming, and retaliates in the one way he knows will force your silence. He kisses you. Hot and deep. Steals the air from your lungs and the words from your brain. Renders you shocked. When you open your eyes it's your David staring back again and your relieved smile has him pushing into you again. He kisses you until you're breathless. Again, and again, and again, until all your worries are dripping unvoiced at your feet and all your questions have been sucked into the air in his lungs.

You don't fall into each other as much as you attack. The culmination of years of circling each other and it all comes down to this. Mouths open, teeth clashing like you're trying to make your way into each others souls. His hands grab you so desperately, so fervently, that you wonder how he hasn't moulded you into his own chest yet. Your nails scratching at him like you're trying to carve a home in his bones. You’re trying to tear pieces of each other apart. Him, so he may take you with him and you, so you never have to watch him leave again. You devour every inch of him so reverently that the taste of him may remain embedded in your tongue forever. And he carves his way into you, soothing an emptiness that only ever craved him. Pounding in like he's trying to break you open and consume the light within. You cling to each other in the aftermath, breathless, sated and smiling, and you remember placing a kiss on his heart right before you drift off in his embrace.

You should've known, in retrospect, that that was as good as it was ever going to get.

He leaves you in an empty bed. Runs away before the dawn breaks like the consequences of what you both did are too ugly to be faced in the light of day. You turn the apartment upside down looking for one note, one glimpse, one hint of him that's not mottled on your skin and going to be torn away by the cruel hands of time.

You take the dismissal for what it is when you don't find one.

****

He comes back broken. Purple shadows under his eyes, a split lip and a wince that breaks you when you go to hug him. The storm breaks and you lunge. Too strung out to keep going like this any longer and too frazzled by thoughts of "what if it was worse" to think about the consequences of breaking your silence.

Your fists pound against the rock hard of his chest. The place that used to be your solace, your comfort, your home. Where you'd set your head too many times to count and where all your dreams ever went to rest. And they've turned it to stone, moulded him into a machine, changed him into something he's not.

"You're not a fucking hero David. You're not. And I'm asking you to stop trying to be one. I'm asking you to stop this self sacrificial bullshit and come back. Come home. You don't need to be a hero. You just need to be alive. I need you alive dammit! Why can't you see how much I need you?"

Your voice falters and cracks. It's out there now, the pieces of your heart; ugly, tattered and split open in front of him. Waiting for his judgement, for his grace. His face twists into a grimace, and you turn your head before he can see the tears fall. You don't need his apologies. His empty words and false promises of how nothing will ever happen to him, because it will, you know it will. So you hold up a hand before he can begin.

"It's okay. I get it. This is your life now, right? So will you forgive me then, if I can't stand around watching you try to kill yourself and wait for the day you inevitably succeed?"

Something in his eyes breaks at your words, and something in your heart does when he gathers you in his arms. The kiss on your temple feels like a goodbye. To your one solace, your one crutch and the only friend you ever had. And you know this goodbye will haunt you forever.

That's the one time you turn your back on David York.

****

He comes back with an extra sparkle in his eyes. Pleads and begs his way into your good graces and you indulge him because that's what you do for David. His smile has never been brighter. He may call you sunshine but he has always been your shining light, your beacon, the lighthouse you turn to.

But then he turns away. And in a split second, your world tilts on it's axis.

Carol.

Her name is Carol. Perfectly normal. Perfectly sweet. Perfectly perfect. He's got his hand in her hand and you don't understand. You can't. You refuse. Except.... David. He looks so happy. So content. Looks at her with all the devotion you've only ever given him, and all the love you wish he could've given you.

"What do think sunshine? I think she may be the one."

You smile. Because that's what you always do for David. You smile. It's an ugly thing. Fractured. Broken. He notices because of course he does. You've never been able to hide from him, ingrained as he is into your very soul. His smile falters and his eyes fill with sorrow and regret. Apologies for all he could never be and all the regret he has about it.

"You did good York. You'll be great together."

He flinches. He has only ever been David to you. He knows he has broken something irreparable. Opens his mouth to fix it. To swallow something back, say something else instead. Change the words, the letters, the combinations of decisions that led you both to this very moment. Something to keep you whole but the parts he shattered, however unwittingly, are already crumbling to dust in front of him. He closes his mouth. Swallows whatever lingered at the back of his throat. You smile at each other as you walk away. Him with her hand in his. You with the cloud of pain that comes from finally accepting the bitter truth for what it is.

He's not yours. Not anymore. Never will be again.

You never call him David again.

***

You miss him. Of course you do. Running from him was like running from a part of yourself; impossible, regretful and pointless. You were intwined into each other too thoroughly for there to ever be a clean cut through. You couldn't really walk away from him completely no matter what the distance on a map points out.

You know he'll call when he comes back again. He does. Shows up at the threshold of your sanity and the hardest thing you've ever done is ignore his voice when it calls to you. Voicemail, after voicemail, after voicemail. You listen to every single one but you can't call him back. His voice is your kryptonite. You'd walk back the distance if only you could but some tattered remnants of your self esteem hold you back. The last one comes with a letter in the mail. The glossy embellished card reminds you of the reason you walked away. The reason you could never go back. He pleads over static and tinny phone lines:

"Come on sunshine. I need you there. I'm sorry. I'm so s-. Please. I- "

Silence for a few minutes before the line cuts off. Typical of you both. To never say what you want and yet be assured the other knows exactly what you mean. He probably knows too. That you can't bear to see someone else's name next to his. The thought makes you nauseous; angry in a way that scares you, an evil coiling restless being inside of you, threatening to do as he asks. Go over there and scream in his face. The audactiy of this man to say he needs you when all you ever wanted was for him to pick you. Over the chip on his shoulder, the gun in his hand, the name on that card. Choose you. Love you. But you can't do any of that. You can't stand by his side and smile as he walks away with another either.

His only mercy is that he doesn't show up at your doorstep when you both know he could and you wouldn't be able to close the door in his face. Not him. Never him.

You throw the card away without opening it.

He forgives you.

But he never calls again.

***

Months turn to years and David York turns from a stabbing ache into a memory and then a ghost. He haunts you initially, at every turn, but slowly, over the years, the voice in your head softens down. He vanishes into the fog that lingers at the back of your mind and you stop looking over your shoulder for him to come back. You left him so suddenly, so abruptly, that you'd torn off pieces of yourself too. But time heals those wounds and you gradually learn to carry on as half of your bleeding heart slowly scabs and scars over.

You carve out a content little place for yourself, in a tiny corner of the world as you finally learn to love the reflection in your mirror. There's grey in your hair now. Wrinkles in your skin and hands hardened over from a life lived serving others. Saving who you can, when you can. A melody on your lips as you collect the parcels from your mailbox. Cocoa and bitter coffee long since mask the taste of his name on your breath.

There's a knock at your door and you flit to open it. Your smile, a pale imitation of what it used to be, plastered on, as you brace yourself to greet a well meaning neighbour or two. It falls quicker than lightning at the sight that greets you instead.

A man wavers at your doorstep. Unfamiliar in his familiarity. The ghost of a memory of a love never forgotten. Dripping crimson over the smiley face on your welcome mat. A haphazard bandage concealing half his face. One hand clearly broken. Arm bent at an angle too sharp to be natural. Angry streaks of purple and blue dancing around all visible patches of skin and he's trying to be nonchalant about the way he's favouring his right leg but failing miserably. Wheezing a breath that you know speaks of atleast one, if not several, broken ribs. And yet, despite all the damage and destruction and sheer agonizing pain he's no doubt in, the man smiles. Full and bright and warm.

"Hey sunshine."

And you reply.

A gasp. A plea. A promise.

David.

****

#david york x reader #dave york x reader #raven writes #(again) #(somebody stop me already) #ok so this is quite literally my heart in a fic so PLS be kind #off u go bby #raven on her david york agenda #yeeting into the void and running away

[onepiece-polls]

One Piece Shipping War - Round 2 Side A

Propaganda under the cut.

Propaganda for Franky x Robin:

Do I really need to explain?

The old married couple who's healthy, Enies Lobby (and all their appearances) are their propaganda really.

It’s all about the maturity!

Their dynamic is perfect and their pasts are so similar. I love the chemistry between them as well as their introduction that helped build the connection and shared history they already have.

they are THE t4t bi4bi ship | franky telling robin "existing is not a crime" immediately puts this at number one for me | they are opposites (bright and loud + quiet and goth) but also they're both so eccentric and silly <3 | THEY WEAR MATCHING OUTFITS

Mom and dad Straw Hat

They are STILL the Mom and the Dad of the Straw Hats, this is the one thing I don't care what Oda says <3 Also their interactions in Enies Lobby and Thriller Bark are amazing.

In my eyes, they are married. Some of my favorite character interactions in the manga/anime and in official art.

Oda had Franky call Robin his wife at least once

Your honor they’re married

I'M GOING TO PUT LINKS IN MY EXAMPLES (Mod note: I linked to the whole post, the propaganda was going to get too long otherwise. But I will copy this line:...) They immediatly clicked in Enies Lobby, Franky saved Robin with both words and actions ("Your existence is not a sin!"), and then she grabbed his balls.

The duality of two kids who were just trying to chase their dream and having circumstances outside their control (the government) take everything they love away from them, but one choosing solitude and the other adopting every other person in a bad circumstance??? I love them. Plus they literally had couple moments from the first interaction.

The ultimate t4t couple idk what else you need theyre iconic

A wholesome ship of a woman who feels the need to be constantly on edge trying to relax and a man who is a 110% himself from the moment we see him. the joy of frobin is the causal domesticity, in many color spreads and especially post timeskip we can see them casually enjoying the others company.

Remember when Franky was in Chopper's body in Punk Hazard and every time he spoke Robin was like "Franky. Stop talking. Do not talk while you're in Chopper's body."

idk like. he's obsessed with her. she's his weird Goth gf and he's her himbo. they have matching outfits. I love them.

Look. It's Franky and Robin. Literally the only two characters that make sense to ship on the Sunny. Their arcs are inextricably intertwined (water7/enies lobby). Also LOOK AT THEM interacting, both during their arcs, but also thriller bark, or post time skip. I love them. Also robin crushed frankys balls.

funny big robot man & analytical smart research lady power couple... silly x smart... himbo x researcher... augh... so good

They are the ship for taxpaying adults your honor I LOVE them they’re literally freak4freak and they share such a fucking powerful arc together (Water 7).

that moment she let him sleep on her lap in punk hazard was sooo cute <3 -- The matching thigh highs and bottoms in film z can NOT be understated. -- Strawhat mom and dad -- Let's not forget the way robin convinced franky to join ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°) -- she also indirectly called his balls "treasure" so,,, -- the way their stories are so closely intertwined...they were both keys to destroy the world...the way they instantly connected over that...the soulmate-ism of it all...

they . them. girlboss and malewife. that's it.

She grabbed his balls. He totally liked it.

He's so silly and she loves it. She's so scary and he loves it. She grabbed his balls in public.

They will be endgame trust me. Franky doesn't treat any other girl like he treats Robin. There dynamic in Water 7 and Thriller Bark was and always will be one of the best in all of OP.

Propaganda for Rayleigh x Shakky:

They’re canon and very hot. These are facts.

#one piece #frobin #silvers rayleigh #shakuyaku #tournament poll #op shipping war #round 2 #side A

[nekropsii]

Hi! I've recently gotten into homestuck and I've read quite a bit of it, as well as other people's blogs analyzing and criticizing the media. I've heard a Lot about Dave's arc being centered around internal homophobia and toxic masculinity, so it surprised me to hear taht you disagreed! I was wondering why you think that, and what are your thoughts on what his arc actually is? I know you don't like writing about the alpha/beta kids, so feel free to ignore this ask completely if you want. Thank you, I hope you have a great day!

Hello, Anon! I'm glad you've been having fun with Homestuck lately!! Despite its many flaws, it is a deeply compelling piece of fiction, and I'm always glad to see new eyes on it and new voices being added to the analytical sphere. To answer your question...

Personally, I have never seen what people are talking about with regards to Dave's whole character arc surrounding overcoming Internalized Homophobia and Toxic Masculinity. These are fundamentally not what his arc is about, and this is never what his arc has ever been about. I'd honestly never seen that analytical lens until after DaveKat rose into prominence (mostly due to Post-Canon's heavy featuring of the pairing), and I feel as if these things are related. It is easier to make easy-to-stomach, shippy angst out of addressing your own personal shortcomings than what Dave's arc is actually about. No shade intended. This is because...

Dave's character arc is, and always has been, about Recovering from Childhood Abuse.

This is the conflict we are made aware of in his introduction, and it's a theme that persists all throughout the story. We meet Dave as a 13 year old boy suffering some pretty extreme abuse at the hands of Bro- Physically, Mentally, Emotionally, and Sexually. Dave's home life is such an active threat that he struggles to even admit to himself that it is abuse in the first place- that's an admission that takes a level of vulnerability that he just could not afford, and it's something he's only left to truly unpack during the Meteor Arc.

I have a couple major problems with the "Toxic Masculinity and Internalized Homophobia" takes. Firstly, Toxic Masculinity is not inherent to any expression of Masculinity. The only Toxically Masculine trait we see that's applicable to Dave is that he struggles deeply with vulnerability and sincerity in his emotions. However... These don't really have anything to do with what his views on what a man is or should be. They have everything to do with the fact that he was abused by someone who punishes any display of weakness, because Bro excused his abuse with it being "Training". Secondly... Dave is Bisexual. Even if the process of Dave struggling to accept being attracted to men was a major point in the story, it would not be called Internalized Homophobia. It would be called Internalized Biphobia, because Dave is canonically Bisexual, not Gay. We have seen Dave be attracted to more women than men, and attraction to both genders was present simultaneously. It was not Compulsory Heterosexuality. If it was, it'd be actually written into the story. Bisexual people exist. This is not a Homophobic argument to make; I am literally a Gay man.

It's anthropologically fascinating how this take arose... Basically out of nowhere from my perspective, especially considering how all of Dave's most iconic dramatic lines have something to do with him having to sort through his own abuse. Does no one remember the rooftop scene between Dave and Dirk, where Dave starts telling Dirk all about the horrible way that Bro raised him, and how deeply it affected him?

If not, I'm posting the most striking part of it here.

[Homestuck, page 7749.]

... So, yeah, no. Dave's character arc is not about "Overcoming Toxic Masculinity and Internalized Homophobia". It's about Abuse. Dave is an Abuse Victim. Point blank period. Any trait even loosely attributable to the ideas of Toxic Masculinity and Internalized Homophobia are a consequence of how he was raised, and how he was abused. This does not mean that this is what his character arc is about. That just means that's included within his character arc. It's a way to show growth, not a way to define his arc in its entirety. That is legitimately not how character writing works. To claim such would be to express a remarkable amount of Tunnel Vision.

Inclusion does not equate to Totality. There is a bigger picture, and that bigger picture is Abuse Recovery.

#homestuck #homestuck meta #homestuck analysis #homestuck fandom #beta kids #beta guardians #dave strider #bro strider #cw abuse #cw child harm #dave.pdf #nekro.pdf #nekro.sms

[limerencedisorder]

series masterlist

note: ive been busy af sorry for taking eleven days to write another chapter lmfao. also i have a writers block for genshin impact. apologies😢

cws: Forced relationship, Childe is disgusting, suggestive, other canon characters mentioned, implied sex, I don't ship chilumi lol, kinda just childe being clingy af, bro this chapter is kinda random help

NOT PROOFREAD!

Chapter 1

You awake with an unfamiliar pair of eyes burning through the back of your head. Just as unfamiliar as this bedroom. The bedroom of Childe. It's been six days since the murder of your late-boyfriend and you were accused of the murder.

Fortunately, your "new boyfriend" stepped in and claimed you were with him and his friends the whole time, and you both found the body. Surprisingly "Scaramouche" and "Signora" were the friends and they agreed. Are there more horrible people like Childe?? Is that why they stood up for him?? You thought.

Lost in thought, Childe snapped you out of it.

"Mornin' pretty." He spoke softly. You hesitantly looked behind you, locking eyes with the ginger. Dull eyes. So dark and deep like the abyss. You just stared at him, lost in thought once again.

"Got lost in my eyes?" He questioned. Moving a hand up to caress your cheek.

Finally, you spoke. "No. I was just wondering where I went wrong." You slowly got up, stripped of your clothes because of last night. Gosh you hate to admit but he was amazing. He grinned. "Get changed." He spoke casually.

"For what reason?" You asked him. Lost in thought again. Maybe it wasn't so bad you spent all your attention on Zhongli. After all, he's gone now. At least you made the most of it. Childe glanced at you, putting on his button up. "If something's on your mind you can speak it." He said, completely ignoring your question. He climbed onto the bed and on top of you. "Get off of me." You glared at him. He ignored you and grabbed a shirt from his drawer.

"Wear this." He gently held the shirt against your bare chest. Looking down on the floor, your ripped panties and new shirt in the corner of the room. "Don't you have a girlfriend Childe.." You mumbled. That blonde hair girl with golden eyes. She was clingy towards Childe and Childe seemed to reciprocate her acts and feelings. It would make sense if they were dating. Unless it was another regular girl pining after him.

"I told you last night to call me Ajax." Childe noticed your staring at your panties and shirt, then walked up to it and picked up some of its pieces. "I'll buy you a new one." He looked at your face. Blank. Gosh why were you acting so hard? Is it really that hard to act normal now? He sighed. "You didn't answer my question." You looked up at him.

"You mean that girl named Lumine?" He questioned. "So you do have a girlfriend." You sighed.

"Well-" "I don't think she'll be very happy after finding out her boyfriend committed a crime then proceeded to cheat on her with the victims girlfriend." You interrupted.

He chuckled. "Jealous?" You scoffed. "Of course not. I feel bad for the girl." He just looked at you, his smile fading for a quick second. "Just get changed." His smile returning as fast as it faded. Oh that poor girl.. What would she do when she sees her dear boyfriend with another woman?

Childe left the room, shutting it gently as you watched him leave. You then laid back on the bed, wondering- where did it go wrong? And then you remember. The moment you met eyes with Childe, you should have scrambled away. But you didn't. You curse yourself for being so reckless. His eyes were so bright, but so dead. They were so sharp as if it could cut you with a knife. Many girls found him attractive and you couldn't blame them for it. But he just wasn't your type.

Now he's here, doing whatever he thinks is called love. Gosh you just wished he killed you as soon as you found out. Take what he has to offer? You scoffed. As if.

Childe entered the room, opening the door slightly. "What're you doing? Stay awake pretty I'm making breakfast for you." You rolled your eyes then got off the bed, walking out the door as he shut it gently. He took your hand and led you to the table and smiled. You sat down, him sitting in front of you. You stared at him for a little, a little awkward. He chuckled then rested his head on his hand, smiling at you.

"Eat up pretty." He spoke softly, waiting for you to take a bite of his eggs. You grabbed your utensil that was place on the side of the table, using it to cut the egg. It was odd how Childe would always stare at you when you eat. No matter what it was- A quick snack from him or a drink. But this time, he looked desperate for you to take a bite of his eggs. So you did, and he immediately sat up straight with a huge grin on his face.

Well at least he knew how to cook. You thought, still tasting the food from before.

He had you cuddling against his chest, his soft snores as his grip on you was too tight to be comfortable. A hand on the back of your thigh and the other wrapped around your body, holding you close. You could barely move in the position, squeezed so tight against him. You couldn't breathe too well.

Childe shifted slightly, giving you more space to breathe as you took a deep breath. You sighed in relief. Just this one time, I'll let him. You thought. You were too weary to even care.

You've just been here for the meantime. Childe went out to buy stuff and you would always be left behind. It was irritating. He acted as if you couldn't take care of yourself. In the mean time you just did whatever you wanted. You fucked up some of his stuff and hid them in the corner of his closet.

It's petty but who cares?

Oh you can't wait to see his face when he arrives.

..A voice.

A feminine voice.

It sounds like.. Her.

Tag list:

@notsodivininglover @homopheli

#genshin x reader #guys im going insane #i need sleep #childe x reader smut #yandere childe x reader #yandere childe #childe smut #childe x reader #childe angst #childe modern au #genshin childe x reader #tartaglia smut #tartaglia x female reader #tartaglia x reader smut #yandere tartaglia #yandere tartaglia x reader #genshin #genshin impact #Take What I Have To Offer!

[thefanficmonster]

It is I!! With (yet again) another small Idea I JUST had

Imagine this: Corpse x Apartment neighbor reader, where one night Corpse just Scream to the top of his lugs and then the reader screams back just for fun and then they get to know each other that way

I found it kinda funny honestly but that's like a rough idea of what I just thought let me know if ya liked it, k?

-with love Miss Kia

PS: Remember to take care even if it's just sleeping a bit or a glass of water okay?🥰 Whatever you do is good enough for us

PS2: Please tag me with it done, if you do make it ☺️

Hi dear! I know it's been literal months since you sent in this request but I've finally gotten around to it and I hope the final product makes the wait worth it. Love you with all my heart, Vy 💕

Pairing: Corpse Husband x Reader (Gender Neutral)

Warnings: Mentions of Anxiety and Stress, Swearing

Genre: Fluff, Humor, RPF (Real Person Fic)

Summary: see request above

As you slump against the only standing piece of furniture in your otherwise barren living room, you can't help but sigh. Boxes surround you, silently judging you for leaving them in their status quo for yet another day. Postponing the inevitable unpacking awaiting you isn't much of a choice with your busy schedule but it is what it is and anything else would be making excuses. And there's nothing you hate more than making excuses.

You moved into this new apartment three days ago and yet you have only spent twelve hours in it total. Your stuff is still in boxes which you are quite frankly afraid to open, worried of all the broken crap you'll find because the movers you hired turned a blind eye to the large bold letters the word FRAGILE was written in.

Working two jobs is the only way you can pull through your final year of college but it's starting to feel like you're digging your mental health and sleep schedule a grave instead.

You wanna scream. Scream your fucking lungs out. But you can't with these shitty thin walls. You don't want your neighbors to think you're a nut-job. At least not already. Hell, they haven't even seen your face. You could be living next to Leonardo DiCaprio and have zero clue.

Ok, full disclosure, the building is filthy, so Leo is certainly not living next-door but a serial killer might be.

And speaking off....

Just as that ridiculous though passes your mind and causes you to chuckle, the aforementioned thin walls are straight up rattled by a guttural scream, the vibrations of which nearly bring the ceiling down on you.

You let several moments go by as the building settles in it's slot in the Earth following that vocal earthquake. You stare blankly at the wall behind which the scream emanated from, the wall separating you from your neighbor.

That serial killer thing seems to check out, you think to yourself as your loopy, exhausted brain hits the wrong instruction button, sending you in a fit of quiet giggles.

They can't think I'm a loose canon if they're just as bad, can they?

You decide they can't and go on and rip your friendly neighbor a new one. A scream much stronger, louder and longer that simultaneously establishes your dominance as well as deflates the tension that had built up in your chest.

It's the relief you've needed for a while now.

Similar silence follows your scream, leaving you to catch your breath, head tilted back with peace you haven't felt since you decided to move.

At least until there's a knock at your door.

"Hey, um, you good in there?"

The knock maybe put you on edge, but the voice is what seriously caught you off-guard. In all honesty, it intrigued you more than you'd like to admit. Not enough to get you to open the door, but enough to get you up from the couch and get you to approach the door at least a little.

"You're one to talk. You started the chain, pal." You retort without a second's hesitation which probably should have been considered, with the whole serial killer theory and all.

You hear the guy chuckle, "Desperate times call for desperate measures. It's not like I own a stress ball."

Another step brings you closer to the door, "I mean, they don't really do much. And therapy is expensive. Scaring your neighbors is free."

"I scared you?" He has the audacity to sound shocked, almost offended, "You scared me!"

"You bet your ass I did. Gotta let you know who the boss is around here." You sass right back, unable to prevent the bubbling laughter from escaping you.

It mirrors his, "Well, boss, wanna open this door? I feel a little looney and I probably look so too. Talking to a door and all."

His comments provokes a mumbled apology from you as you, against all the better judgement your 2-minutes-ago self possessed, go to open the door.

And my, oh my, did you win the neighbor lottery. You got a lethally cute one.

"Hi there, neighbor." You greet the taller figure crowned by a mop of messy dark curls. His dark eyes barely peer through the curtain.

But you still manage to make out his smile, even with the mask blocking it from direct view, "Hello to you too, neighbor."

"Y/N, nice to meet ya."

"Corpse, the pleasure's all mine."

His name wouldn't help his serial killer case if you weren't so focused on the few features of his you could see.

There's a brief beat of silence he puts an end to with a shy yet still witty comment, "I know you're supposed to bring baked goods to new neighbors but I can't cook for shit....I got beer though?"

A smile brightens up your face which clearly releases some tension from him, "Say no more, Corpse. You got my full attention. Even if you might be a serial killer."

His eyes blow wide, "What?"

So do yours, "What?"

Well, if that isn't the most rom-comy thing ever. Hallmark and audience approved.

@maat-the-prescriptive  @simonsbluee  @save-the-sky  @itsminniekat  @hacker-ghost  @bi-andready-tocry  @imtiredaffff  @jazzkaurtheglorious  @hereforbeebo  @fandomgirl17  @chrysanthykios  @maehemscorpyus  @loraleiix  @letsloveimagines  @annshit  @i-cant-choose-a-username-help  @enigmaticmaze  @divine-artemis  @waterlilypat  @idontknowwhatthisisfam  @evi-ka  @classyandfabulous00  @redperson58  @lilysdaydreams @solowheein  @mythicalamphitrite  @axen-gers  @luckygirl144  @nj01  @buddyemily   @the-albino-lioness  @stardream14  @gdhdkfnn  @nomadicgypsyy  @preciousskye  @fluffysuicideunicornsworld  @o-kaelin  @manacharlotte  @awkward-youtube-trash @laylasbunbunny @bonky-beerns  @meme-lord-and-savior-sebastian  @strawbrinkofdeath  @teenloves  @tams0527  @browneyespinkhair  @starstruckllamapuppy  @daisychains012  @y0ulooked  @tinytacosuitcaseflap @supernatural-is-my-only-life  @jula-pauline  @melodykitty  @just-that-bi-girl  @crazybutconfidentaf  @lowellshade @alphakees  @bellero  @weallneednamjesus  @starryhanji  @boiled-onionrings  @husherstan  @fockingwhore  @melaningoddessthings  @prettypastelpetals  @haleypearce  @godwhyamiawkward  @y-napotat  @daisychainyoonmin  @little-miss-rebel3  @free-wheelin-bi-sexual  @redmoon261 @darkacademic2  @wiseflamingoqueen  @into-the-end  @namikhai-i  @nastiablr  @thelittleplantlover  @mirktuan  @dont-hyuck @jjk-bunny  @vintagegothlover  @easygoingtheatre  @itsrandombooklover  @miiaivi  @emmybaybee  @befourgolden  @jjk-is-my-shit  @eternalteaaars  @spacebadgerx  @princesslunalight  @acequinn14  @samm48  @misselsbells06 @simp-lykawa  @fo-love  @marishimomura-blog  @therealglenncoco  @cinnamonbun332  @killtherandomness  @sanshinexxxsan  @fee-btheweeb  @press-lay  @cathleenpotgieter16  @jazzydoesstuff  @moonlxghtbay  @forestrain2000  @hyunjinhugs  @blood-of-fandoms  @lovellylies  @ukiyolixx  @simpforhpcharacters  @chrisdylan17  @parkerjisung  @pedernille  @theodonyous  @wineandionysus  @malfoystilinskii05  @morbid-x  @coryisagee  @jessewa26  @scoobydooluver97 @mindintheskies365  @raeanneinwonderland  @indecisive-empanada  @gluttonypalace  @loriane2503  @btsiguess-kpop  @khaoticbunny  @lucidlycactus  @smiithys  @rottenroyalebooks  @kpopgirlbtssvt  @fangirl-tc27  @fr0z3n-1  @notmesimpingfortechno  @shotarosleftpinky  @kunoi-chan  @idk-whats-wrong-with-me  @yikeroonie  @goldenstarofthunderclan  @poetry-and-tea  @ama-do-writing-stuff  @wishbonewolf  @emeraldxhope  @t0xick1tty  @kusuinko  @speakyourselfloveyourself  @sophia902103  @lo-manburg  @classsykittykat  @dmgama  @depressedpuppythatneedscoffee  @btsiguess-kpop  @akaashi-baby  @gun-jong-simp  @geschichtenfee  @yerapotato-wp  @browneyedgirl365  @thysagclub  @sparklycloudnight  @helloatomicshadow  @queentorresstuff @vtte @val-gal  @lucy-bunny17  @aaliyahh0  @katluckybear  @boyleanti  @straybids  @franchesca-791  @cosmicstorm19  @averyisbackinthetrashcan  @aomi-nabi  @xlanawriter @sunnyrae-cessh  @ladykxxx08  @meowiemari  @renupf  @booklover76  @sra-verissimo  @beatrhizn  @blueberrystigma  @beatrhizn  @chicken-taco-burrito  @scorpio-echo  @nyctophiliiiiaaa  @squirreljoe    @azra-x  @ace-of-spaids2  @kxllanxtdoor  @ateliefloresdaprimavera  @allens-underground-lair  @tattered-tales  @madame-isabelle

#corpse husband #corpse fandom #corpse #corpse fanfic #corpse fic #corpse x you #corpse x reader #corpse x y/n #corpse husband x y/n #corpse husband x reader #corpse husband x you #corpse husband fic #corpse husband fanfiction #corpse husband fanfic #corpse headcanons #corpse husband headcanon #fic #fanfic #fanfiction #reader #x reader #request

[mask131]

I'm going to really quickly drop something I have been thinking for a very long time - and I don't think I have made a post about it?

It is one of the reasons I kind of cut ties with fandoms on the Internet as a whole, and why I originally strongly disliked the way "headcanons" were used, and why I often roll my eyes with the way people behave on the Internet... And I don't know if it is because I was old enough to have lived in a time when I enjoyed series and movies and cartoons without the Internet - or better, with an Internet that was without the "fandoms" as we know them today.

The main thing that irritates me with the way "fans" act on the Internet is how they think because they are fans of a piece of media, it "belongs to them". I fully understand the idea of fanfiction-positive and I am ALL for fan-art and AUs and the like, don't get me wrong. I do enjoy what fandoms were for - sharing a common passion, bring fan-made content based on a loved piece of media, have fun with it all... But the way this positivity has been framed and formulated, and the way it got interpreted has been irking me a lot.

Because in effect, a lot and lot of people have gotten into their brain, somehow, that a fandom "owns" a piece of media. That a television series was made first and foremost for the fans, and not for anyone else, and thus that it must cater to their every whims and desire. More and more people take fan theories and headcanons as actual guidelines, or solid fact, or in general confuse "canon" and "headcanon". More and more people believe the idea that "If we are strong enough, we can change this piece of media" or that "The creator of this piece of media owes us things because we are fans".

I am not very old, and yet I still lived in a time when we understood that published books and the shows on TV and the movies in theater were not... "ours". Yes a fandom is a way to allow fans to toy and play with a piece of fiction, and thus in a way make it "theirs". BUT THAT'S METAPHORIC NOT LITERAL! It certainly does not help that recently more and more tv shows and cartoons and whatnot have been explicitely interacting with or refering to their fandoms, even sometimes letting the fans drive the course of the story. Which is great, and is fun - but should be remembered as something not "natural" and a bit exceptional.

It reminds me of how recently there have been more and more incidents in theaters where musical plays were interrupted by audience members who thought they just could do anything they wanted - because somehow they thought a musical was an interactive play or a karaoke night. Again, these kind of interactions do exist (The Rocky Horror Picture Show was built upon these experiences) - but they were unique and out-there.

Art, fiction and media can and will live on without fandoms. Fandoms are not a needed ingredient of a piece of fiction, they are something that at best develops a healthy co-dependency with the piece of fiction it selects, at worst acts like a parasite to its host. But the fandom can be destroyed and obliterated and die - the fiction will still live on, and the media will still exist. And yet, so many fandoms seem to believe that somehow, they are the movers and shakers of industry and fiction, and that somehow they are the ones in control? So many fans treat creators like commissioned artists or pals they can ask favors from or victims they can bully freely without consequence.

Again, I don't know how to properly express my thoughts but... I lived in a world without fandoms, and now I can't stand it when people make it seem as if art and fiction and media was all about fandoms. And I mean fandom in the modern, Internet-sense of the term. Fandoms have went from enthusiastic pupils and eager to learn students and symposiums of fair critics to just... whining, entitled, over-spoiled little brats that kick their feet in anger, give orders to everybody and try to run away with the painting that is hanging on a museum's wall.

Yes fanfiction can "correct" a badly written plot, in one's opinion. It doesn't mean the author has to stick to your corrections, or that other people can't actually enjoy the badly written plot.

Yes fanart can be much cooler than the actual design. It does not mean you suddenly know the movie better than the movie-maker themselves, or that your fan-art will have to influence the aesthetic of a cartoon's next season.

Yes headcanons are wonderful. It does not make them canon, and you cannot enforce them on anything.

I repeat myself like a broken record - but originally fandoms where a place of enjoyment and appreciation and theorizing and complaining, but solely as an audience, and as people gathered by similar interests. Now? Now they became places of control and influence and demands that don't understand that an audience member isn't supposed to jump on stage to point out "No you are saying it wrong, here is how you should say the line."

#fandoms #i have a lot to say about fandoms #well I have a second post to make about fandoms #fandom #headcanon #fans #media #fiction

[afreakingdork]

A quiet part of me wonders (mostly because the oc I’m using in the place of Y/N for weak spot is… morally questionable in oc canon) how would the story change if Y/N was a villain themselves? Either former or current.

You got that John Krasinski joint inside you? 👀

Sorry couldn't resist 😂

Put those OC's in! Let's go! We love to hear it!

-cracks knuckles-

BET

So, I think my first immediate thought when I read morally questionable is that it changes nothing!

Anticlimactic, yes I know.

Why?

Because while I've never said such, reader is morally grey. I see comments about how reader is good or reader is becoming bad by being with Donnie. Reader has thought this themselves. Less we not forget, however, that reader is an unreliable narrator. We've seen this occur in a multitude of ways. This is my own personal philosophy coming out (and also plays in conjunction with the themes of Weak Spot, mentioned here) is that, on the whole, most people are morally shades of grey. Very few, if any, people are truly bad or good. It's part of why a good villain is redeemable and people love to see it. It's also why there's sometimes nothing tastier than a hero who's moral compass pushes them too far! Life isn't black and white!

But that's not reading your actual question, that's just me taking a chance to say that. You asked how the story would change if reader was a villain.

Now that changes everything!

First off, the story wouldn't be about if you're worthy of love, we would be playing with a tango! As we've seen, Donnie folds in players he finds useful, takes out those in his way, manipulates them if he finds them beneath him, or further yet, completely ignores them if they don't fall on his radar. He's sort of ambivalent in that way, but it's walking eggshells for another villain. Especially in his younger years, if you toed anywhere near his line, he'd be on your shit. This is a man of information. He is more connected than Big Mama without question. He'd know about you the second you committed your first petty crime. Now the real question would be if he would actually remember your name or if he'd drop it into the monitoring stack where 99.9% of all the other villains go.

As we know in general, he had never once trifled with love and I'm less inclined to think he would do so for another villain. He has his persona to uphold and no matter how much of a small fry you are, you are still another rogue and to him that will always be a threat.

Are you retired? You were weak and couldn't stay in the game. That speaks to your resolve.

Are you small potatoes? You're not hungry enough. Why should he waste his time on you?

Are you in the big leagues? You are an opponent and he will move his chess pieces accordingly.

Dang, here I go again coming up with only bad endings. i swear I'm not doing this on purpose, but this just falls in line with the goals of Weak Spot and how changing the parameters alters the whole thing. The story is meant to be an examination of what makes you worthy of love and if your job really defines you. If you are both evil, of course you are both worthy because there is nothing standing in your way, but from the way Donnie has been crafted and come to be, it's difficult to see him dropping any of that for a fellow villain. The exact same could be said about a hero except we have already have textual examples of that (the other turtles). The thing about reader is they needed to be a regular person, because at his core Donnie just wants a chance to live authentically and who better to illustrate living for the sake of living than the every man? They had to be someone outside his world to open his eyes, otherwise he'd be looking through the exact same lens. No one is driven to crime just for the fun sake of it (look back up to my earlier general consensus, this is simply a blanket statement stemming from that). I'm not saying someone broken or 'bad' couldn't have reached Donnie, if we shift Weak Spot, there is absolutely some hot hot tension to be had of going toe to toe with a villain (case and point chapter 49), but within the framing of Weak Spot, I would say, overall, we have yet another dead end.

Lovely exercise though! Thank you for giving me a chance to answer!

#ask #weakspotfic

[420thewritersroom]

Thunderstorms in Spring

~Welp, just as fast as I posted that first installment, now we have a second one! I didn't expect everyone to like the first one so much, and I wanna thank you guys for your loving words! And the previous piece honestly gave me so much work to go off on that I decided to continue with a sequel (will this become a possible series, idk, but there's a second one now, so who knows).~

~I, once again, want to thanks the artists in this community who made their pieces of White Haired!Raiden and contributed to the whole "Oops, Kung Lao's Dead Again" AU, you can find them credited in the previous post since I don't want to annoy them with constantly tagging them whenever I make another installment with this series lol.~

~Before we continue just wanted to put some mild context to ensure this makes sense. Fire God Liu Kang starts getting deja vu as certain coincidences and events start playing out that are too eerily similar to how things played out during the MK9 game. All roads were seemingly leading to Kung Lao dying in his timeline, and Liu Kang struggled with how to cope and deal with this. On one hand, he did not want his friend-…His new teacher…To die, especially since he tried so hard to tailor-make this timeline to ensure everyone got a happy ending.

Yet, at the same time, he refused to stoop down to Kronika's level and start altering the timeline until it was his "perfect" utopia. However, his fears and suspicion about the situation become even more realized when Raiden gets gravely injured, and the only thing that prevented him from kneeling over was the thunder amulet infused with his person (and some other magical shit, idk). From this, Raiden gains his iconic white hair, and this gives Liu Kang a heart attack. To make a long story short, Kung Lao ends up dying at the hands of the villains, Raiden is going through the stages of grief, but he's going down the same dark path as the previous Raiden, now becoming Dark Raiden. And Liu Kang has to finally interfere.~

Still confused? Too late, now on to the story!

Previous // Next

Characters: Raiden, Raiden's Sister (Fuji), Johnny Cage, Kenshi, Mentions of Kung Lao, Liu Kang, Madam Bo, and Jax

Word Count - 8,001 (wow!)

Ships: Johnny/Kenshi - Past Raiden/Kung Lao

Warnings: Canon Typical Violence (with less blood), Heavy Talks About Character Death

~The Netherrealms - Undisclosed time and place~

Sulfur, ash, smoke, burning stone, and landscapes; the smell of the Netherrealm. Although Raiden's memories are fuzzy at best and nonexistent at worst, he remembers this in near clarity. His vision presents him looking up at the hellish sky as if he's lying down on the ground. He remembers not moving; it's too painful to move. He remembers breathing heavily. Is it because of the suffocating air of the Netherrealms? Or perhaps because of the blinding pain that Raiden remembers experiencing.

He can remember not just hissing and groaning in pain but screaming and writhing-silently begging for it to end. In this mnemonic dream, everything was selective when it came to what he saw, heard, smelled, and tasted. For taste, he can taste the iron of his own blood mixed in with something foul. Could it be the rancid air or the fact that this mixture almost tasted like poison?

His hearing in this dream is quite literally selective. Some people sounded horribly muffled, requiring Raiden to strain his ears to hear them. Others, he could perceive with great clarity, and then there were those he could not hear at all, their lips moving with no audible sound. Then there was his sight. Like the other senses, Raiden was faced with blurred faces, some only possessing one discernable feature, such as their eyes, nose, mouths, ears, hair, etc. Others were completely faceless to Raiden, with only their speech or smell being the one thing Raiden could cling to.

But what often overrode all these senses was the overwhelming pain he felt at this moment. Three figures stood above him. One was featureless; the only distinguishing aspect of this entity was that they were female-presenting as their speech sounded feminine, but it was horribly dimmed. Another figure was only distinguishable thanks to the glowing eyes they possessed and distinct dragon tattoos that crawled up their arms. If Raiden concentrates, he can maybe recollect what this individual is saying, but this pain prevents him from doing so.

Then there was Kung Lao. Deadass, just his long-time best friend, Kung Lao. Out of all the figures in front of Raiden in this instance, Kung Lao-he could see and hear with such perspicuity. Kung Lao stood beside the lying Raiden, tears in his eyes, slurring his speech, holding tightly to the thunder wielders' shaking hand.

"It's ok, Raiden! It's ok, you're going to be ok!" Kung Lao sobbed, trying, but failing, to smile at Raiden despite his tears actively gracing Raiden's face.

Raiden doesn't remember if he said anything back to him. His sight throughout this scene remained on his friend…At least, he thinks they're friends. There's a foreign feeling that encompasses him whenever he looks at Lao, and it's an overwhelming sense of love. And, I mean, people can definitely love their best friends. He and Kung Lao had known each other since they were children. Lao was a reckless, poor kid, and Raiden was a boy from a well-off family. Despite their class differences, they saw something likable about the other. But this love was more than just having a natural affinity for someone he's known all his life.

This felt…Stronger? Louder? Raiden doesn't know how to describe it. If it wasn't for the pain, Raiden would get lost in Kung Lao's chocolate eyes. He would untie his short ponytail and play with his hair before readjusting his look. Raiden notices little details about his friend that others might not have picked up on. Like his dimples when he smiles, even under such stressful circumstances, the way his face piercings adds to his cocky personality, and his undercut brings back fond memories of the pair trying to learn how to cut his hair which ended disastrously. Raiden wanted…To kiss him dearly…

And just like how Raiden held his perspective on Lao, Kung Lao hasn't torn away his gaze on Raiden, spitting out promises of what they will do together once Raiden was right as rain in rapid fire. What ended up redirecting Kung Lao's attention was when the figure with the glowing eyes was mumbling something.

"What?" Kung Lao snaps his head over to the tattooed figure with hopeful confusion on his face.

This tattooed individual, Raiden could not understand fully. However, he was able to catch on to some words: Amulet, Raiden, Entity, and Consequences. The fully faceless being, who was also present, gestures as if they're conversing with the pair - but Raiden cannot hear their input on the matter.

"I don't care how you do it! I…I just want him to survive! Please, Liu! Save him! Save Raiden!" Kung Lao cries, holding onto Raiden's hand like his life depended on it. As if, if he didn't clutch onto Raiden, he would lose him forever.

The tattooed individual holds their gaze toward Kung Lao, their silence and body language hinting that they were…Uneased and uncertain. The tattooed looks at the feminine figure and nods, saying something in the mumbled jargon they spoke. But the three individuals in front of Raiden were all in agreement. They were going to save him. He was going to survive this…Somehow.

Kung Lao focuses back on Raiden, smiling at his downed friend. "Look at me. Look at me, Raiden. You're going to be alright! Liu is gonna help ya. You…" Kung Lao looks Raiden over, primarily where his stomach is. Why was he looking there? "You're going to be alright. I love you. I love you so much, and I'm not going to let you die, ok?"

Raiden feels his heart flutter as if Kung Lao said something that would've usually made the thunder wielder swoon. But what was it? Despite being able to understand everything Kung Lao was telling him, his dream censored him; twice it did. Raiden feels something swell within him, this desire to respond to Kung Lao. Words at the tip of his tongue that he wanted to get out.

But then the pain gets worse. A LOT worse. His body was on fire as if electricity was coursing through his body. Raiden screams, making sounds that one would not think a human could make. He writhes, so much so that he feels someone holding him down. He remembers wanting it to stop; that dying was a better alternative than enduring this much pain.

-

Raiden jolts awake, sitting upright, sweaty, and breathing heavily. His eyes roam about his room, taking stock of what's around him. It was just a dream. He's in his room, in his bed. Not in…That hellish place…Whatever that was. Yet, he's not calming down. It felt real, too real. The pain, the heat, the people talking to him. It was as if he experienced it before, and there was a part of himself that felt like it was factual. But it was so…Surreal…

"Ugh! Aaah!" Raiden clutches his stomach, where his lower and upper body meet. It's happening again.

He can feel static dancing off his person in painful waves, coursing through his body from his stomach. He doubles over as he clutches his stomach in a hugging position. He can feel it wanting to get out again, this strange, unknown power, as it swells in electric prowess, begging to be let out.

"Raiden? Raiden!" Fuji's voice sounds distant, yet tangible, as she rushes to her brother's side. "Raiden, what's wrong? Is it happening aga-ah!" Fuji feels a jolt of electricity shock her, and she pulls away from touching her brother.

Raiden hisses through the growing pain, "Y-yes, it's happening again! It's stronger this time!"

"Come on, let's get you outside!" Fuji says in a hurried tone as she quickly dresses herself in whatever she can get her hands on in her brother's room.

Raiden groans as he tries to remove himself from his bed (something he kinda doesn't want to do right now) but ends up rolling off the mattress onto the floor with an audible grunt. Fuji is quick to Raiden's side again and helps him up with all her strength. Despite having a sleeper build in terms of muscularity and being leanly built, he was heavy to carry and drag around for someone of her strength and stature.

"Come on, come on, let's go, Raiden! We're almost to the door; let's go!" Fuji tries to encourage her brother.

"I-I'm trying, Ji. It hurts!" Raiden whines.

They both get past the front door and rush to hop onto Fuji's motorbike (she saved up ALOT of money to get this baby). She revs the engine and speeds away down the road, biking to a remote area so that her brother can let out…Whatever the fuck is going on with him.

"We're almost out of here, Raiden! Just give me-HOLY SHIT!"

Suddenly, an arc of lightning strikes the ground, deadly close to them. It's only now that Fuji notices that the night cloudy skies above were crackling with thunder and lightning (fortunately, no rain…Yet…).

"Raiden, control yourself! Just give me 2 minutes! AAH!" Fuji dodges a lightning strike that landed 3 seconds ahead of them.

"I'M TRYING!" Raiden shouts in pain, his hair and eyes glowing intensely as the power of the amulet strengthens. Throughout the trip, Raiden KNOWS that he was unintentionally shocking his sister, the poor farm boy constantly apologizing as he tries to reign in the energies coming off him.

Fuji is able to bob & weave around the constant lightning strikes and endure the shocks her brother kept giving her, just enough to reach not just the outskirts of the village but into the remote parts outside their settlement. Once they were a good 15 minutes away from Fengjian, Fuji slows down to park her bike, but this would nearly cost her. As they were about to stop, another strike of lightning hits them from behind, kicking up dirt, debris, and their bike. The motorbike ends up being tipped forward forcefully, sending the siblings flying.

"AAAAHHH!" Fuji screams as she soars above the ground before crashlanding into the tall grass nearby. Although she didn't gain that much air, thanks to her slowing down not too long ago, she still felt her ears ringing and her head and muscles aching. She makes sharp gasps as she slightly rolls in pain.

"Damnit, Raiden," Fuji hisses. "Fuck, Raiden! Raiden?" Fuji picks herself up, almost losing her footing, as she frantically looks for her older brother.

The sounds of her brother screaming gave her an idea of where he was at. He wasn't too far from her. Fuji could see lighting bouncing off his person as he was in the fetal position. As Fuji was attempting to approach him, Raiden yelled out to her, "DON'T COME ANY CLOSER!"

Fuji immediately stops in her tracks, watching her brother uselessly as he suffered. Ever since he came back home a year and a half ago, ever since Liu Kang dropped her brother off at their family home, he's had these strange abilities. But nothing like this. It has never gotten this bad! It's gotten out of control. Whatever's happening to Raiden, it's trying to get out. Fuji anxiously scours through her brain as she considers WHAT she can do to help her brother that she hasn't done before. But…BUT WHAT THE FUCK WOULD ANYONE DO IN THIS SITUATION!?! Her brother is becoming a malfunctioning transmission tower! No amount of guidance from their parents, friends, workmates, or even TikTok inspiration posts could prepare her to handle this!

There is one thing she notices about her brother in this situation. It's almost as if he's trying to hold back whatever this electrifying beast is. This gives her an idea.

"R-Raiden! Raiden, you need to let go! You can't keep holding back…Whatever this is!" Fuji shouts as loud as she can, the raging thunder clouds, cracks of lightning, and howling wind overpowering her voice.

"NO!" Raiden screams in response, fear heavily apparent in his tone. "I-FUCK-I'LL HURT YOU! LIKE LAST TIME, I'LL HURT YOU!"

Oh…

Fuji stares uselessly at Raiden as that incident plays in her head again. It was a couple months since Liu Kang returned her brother home. Raiden was…He was going through alot. What, with his sudden memory loss and having to come to terms with the lost memories, Raiden was silently coping with this alone. It's unnatural for him to bottle up his emotions. Fuji has always known her brother to speak his mind when something troubled him…Then again, his trusted confidant when he didn't want to turn to his family was Kung Lao…Who's dead…Even Madam Bo he couldn't look to for guidance; she died many years ago (peacefully, surrounded by her family). And despite the natural trust, as siblings, they both had for each other; Raiden clearly avoided speaking with her about what he was thinking and feeling.

And it finally came overhead when the siblings had a mild dispute. She doesn't even remember what they were arguing about. Could've been typical brother/sister shit. Maybe she finally confronted him about his silence and reluctance to speak about what had happened to him. Regardless, things got a bit personal, and Raiden, who is usually the patient and calm one, even during their little disagreement bouts; lashed out.

And quite literally did he lashed out. Fuji probably should've seen the telltale signs when his eyes and hair were giving a dim, white glow, but she was too riled up in the conversation to pay attention. Then it happened, Raiden yelled back at her, and suddenly, an arc of lightning erupted from him. Striking Fuji.

With a highly concentrated energy of electricity, it shocked her to the point that her body shut down temporarily…But Raiden didn't see it like that, at the moment. His sister, his closest friend aside from Kung Lao, was lying on the kitchen floor, dead. Their elderly parents arrived home to see Raiden sobbing loudly as he tried to revive his sister while lightning was pulsing off him. They couldn't get close enough to each reach the phone to call for emergency services as arcs of lightning were going everywhere in the house, practically destroying it (the expenses were much, even for their family). And maybe it was the constant shock of electricity that restarted Fuji and kept her from fully kneeling over. Who knows, there was a lot of pandemonium going on at that moment, but she remembered jolting back to life, breathing heavily as she tried to scoot away from her brother.

But there was one thing she regretted that day. Being so scared of Raiden that she had the look of someone seeing a monster, a threat.

Fuji can ascertain that he's been holding it in ever since that day. Because he's scared of hurting her again. And sure, they would both go out of town to a remote area to let Raiden air out and release the energies of the amulet infused to his body. But there was a deafening disconnect since that day. And it pains Fuji that it wasn't until now that she realized she'd shut Raiden out because she was scared of her brother.

Another painful cry emits from Raiden. The storms above were becoming dangerous, Fuji felt like she was going to be swept off her feet by the roaring winds. Although Fuji was scared of the mystical prowess her brother possessed, she loved him more than she feared him.

"Raiden, you're not going to hurt me! I know you won't, I trust that you won't!" Fuji has to now scream over the raging storm as she puts some further distance between her and her brother, readjusting her fallen motorbike. "Whatever you're holding on to, you have to let it go!"

"Fuji, I-"

"Raiden, don't you fucking argue with me!" Fuji shouts, using her "mom voice." Fuji might be just as soft-spoken as her brother, but she knew when to assert herself and take up space when needed. "You're going to harm me far worse the longer you keep holding on to...Well, that! You'll destroy all of Fengjian doing what you're doing RIGHT NOW!"

I mean, Fuji can't say for certain that it will. But storms like this can definitely level villages, and she's not about to wait and find out if this is the case. Fuji yelps loudly as a soaring large tree branch flies by her, the dark-haired sister ducking behind her bike for safety. There's another resounding scream from Raiden, and she looks in his direction with extreme worry. However, there was something different about this scene.

Raiden was howling, sure, but he was releasing the energies of the amulet. The best way one could describe this scene is that it's like watching Raiden raise his power level as if he's a Dragon Ball Z character. The storm around this time worsens, so much so that Fuji ends up holding onto her, albeit skidding, bike while screaming herself.

Then it...Stops...The roiling thunder, the crack of lightning, the raging winds calmed. Fuji opens her eyes and looks to the still-night sky, the dark clouds slowly parting to reveal the gibbous moon above, the sound of thunder now becoming an infrequent presence. When she finally takes a look at her brother...She might as well be looking at an all-powerful being, maybe even a god.

Raiden was levitating, hair and clothes flowing as if he were in water, sparks of electricity visibly coursing through his being as his hair and eyes glowed a godly white. Fuji stared in awe as electric energies sparked off him, unsure of how else to take in this scene in front of her. Her brother would soon gracefully touch the ground again before kneeling over. Fuji cautiously approaches her brother as if she's entering an emperor's throne room unannounced.

"...Raiden?"

"...Yeah?" Raiden, now sounding like his usual, soft-spoken, self, looks up at his sister. His face plastered with the same amazement as she possessed.

"Are you...Ok?"

"I think so," Raiden looks himself over, watching the energies pulse around him. "...Yeah. Yeah, I think I'm alright now."

"What was that? This never happened before." Fuji starts getting more bold as she approaches her brother. She wanted to dust him down but hesitated as the energies continued to encompass Raiden.

Raiden is quiet for a moment. During this silence, the electrical current finally dissipated. "...I'm sorry, Fuji."

"For what?"

"For...For everything."

Fuji's heart nearly breaks the moment she hears Raiden's voice crack. Raiden's eyes become glassy as he begins to cry. "No. No, Raiden," Fuji takes the first step to break the space between them, holding his shaking hand in hers. "I should be the one apologizing. I...I'm not going to pretend that I know what happened to you that caused all this. These strange powers, you're new color," Fuji brushes some stray hair behind Raiden's ear, "Or why you can't remember the past...I don't even know how many years."

"But you clearly needed help. I can't assist with any physical help, but I can help with this," Fuji pokes at his heart, smiling at her elder brother. "I was scared of you, Raiden...Because you became...Unrecognizable to me. But I was wrong to emotionally shut you out. You're still my brother, and I'm going to still be your sister."

Raiden chuckles, smiling through his tears as he fondly looks at Fuji. "Thank you, sis."

"Now come on, we best get home. Mom and Dad, if they're not awake already, are going to be worried about why we were gone during an active storm. Also, you're still in your underwear."

"What?" Raiden looks at himself, finally realizing that he's still in a t-shirt and boxers. "W-why didn't you help me get dressed!?!"

"You were literally screaming and shooting lightning out of your hands, what did you want me to do?" Fuji responds as she gets her motorbike prepped for departure.

"I would've been fine with a hoodie or something," Raiden says, now in a bit of a jesting mood. He does notice that his sister is wearing his clothes and points at her. "Can you at least hand me my hoodie?"

"Can't. Not wearing anything under this."

"I can literally see your PJs under there, Ji."

"Ok, but it's cold. No thanks to you," Fuji sticks her tongue at him teasingly.

The pair continue their sibling banter as they make their way back to Fengjian. The back & forth is interrupted as Raiden grows silent suddenly. Growing increasingly uncomfortable with the silence, Fuji breaks the ice.

"Something on your mind?"

Raiden remains still.

"...Come on, Raiden. If something is troubling you...Listen, I might not have all the answers, but at least let me know what's going on."

-

~Two Days Later~

Raiden closes the mirrored medicine cabinet, the soft click of the small door indicating it was successfully shut. Raiden is faced with his reflection. White, shoulder-length hair, brown eyes (that occasionally turn white, he has noticed), upside-down heart-shaped face, chubby cheeks, oval brows; these features he has seen time and time again. Yet, this look still feels...Foreign to him. How did he get the white hair? Nothing in his memories can track down the point in time when he dyed his hair (Fuji says that he dyed his hair...But...).

He looked...Older. As if he's experienced many things in his life. What those experiences are though-he cannot tell you. Raiden places a hairband in his mouth as he gathers his strands to recreate the man-bun he fondly prefers to wear. It's the one thing that gives him a sense of familiarity. He can remember precisely how he favors pinning up his hair. Raiden looks at himself in the mirror again, staring into his reflections' brown eyes as if he's searching for something behind them. His gaze then focuses on a small picture. A photo was taken when he, Kung Lao, and Fuji went on a school trip in their elementary years. Their class went fishing that day, and he can distinctly remember his kid self getting frustrated because he couldn't catch a single fish that day. Despite living in a village that was on the water, fishing wasn't a skill Raiden acquired. He remembers Kung Lao always being able to catch a large or small one, bragging about how he was going to take his catches back home to eat.

Perhaps it was Kung Lao's bragging that made his younger self jealous and throw a fit. But in that same instance, Kung Lao actually taught him the tricks he used to capture fish. It was Kung Lao that turned that sour trip into a journey he will always remember.

...

Why can't he remember anything? Past that day, when the pair competed to see who could harvest the most cabbages and pay for the loser's meal at Madam Bo's, everything else is a blur. And maybe this wouldn't bother him much; people can have fuzzy memories, especially if they were beaten so severely they had to be bandaged with extreme care by a stranger. But it's not just a few memories that he can't recollect; it's practically all of them past that day at Madam Bo's. Even more alarming...

...He had forgotten that his best friend, Kung Lao, had died. Now, unless he's getting a grave case of early dementia, who would miss that their own best friend died, their own funeral procession? When his sister and parents came forward about this with him, it was only then that Raiden realized that some years passed as well. That meant that he was missing years-YEARS-of life experiences that were now gone from his mind. Even more confusing, he wasn't in a coma. At least, he doesn't think he was.

Ok, lemme explain. Based on what Fuji and his parents told him, some man named Liu Kang offered him a position of high-paying work. It required him to work in the United States, and both he and Kung Lao were offered the job; both men said yes to this opportunity. Looking back at it, in his family's words, they should've pushed back further as they were suspicious of this Liu Kang fellow and this job he was offering their son. But seeing the joy on Raiden's face and his determination to leave with Liu Kang convinced them that their son could handle themselves and pave his own future. Occasionally, he would visit home and send money & unique souvenirs before promptly leaving back to the States. Apparently, he was a martial arts teacher in the States, but everything else was unknown to them. It was a shock to everyone when they heard that Kung Lao died. It came out of left field. Based on what Liu Kang and Raiden told them, an accident happened where some equipment malfunctioned and blew up in Kung Lao's face, a lacerated throat being the primary cause of death. After that, Raiden was radio silent to his family. It wasn't until Liu Kang came to their house in the dead of night years later with Raiden in tow, bandaged and bruised, and left without another word. They haven't seen Liu Kang since.

Aside from the mild inconsistencies (if he was in the States while his family was in China, of course, there would be some muddled details), their story was pretty straightforward based on their point of view...Yet, deep down, Raiden couldn't help but...Feel like there's more to this story. Not that he's distrustful of his family; he truly believes what they said. However, somewhere deep within his conscience, it felt like the story they told him was the tale he WANTED them to believe. As if Raiden knew the truth that explains the holes and contradictions that riddled their recollection of previous events. Yet, the answers to these truths are hidden even from Raiden. Always at the tip of his tongue but forbidden from ever speaking them.

Raiden enters the kitchen; his mother and sister preparing breakfast and lunch for Raiden. Seeing him enter, Fuji smiles from ear to ear. "You slept in, lazy butt."

"Oh?" Raiden looks at the mounted clock, and yep! He's an hour and thirty minutes late to work. "Aw, crap!"

"Calm yourself, boy. I already called the Farm. They were understanding and said to come in when you're ready." His mother says as she sets down a bowl full of steamed Bao Buns. Enough to last until lunch, really.

Looking at the bowl, Raiden knew why they cooked so much. Kung Lao, the gluttonous butt he was, would always visit Raiden so that they could travel to work together. And without fail, he was always raiding their kitchen for any leftovers no one else wanted. It became nearly tradition to cook a bit extra in case Kung Lao decided to pay them a visit.

...Apparently, old habits die hard...Raiden smiles and kisses his mother gingerly on the cheek. "Thank you, mother. I don't want to keep them longer, though. I'll see you guys when I get back." Raiden quickly packs his own lunch, thanks to the assistance of his sister, Fuji, who was already 3 steps ahead of him and grabs a couple Bao Buns before heading out the house.

Walking to the Farm, Raiden couldn't help but feel a sorrowful, almost lonely, acceptance of the village around him. Every building, path, small body of water, old face, new face, everything about Fengjian felt like a ghost to him. It was familiar, yet so dissimilar to Raiden. This village has grown in the past years he was in and out of this settlement. But what disheartens him is the absence of his friend. Raiden only wishes that Kung Lao was here, perhaps he would've helped him make sense of all of this. This...Amnesia mess that he's in. And Raiden would've confided with Madam Bo...You know, if she were still alive. Her death had more consistency; she simply died of old age. It was still a shock; she was his adopted grandmother in Raiden's eyes. So in Raiden's mind, he not only lost a close friend but also a family member and valuable mentor.

Raiden found himself staring at points of interest that held significance to him, especially if it related to Kung Lao. There was a cherry blossom tree up a hill nearby that he and Lao would frequent without fail. Be it to do school work, to see who can climb that tree the fastest and highest, or to chill. It was there that Kung Lao, at the age of 15, expressed his desire to explore their horizons past Fengjian. Raiden still grins to himself, thinking back on the many adventurers Kung Lao wanted to have (although few of them were a bit exaggerated). How they both promised-once they were older-they would travel outside of Fengjian, and experience the world together. Somewhere, deep down, Raiden feels like this has come true if they have gone to the States before...But it feels like more was there than simply hopping over to another country.

There's a convenience store nearby where Kung Lao's house was. It was a favorite, and every time the pair visited it, Kung Lao would rant and rave about all the many meals one could make from just a few store-bought convenience items. Being a child of a middle-class family, Raiden was always baffled by the "dishes" Kung Lao would make, most of them hit or miss due to the cheap ingredients. But Kung Lao loved to cook. He probably would've wanted to become one with the kind of passion he had. But Kung Lao cooked to survive due to...Well, let's just say, he was a poor kid.

Then there was the Farm. They were always getting into some kind of trouble there. Playing daring jokes on each other, helping one another with the back-breaking labor, then the fulfilling trip to Madam Bo's Teahouse. All fond memories.

Before Raiden knew it, the day was already reaching its finale. Raiden worked overtime, something he was often known to do. And, you know, working such late hours without Kung Lao there was...Disheartening. Kung Lao wouldn't assist in the work. In his mind, his shift ended at 5:30 P.M. But he would at least stay with Raiden. To provide him company during the late hours. This time around, the nightlife critters and beasts were his only company. The walk home was seemingly worse. The darkened village felt quiet, with only a few shops open that had loud commotion going on. Friends hanging out and enjoying a good drink together as they drank and ate the rest of the evening away.

The only moment of solace Raiden gained was when he walked back into his house. His mother, father, and sister were loud in conversation as they went over the recent village gossip, village news & politics, and pastime activities they engaged in. It was a breath of fresh air having this personal community that broke the solemn silence that his best friend filled. The night ended with Raiden sitting down with his family and enjoying the dinner they made. It closed with him and his sister, Fuji, cleaning up after their parents as they turned in early for the night.

"Hey."

"Hmm?" Raiden gives Fuji a side glance as he continues to clean up dishes.

"You feeling ok?" Fuji eyes him curiously.

Two days ago, Raiden finally came forward with Fuji about the emptiness he's been feeling. Even though he's in a village that he was born & raised in, filled with familiar faces and family, the fact of the matter is that he dearly missed Kung Lao. But...But it was more than just grieving for a best friend, not that it would make a difference. But Kung Lao filled deeper shoes than just simply being a friend. When he's in bed, he feels like the mattress is too big all of a sudden. He can't eat certain dishes because it will all remind him of Lao. He finds himself crying to himself because he forgot for a moment that Kung Lao would not answer his door or his phone if Raiden were to call. All these things, even as a best friend, would be reasonable to miss and grieve over. But there was something more to their friendship than that.

"Do you think you loved him?" Raiden remembers Fuji asking him when he came forward with this.

"...I don't know...And if I did...Now I have to reconcile with the fact that I'll never get to tell him..."

Raiden smiles at his sister and playfully bumps shoulders with her. "Now that I'm home? I'm feeling good, for now. The rice and pork was really good, Fuji."

"I know right! I used this new spice that my friends were crazy about. It's a Korean spice-"

Fuji rambled on about how she made the dish they had for dinner, and Raiden eagerly listened and conversed with her. Even though Kung Lao was gone, he could try to fill that space with more people who loved him.

-

Outside the residence where Raiden lived, a shadowed figure rests on the rooftops of the sleeping Fengjian village, watching the building like a predator that has found its prey. Blazing red eyes stare through the open windows, watching closely the two figures who pass it daily, unaware they have an interested third party observing them. The being in question, however, was laser-focused on Raiden, watching his every move, taking them to memory. The show would be over, unfortunately, as they closed the curtains and cut off the lights, slumbering like the rest of the village.

The shadowed individual smiles, "Worry not, Raiden. We'll be reunited soon enough. You'll see. Then not even death will tear us apart."

And in a flash of mystical air and dead cherry blossom petals, the figure is gone.

-

~Somewhere in California~

Kenshi groans awake as he feels inklings of the sun peering out from the half-closed curtains. Half-naked, Kenshi, through his sight provided by Sento, is greeted with the ceiling of the luxury apartment belonging to Jonathan Carlton, Johnny Cage. Kenshi felt an added weight on the bed he slept on, knowing who was sharing the mattress with him. Despite this, Kenshi twisted his head to drink in the blissfully still-sleeping man beside him, Johnny.

You know, if you asked Kenshi that he would end up in the loving arms of a pompous Hollywood star, he would've had you killed for even thinking about it. Even when their relationship evolved from enemies to friends, Kenshi would've thought that was the final step in their relationship. Just being friends. But it all fell into place when...When Kung Lao died. Funny how shared trauma can bring others together...

You see, Before Kung Lao died, Johnny was good friends with Kung Lao. They both had their similarities. They were both friends with whom some would consider "the straight man" of their other half, they were both hella self-confident and prideful of their capabilities. The only thing that seemingly differentiated them was that one was poor while the other was rich. Oh, and the fact that Kung Lao was more disciplined when it came to his fighting prowess, compared to Johnny, who was more of a "free-form jazz" type of guy. Although Kung Lao expressed mild annoyance at the actor's Hollywood pride (even Kung Lao wasn't that egotistical), the pair worked off each other pretty well to be good friends.

So when Kung Lao died, aside from Raiden, Johnny took his death the hardest. Being perhaps the more foolhardy of the group (even with his years of maturity the more he was asked to help Liu Kang with other realm matters), that moment was when Johnny really "grew up." It's not like he was new to death, the kind of work they did, they have met many instances where they watched people die in front of them or saw corpses in horrendous states. But it was one thing when it was someone who you weren't close to or didn't know in general. It's another thing when it's someone you do know and have history with.

After Kung Lao's death, Johnny's way of coping was trying to fill in the shoes that Kung Lao left behind. Kung Lao always had a way of lightening the mood that was unique compared to what Johnny would do. Where the actor would constantly spill movie references that no one but Johnny understood, Kung Lao knew how to inspire from the heart. And that took skill and experience to pull off, something Johnny wasn't too well versed in. Looking back on it, Kenshi sees them in a more positive light than before. However, he can't say the same for Raiden. When they were still considered the protectors of Earthrealm, Raiden was spiraling into his own self-hatred and grief. With good intentions, Johnny tried to be a friend to Raiden, wanting to reassure Raiden that they had his back...It didn't end well.

Johnny's desire to keep their friend group together, even though they were drifting apart was harming Johnny more than he thought it was. So when Liu Kang suddenly announced that he would no longer be needing their services, Johnny was quick to take his offer. Now, to the untrained ear, one would think:

"Of course, Johnny Cage dipped out after the going got going! He's an actor who never saw any of the cruelties of the real world because of his wealth!"

Which, in some way, could be the reason. But Kenshi saw something else to Johnny's reason for dipping out. As stated before, Johnny put a lot of emotional energy trying to keep their friend group alive. He tried to fill the shoes that Kung Lao left behind, and in the process, he was draining himself as he tried to keep everyone happy while everyone was coping with Lao's death. No longer being obligated to be Earthrealms protector, meant that Johnny no longer had to hold onto the tearing strings since they were all going their separate ways.

Their relationship still wouldn't blossom until nearly a year and a half ago. Granted, looking back at their previous interactions, perhaps it was fate that they would find solace with each other. Kenshi, with the line of work he involved himself in, had to go into hiding but had nowhere to turn to. Hunkering down with Johnny would've been a foolish thought; he was the exact opposite of discreet. But, because he had to cut back on some expenses, Johnny was living in an apartment building that was a perfect "hiding in plain sight" spot. With Kenshi as his new roommate, Johnny got a bit personal with Kenshi as he was helped dress his wounds. The rest was history as Kenshi found himself kissing Johnny in the heat of the moment. A year and a half later, Kenshi is still in disbelief that they're together still.

While Kenshi would love to admire the sleeping person beside him, he knew that he couldn't stay long. He was still in hiding, and he promised Jax that he would meet him at a disclosed location to discuss next steps. He's careful to slip out of bed without disturbing Johnny, swiftly getting cleaned up and dressed before walking into the kitchen to prepare himself a cup of joe.

"Mmhm. Morning sunshine."

Kenshi nearly jumps out of his skin as he feels strong arms wrap around his waist. He smiles as he cranes his head back to look at Johnny. "Did I wake you?"

"Didn't feel your body keeping me warm, honey. You leaving already?" Johnny says in a husky tone as he nuzzles behind the blind swordsman.

"Have to. I have an associate who's waiting for me. I might not be able to stay here for much longer."

"Again?" Johnny complains in an overexaggerated tone. "How long will you be gone?"

"Don't know, depends on the situation."

This isn't the first time Kenshi and Johnny been separated for long periods of time, something they were both well accustomed to. Johnny was an actor/director, which means he was constantly traveling to other states and countries for filming. Working for the OIA (Outworld Investigation Agency) and the FBI, Kenshi was either traveling the world or traveling realms. Perhaps being the only Earthrealmer who didn't hang up the mantle of being Liu Kang's warrior.

Johnny continues to whine about being alone without Kenshi (even though he'll be alright), playing up his desperation for Kenshi to "stay home" with him. And Kenshi will admit, he can definitely see why he was, and still is, a popular star in Hollywood.

"Can you at least leave me a goodbye gift?" Johnny's fingers start to linger towards Kenshi's waistbelt.

"Johnny," Kenshi chuckles as he moves one of his hands away from his waist, kissing the fingers individually. "I can't right now; I'm going to be late."

"Aw, come on! Just a quicky?"

"No, Johnny."

Cage huffs, but there is no anger hinted there. He just kisses Kenshi's neck and sighs. "Fine. Just come back sooner than later, ok? Bed feels empty without ya."

"I bet it does," Kenshi jests.

"I know it does." As Johnny giggles, his eyes glance at the reflection displayed on the microwave mirror, and he sees…Something moving. A tall, humanoid figure attempting to stealth because it assumes it hasn't been seen.

Just as quickly as Johnny notices this, he quickly grabs a kitchen knife from the knife holder and swiftly throws it at the intruder. Even with his fast reflexes, they weren't as fast as the unwanted guest. The Intruder grabs the knife, blade in hand, while their glowing red eyes stay trained on the couple.

Kenshi, already alerted that something is wrong, calls for Sento to his hand. The magic sword unsheathes itself and flies over to their location. Before reaching Kenshi's hand, with his mystical sight and ability to utilize Sento, even if the weapon is not in his hand, he sharply gestures his one hand in multiple directions in slicing motions. Sento redirects its trajectory as it starts to aim for the home invader. Although the sword was able to get a few good slices in, the individual was fast…Too fast…

"What the hell are you doing in my apartment!?!" Johnny growls as he grabs another weapon of his own (it's another knife).

The figure doesn't respond, only growling as it attempts to rush at Johnny and Kenshi. The pair dodge out of the way, both separated on opposite sides of the person.

"Listen, I'm willing to not press charges AND give you the comfiest dirt nap you'll ever experience IF you tell us what you're doing in my place and why you're attacking us!"

"Something tells me they're not here to talk, Johnny," Kenshi replies as he commands Sento to his hand.

"Ok, dirt nap it is then."

The pair rush the intruder, hoping to overwhelm them with their combined might. Johnny's theatrical and dirty fighting tactics with Kenshi's samurai-like skills and roughhousing tricks. Yet, even with their combined might, this individual was swift and able to counter almost all their attacks while also producing devastating blows of their own.

Very quickly, Kenshi caught on that this person possessed some superhuman strength. Every punch sent Kenshi and Johnny flying in some instances during the fight. This intruder also had some cracks in their skin that had a glow to them. Unfortunately, while Sento gave him sight, it didn't provide Kenshi clarity on specific details like colors. Johnny, however, could see that this person had ashen gray skin, much like how a corpse would look, and the supposed "cracks" were actually the outlines of their inner veins, glowing to an unnatural degree.

Another thing too, this guy just would not quit. Their back and forth was eventually tiring Johnny & Kenshi as they missed one too many close calls that would've killed them. But this home invader had stamina for days. Johnny and Kenshi had to resort to going on the defensive as they had to dodge his attacks while waiting for openings.

Johnny is nearly choked out by this creature before grabbing the heated french press on the stove and slamming it against the intruder's head. Granting the actor time to build some distance.

"Kenshi, I'm gonna need you to think of something, and think of it quick because I'm going to be paying for all these expenses that this prick is breaking!" Johnny windily fusses as he lands a one-two punch on the intruder.

"Get him closer to the living room!" Kenshi says as he provides a helpful block for Johnny, using Sento to slash at the intruder before they can land a hit on Johnny.

"What?" Johnny looks at Kenshi confused before taking a punch to the face.

"Just follow my lead!"

Where Johnny's luxurious apartment was located it was built into a tall skyscraper building, and Johnny paid to get a good view of the city he was living in. That meant that his room was exceptionally high up in the building; leading to an estimated 250 ft drop. And Kenshi was getting some sneaking suspicions that this creature could survive all 250 of it.

Kenshi dares to get closer to the intruder, putting all his might into pushing and fighting this man closer to the living room which had an entire glass wall that showcased that good Californian view. Helping him, Johnny also jumped into the fray, along with Sento as they brought him closer to the glass windows. The intruder was able to block their attacks, but he was inching toward the glass, and they finally grabbed at Kenshi's throat in a crushing grip.

"You will join us, Takahashi. Our family will gladly welcome you." The intruder says.

"I'm all for visiting in-laws and relatives, but we're gonna have to decline the invitation to the family barbeque!" Johnny says. And in that same second, he drops it low and hits your man with the most devastating nutcracker they'll ever experience.

The intruder makes an audible moan as they double over, covering their private bits. Seems this was just enough to not only get them winded but grant Kenshi enough time to perform a flying roundhouse kick and send the intruder falling 230 feet back to the lobby.

"Yo, Kenshi! What the hell, man! I didn't think you were going to kill him!?!" Johnny exclaims. "Dude, I live on this floor!?! And it's 10 in the fucking morning! People are going to see, and then the police are going to be called, then what the fuck am I going to do then? I mean, sure, we were fighting in self-defense, I think that guy had the intent to kill us, but I'm a famous star, dickhead! What am I going to tell the press? Fuck, fucking A, I can already see it, 'Johnny Cage: Famous Actor, Director, and Killer?' Fucking fuck, Kenshi!"

Despite Johnny's angry rambles, Kenshi paid him no mind as he carefully leaned out the side of the broken window, trying to get a good view of the intruder and seeing if his prediction was correct.

…The motherfucker got up.

"Johnny, get dressed, we gotta go," Kenshi says in a hurry as he picks up Sento and the sheath it belongs to.

"Wait, what? Were you even hearing me-"

"We don't have time, get dressed!"

"Ok, ok, I am!" Johnny windily says as he rushes to his bedroom. "Fucking hell, what a goddamn mess."

As the pair are leaving the apartment, Johnny is just getting his best shoes tied, hopping on one leg as he tries to follow the hurried Kenshi. "Wait, Kenshi, what the hell is going on. You're doing that 'I know way more than I let on' schtick that you often do. Did you know that guy?"

"I'll explain once we're far from here. Right now, you're about to meet a good friend of mine."

-

~Wow, this was even longer lmao! I made a second installment! Very excited to keep working on this because we're about to get to the part where Kung Lao returns >:). Had a lot of fun writing Amnesia!Raiden trying to cope with Kung Lao's sudden departure in his life and writing his sister Fuji. BTW, you can check out this post I made of my picrew interpretation of what Raiden's Sister looks like (Fuji - Raiden's Sister). Not too happy with the Johnny & Kenshi scene, but I've been, once again, working all evening and well into the night with this one, so I'm gonna make my peace with it. Hope you guys enjoy it. Can't wait to start writing up the next installment! Pray that I make this one shorter ;A;~

#Mortal Kombat #Mortal Kombat 1 #MK1 #oops kung lao's dead again au #MK1 Raiden #Raiden's Sister #Fuji #MK1 Kung Lao #MK1 Johnny Cage #MK1 Kenshi #Raiden #Kung Lao #Johnny Cage #Kenshi #Wilted Cherry Blossoms Dark Thunderstorms Burning Hopes

[urlocalwormtoday]

WAIT CLONING ISN'T PERFECT

remember how I was talking about 'how I know it isn't canon-compliant but what about a more monstrous design of dopplegilly'?

Well, assuming dopplegilly was made during the period of time Gillion was in the helmet mind solder thingy, considering he did have memory of the helmet thingy, he would have had to take form very very fast

And they only had so much skin and muscle from Gillion, not nearly enough for the DNA to completely and identically match up

but the Navy is smarter than that

what if, the navy, knowing the dopples disguises wouldn't have been perfect, played a little bit of God

What if they mixed some mimic DNA in there as well?

I don't study that kinda stuff, so I'm definitely unknowledgeable, but hear me out

The Navy has been experimenting on and replacing residents of the undersea for quite some time now, we know this

but they must have been doing it fast, quantity over quality

all they needed was lots of soldiers and spies and people on the inside, they didn't care if they looked identical

So to fill in the gaps, all I needed was the DNA of a creature that could change its appearance rapidly and deceive the eyes incredibly well

that's where the mimic DNA comes in

the main body of whoever it was the dopple would be trying to replace would still be relatively the same, same face, same features, ect

But it's the little bits, the eye color, the patterns, the scars, the little things they didn't have enough material to fill

The dopples would have the ability to change little pieces about themselves, maybe even some of them would have more mimic in them than others, mainly because the Navy didn't care to balance it out right

Maybe because of that, some of them came out deformed, some of them came out wrong, with bulging tumors and eyes and mouths where there shouldn't be eyes and mouths

Maybe because of that, some of them could transform more than others

Maybe because of that, some of them could even mimic sounds

That sounds absolutely terrifying

Something that not only looks like your friend, but can also mimic the voices of you and anybody else you know scarily down to detail

So what about some kind of 'true form' for dopplegilly?

A version of him, when reduced down to his basic components, with large, sharp fins and spikes and spines and a split lower jaw with serrated teeth?

Think Mandela catalog maybe, with eyes a little too wide and teeth just a little too big

Dunno why but I think I'm tempted to make a whole list of headcannons and ideas for the dopples

They sound like terrifyingly amazing ambush predators now that I'm thinking about it

basically just really intelligent more humanoid mimics, except they can only really mimic one shape/person, the person they were made to mimic, without really looking out of place

Anyway, I don't think this is really far-fetched, but more of an idea than anything

#jrwi spoilers #jrwi riptide #jrwi gillion tidestrider #jrwi gillion #gillion tidestrider #dopplegilly #dopplegillion #Worm Rambles

[shai-manahan]

Hollowed Minds Progress Update 5/08/23

Hi! I know I failed at making a progress update last month, so first of all, apologies for that! Things have just been busy tbh and life has been too stressful that at some points I just couldn't write. It's why I've been a bit inactive here as well, and why I've been barely answering the asks I've been receiving.

I cannot report yet how many words I've written for the update so far because I haven't really taken a look at it myself, but I will do so at the end of the month if there's still no confirmed schedule by then. My eye health has just been very consistent at making my life harder as well until recently, and here's hoping I'll at least be able to function properly for a whole month🤞

Some things that will be in the next update:

For Chapter 2's Part 2:

Everything still goes as planned, except now both routes are expected to be fast-paced and action-oriented, though one is still more intense than the other.

This will be a massive one, not because of the word count but because of the variations that will play out. There won't be much issues in arranging the transitions to Chapter 3, so there's at least that, but your choices will matter a lot. So you might have to be careful with them.

One of the routes gets Alonzo actively involved, but please be assured that this doesn't mean you have to romance them. I actually encourage you all to check out both routes once they come because you'll gain more discoveries that way. 👀

Alonzo's route will be so memeworthy, I have to admit. Please try it.

There's an info dump in Chapter 2's Part 1 that I'm not really a fan of, so I'll be moving some of those to this part instead if needed.

For the overall IF:

Alex will now have a set skin tone if a lighter one is chosen for the Ripper. I will discuss this in detail soon, but I just wanted to emphasize that Alex and Ripper's mother are canonically PoC.

You will have options for your Ripper to wear contacts or glasses (or neither ofc).

You'll be able to bring a weapon with you in Chapter 2 depending on your choices so far.

You might remember a section of Chapter 1 where you can choose what your Ripper had been doing for the duration of the five months. I might reduce it to a few, just so I could have them properly recognized in the story.

There will be a couple of changes in the character descriptions in the game's stats page, with plans to make them shorter, too, for easier readability.

I will make sure you'll have saves at the end of this. So please don't be surprised if there'll be more page breaks in the future, as well as more choices (that are still as meaningful.)

In connection to above, I also plan to make the in-game descriptions snappier and easier to read while still maintaining the quality they should have. Your feedback will be very important for this, and this also applies to the beta testers (sorry I've been so silent. I swear I'll get back to you all soon lmao)

Not really too related here, but I also plan to be more consistent with my updates in the future. It's just that my irl schedule is still a huge mess, and it's very hard to be consistent when that happens.

Just a last piece of my mind. Some anons have been very aggressive with harassment the past few months, and I really have no interest for more drama right now. So if you have issues, if you think you can back your own words, send them through a DM or at least turn off anon so we could have a proper conversation.

It's honestly tiring. Being an Asian in this community can already be so tiring, so I am begging people to be mature and responsible with their words. After all, I've repeatedly said that you can always come to me with your concerns or whatever you have against me. As long as we can actually talk about it.

Anyway, that's all, and I hope the week will be good for everyone :) I have a few more things to post on Patreon tomorrow, so if you're a current patron, do look forward to that!

#hollowed minds series #interactive fiction #hollowed minds #wip #writing #hollowed minds book one #if wip #interactive novel #hollowed minds progress update #progress update #interactive game #if game #cyoa

[writing--whore]

The Art of Survival - Chapter One

Okay so I have written 5k of the Luis x Reader Hunger Games series (and I'm only like halfway/a quarter of the way through the plot that I have in mind) but before I go any further with the writing and editing, I wanna put the first 1k words to see if people actually like it. So here you go. Plz lmk what you think and if you want more :3

Pairing: Luis Serra x Reader

Summary: Luis is determined to survive the hunger games, which means he cannot allow himself to have a single weakness. And he had none. That was until he laid eyes on you.

Word count: 1k

Warnings: graphic depiction of violence (canon typical for Resident Evil 4 and also The Hunger Games). The violence is committed against you. Canon typical murder of children.

A/N: I re-watched the Hunger Games like a year ago and haven't seen it again since. I'm not going to follow the Hunger Games lore as if it were law. Because A) I don't want to and B) I can't remember it. Please don't come for me. Or do and I'll edit it.

Part One - Part Two

Throughout the whole ordeal - the training, the social events, the interviews - Luis kept his head down and didn’t speak a word to anyone. He didn’t want to think about his chances of getting out of here alive. And he certainly didn’t want to think about how he would have to murder all 23 other contestants if he wanted to live. He’d committed enough atrocities by creating la plagas. A part of him thought this was karma; he deserved to die after what he had done. And yet, when faced with the very real likelihood of death, he realised that he was much more selfish and cowardly than he’d originally thought. He realised that he wanted to live. 

He chose not to think about it. He didn’t want to face his ugly instinct to survive and what he would have to do if he wanted to return home. Which is why he didn’t want to have anything to do with anyone else. He didn’t want to humanise his opponents. 

But he had eyes and he had ears. No matter how much denied and ignored the situation, numerous pieces of information still infiltrated his brain. For instance, he noticed that Y/N was the weakest opponent. She was the smallest, she was the weakest and she didn’t even seem to possess one single skill that would be helpful in the arena. For as much as he tried to uproot it, a seed of sympathy had planted itself in his heart. None of this was fair. People like her should not be pitted against… well, people like him. 

He certainly wasn’t the strongest here but he was far from the weakest. He was decently tall, decently strong. He knew he had a great aim and that he was exceptionally bright. And after fighting the Los Illuminados, he thought he had a pretty good grasp on the act of survival. 

There was one final banquet where all the contestants dined together. He couldn’t handle it. Everyone was so fake, trying to make pleasant conversation when they knew a blood bath loomed on the horizon. He scoffed up his food and chose to take a walk instead. 

The cool air hit his face and he sighed with relief. The peace was short lived; his ears attuned to a nearby sound of crying. His feet trod silently along the gravel, following the sound until he spied the source. Someone was curled up behind a hedgerow, letting out helpless sobs. It was Y/N. 

His feet continued along the path. He buried the sympathy, he buried the shame. Those weren’t emotions he was capable of possessing anymore. 

So why then was he haunted by her face when he was trying to get to sleep that night? 

He recalled being forced to watch the footage of the other contestants getting reaped, and the way all of the colour drained from Y/N’s face when her name was called. He recalled seeing her taking great gulping breaths before the live interviews, each one shorter than the last like she was forgetting how to breathe. 

He groaned and wiped a hand across his face. She should not be here. She should not be fated to a certain and brutal execution. But more importantly, he should not be thinking about this. He had to focus on himself. It was the only way to win. 

That’s exactly what he did. As he stood in the arena, facing his contestants in a circle, he thought only of saving his own skin. This was it. The games were about to commence. His heart drilled against his chest. It was not an unfamiliar feeling, he had learnt to hone it, to sharpen his senses while forgoing any mindless panic. 

The contestants eyed each other up, trying to unnerve the other. Luis simply didn’t look. He focused on the cornucopia straight ahead. He knew he’d be able to run fast enough and he would be much better off if he could claim a weapon. 

So as the countdown hit zero, he legged it, shoulder barging others out of the way. A solid iron pipe caught his eye. It would keep his attackers at arms length and it would be skilled at wielding it. He snatched it and ran, holding it poised against his shoulder in a way that made others afraid to take their chances with him. 

He dived into the thick of the forest, picking a random direction and sprinting as fast as he could. No thoughts entered his mind besides the command to keep on running until he couldn’t run anymore. 

Laughter cut through the tree trunks a few feet ahead, followed by high pitched shrieks. His feet dug into the mud as he went to veer around the source of the noise. But through the leaves, he spotted Y/N. She was crawling through the leaves on her hands and knees but two kids from district 9 dragged her back into the clearing; two cats toying with their prey. 5 minutes into the games and these kids were already focused on sadism rather than survival. 

The district 9 boy easily flipped her onto her back and straddled her, ending her ability to struggle. His fist raised in the air and pounded her face. 

Adrenaline shot up Luis’ spine. He wasn’t even aware that he was emerging through the brush. Nor that his arms had sparked to life and were lifting the pipe over his head. It was an automatic, emotionless act, he told himself as he swung. 

A sickening crack echoed throughout the trees as the boy’s skull snapped open. Rivers of blood ran down the back of his head. 

The district 9 girl screamed - raw with grief - and took off running in the opposite direction. 

The boy fell to one side, half on top of Y/N. She propelled her legs, trying to scrabble away from the weight trapping her. Luis was reminded of a bunny caught in a fist.  

Horror flashed in her eyes when she caught him watching her. Blood had sprayed across his cheek, painting him as a killer. It gave her the fuel she needed; one more kick and she was free. She scurried away, kicking up fallen leaves and very nearly tripping over her own feet.

~~~

He dreamt of her that night. He dreamt that he was a ghostly spectator, floating around the clearing as the district 9 kids took it in turns to beat her. They didn’t let up. His heart tore itself to sheds to hear her cries as her face was marred with deep black bruises. There was nothing left of his heart when her cries turned to silent defeat. She wasn’t going to get out of this. And no one was coming to help her. 

Their punches didn’t let up even as her face turned into an unrecognisable pulp. 

“Stop!” He wanted to call out but had no voice.

He wanted to break their hands, claw out their eyes. But he could not act.

#luis serra x reader #luis sera x reader #luis serra x you #luis serra #luis serra navarro

[cringefaillosersummit]

Round 2 - Group 2A

Submission notes under cut. Some submissions had notes others did not:

Yua Serufu and Abe Nana:

Nana claims to be an alien from Planet Usamin that crash landed on earth and decided to become a seiyuu idol. She also says she's eternally 17 years old. Through her rabbit ear antennae she can communicate with her home planet. She's also a magical girl that protects both earth and Planet Usamin. ...of course, this is all her fake backstory for her job as an idol, she's actually a grown ass woman who pays taxes. most people in the fandom believe her to be 27. but she gets. really. really into her fake idol lore. whenever people call her out on it being fake she freaks out and starts bullshitting to keep up the act. also she really loves anime, obviously.

[Yua] is clumsy, to the point of injuring herself walking to school more often than not. She still thinks it's a good idea to use power tools. If she wasn't an anime character, she would have a lot worse than bandages and a perfect school nurse attendance record. (She also suggests dream-logic ideas when she's awake. Her friends shoot those down.) She's nice, but also...

[Yua] cannot go for a second without injuring herself somehow by pure accident. She's injured so much that the nurse in her school's nurse's office has an attendance record for her and she has presumably not missed a day since she got to that school. Also the first occurances of this are her slamming straight into a streetlight while biking because she decided it would be food to close her eyes while riding a bike and a scene where she tries to use a mechanical screwdriver and messes up so badly that she ends up losing her balance, crashing into some spare wood and then immediately having said wood crush her. She was fine after this. This cringefailness goes back to her childhood, where she sucked so bad at not getting herself injured during crafts that crafts had to be replaced with drawing as an activity in her home. She promptly began eating the drawings she made and the crayons themselves (don't worry, they were safe to eat ones). Personally I think she's a dyspraxic icon but that's not canon and all that is canon is that she is a loser. Her cringefailness doesn't just extend to this, because she also just acts like the number one pathetic girl ever (affectionate) sometimes. When she joined the do it yourself her club leader and also that nurse who has to deal with her daily made one pun with her name (specifically related to the fact that "Yua Serufu" sounds a lot like "yourself", causing "do it yua serufu" to be born as a phrase) and she immediately began going around repeating it to everybody, namely her childhood friend. Speaking of her childhood friend, a lot of why she stuck with the diy club, beyond meeting one (1) butch lesbian who everybody believed chased people down with hammers routinely, was because she remembered that her childhood friend and her used to have a bench they always hung out on and she immediately went to her club leader and was like "ok I need to learn how to make a bench so that I can instantly reconnect with my neighbor", only to realize that her friend did not want that and sadly go up to her club leader to dismiss the whole idea. The bench is outside of their club room now. She's very good at art, but tends to daydream and think in abstract ideas, so she once volunteered to draw treehouse blueprints for her buddies and promptly made a full abstract art piece which was not realistic at all. She has three pets and one of them is a miniature pig who she decided to name Meat for some reason. She loves them all so very much but she keeps eating pork dishes around the pig which it does not enjoy in the slightest. One time she saw a 12 year old crying and her immediate response was to offer her a handkerchief and a hammer and let her choose whichever she wanted. Her childhood friend keeps trying to deny how much she actually cares about her and keeps telling Serufu that she's allergic to everything in her life or telling her about her very cool technologically advanced classes while Serufu got into a worse but traditional school because she spaced out during the exam (she's actually super intelligent she's just not the greatest at staying focused. me too honestly) and Serufu is just like ":))) yep. yeah that sounds really cool :))) wowee I loved this conversation" but super genuinely actually because she's just fine with everything when it comes to her childhood friend. I have many things I could say about her but mostly I think she's funny

Propaganda: [1]

Clementine Kesh:

She’s a failed girlboss. She wants to rule the planet so desperately and pilots an ancient historical mech and has no idea what it does. Her rival is infinitely cooler than her. She dies after a religious leader criticises her too much and she tries to scrap with him but she falls off the side of a stationary space ship. Pathetic wet cat energy all the time.

war criminal... and her mom is mean to her

Kesh is so pathetic they became the devils favorite clown and they think that means the devil likes them

#pathetic woman showdown #pws round 2 #tournament poll #the idolm@ster cinderella girls #nana abe #do it yourself!! #yua serufu #friends at the table #partizan #clementine kesh