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catsteeth · 1 year ago

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The Caged Bird and The Leased Dog

Sandor Clegane x reader

+:✿ Chapter - 5 ✿:+ : Wild Fire

1-2-3-4-_-6

Summary: You are the daughter of Jon Arryn, you and your father travel to King's Landing with the intention of arranging a marriage for you. You catch a glimpse of The Hound during your first night in Kings Landing and it creates a mutual fascination even if he won't admit it.

CW: NSFW themes MDNI, afab reader, slow burn, angst, emotional unavailability, emotional vulnerability, The Hound being abrasive, alcohol consumption, mention of death, mention of arranged marriage, mention of infant and parent death, blood, war, threats of violence, violence.

Word Count: 3767

Since the riot the city was restless.

You felt like the walls closed in on you, and for good reason. You understood the small folks' anger. You understood why they rioted. You understood why they threw shit at Joffrey, why they swore at him and his mother.

But the constant threat towards Joffrey’s safety only grew. Making it near impossible for you to steal a moment with Sandor. And the eyes of your ladies made it even more impossible. He was just as much on your mind as the Vale was. Although you never touched yourself at the thought of the Vale.

Little had you known that Sandor had done the same. Spent any moment he could walking underneath your window. Checking if the candle light was burning still. Walking by your room more often, even when you slept.

He’d stopped looking for any whores whom resembled you in the slightest. Although Tyrion might have picked up that habit. For Sandor, it was of no use even if the women looked like you, even if they looked exactly like you, they weren’t you. They didn’t have your scent, your softness, your sounds, or your eyes. He couldn’t do it, and his hand had not done justice ever since he felt the softness of your thighs gripped around his cock. Being away from you was harder than battle, but it was even more necessary to be away now that a battle was approaching.

Most of the days were filled with women asking you about your engagement and avoiding everyone at any cost.

You had gotten good at finding ways to sneak out of the sight of your ladies. You’d gotten even better at completely losing them. So that afternoon you decided to sneak away from them and get far enough anyway from them it would take them a good while to find you.

With you newly regained freedom, you’d wandered the garden. You thought it might be the last time you could before it was a war torn battlefield.

However your temporary isolation was soon disturbed by the voice of a man.

“My lady.” Baelish greeted you.

“What’re you doing here?”

“You’ve no greeting to your uncle?” The title he bestowed on himself made you want to vomit. It was not incorrect, you supposed but it was chilling.

“Hello, what are you doing here?”

“Came to offer my support.”

“Your support? I see so have you turned my titles to me?” You raised an eyebrow and he let out a small chuckle,

“Afraid not, My Lady. But support your betrothal. It would seem your aunt, and my Lady wife, are not quite fond of the union.”

“It is not like I’d a choice.”

“Of course not. But when you are wed to the man who killed your father, what can you expect?” He said with a stomach turning grin

“What did you say?” You looked at him as if you dared him to repeat such nonsense. The man you were betrothed to would never have done such a thing.

“Lord Tyrion stood trial for the murder of your father. Did he not tell you?” He said in a manner far too calm.

“You lie.” You said, almost like a hiss

“Never to you,” He had the audacity to touch your cheek.

“You would. You’ve stolen from me, who’s to say you’d not lie to me.” You moved backwards away from his touch.

“I am no thief, My Lady. Our King bestowed me with those titles. In times of war, the realm needs to have some kind of stability. A lady becoming head of such a great house? Well the lords of the realm might not be so supportive. Besides, your father would have wanted a man of experience to look after the Vale.” You scoffed at his insulting response and smiled at him with a furrowed brow, in awe of his audacity. “If your father had married you to myself, you’d still have your power.” Your smile was wiped away by that remark. But he walked off as two men walked towards you,

One was tall, with dark hair and a beard, he was older and seemed much more confident than the shorter man next to him. A pale, brown haired squire who flashed a dimwitted smile your way.

“Lady (Y/N)?” The shorter man asked,

“Who’re you?” You asked, your gaze fitting your unwelcoming tone

The shorter man's smile was gone in an instant and he stood up straighter as if to try to better impress you, “Pod-”

“Lord Tyrion wishes to be graced with your presence, my Lady.” The taller one interrupted.

You huffed, then motioned with your hand to have them lead you. The taller man let out a dry chuckle whilst the shorter one’s lips pressed into a line and nodded as they led you on wards.

✧ ‧˚₊ ❆

As you followed them into a private room, Tyrion sat at a desk with lots of papers that were inscribed with meaningless knowledge of the Coin in the realm.

“What is it now?” You said, now furious by the knowledge you’d just received. The only reason you didn’t leap over the desk and kill him then was because you did not trust Baelish enough to know he didn’t lie. And didn’t want to do it in front of his Sellsword and squire.

“Aye, you were right, as feisty as she is pretty.” The tall one said through a chuckle. Your head turned from Tyrion to the tall man, your face filled with disdain.

“Shut up” Tyrion snapped at him, “I am sorry, please come in. And you two leave us!” As he commanded the men, the tall one was still chuckling and the small one shot you another quick smile. As soon as they left your attention shifted back to Tyrion..

“I wanted to tell you that there have been arrangements for you to be stowed away deep within the Red Keep when war comes. You’ll be there with other women and children.” You simply nodded though your face was harsh, and angry. “You’ll be safe there, I swear.” He attempted to reassure you thinking that was the problem. When you didn’t lighten up at all he asked “Have I done something to upset you, My Lady?”

“I spoke with Baelish.” Your voice is cold.

“And you’re upset with that experience? Seems natural.” He attempted to jest, which was not wise.

“Why did he tell me you were tried for the murder of my father?” You stepped closer to him, he looked guilty. “I am sick of being held blindfolded, Tyrion.” He looked down, as if he was disappointed with himself and angry at Baelish. “You know things, things I should know!” You said almost crying out.

“I was tried for it-” You let out a sharp exhale, feeling yourself about to burst into furious tears, to which he stopped himself and tried to clarify “But I was not found guilty was I? I am not lying dead at the bottom of the Eyrie.” He stopped himself again, calming himself to help calm you, “I didn't do it.” He sounded earnest, genuine. You were a good judge of it.

“Tyrion, if I am to be your wife, please. I beg of you this. Honest truth. What happened to my father?” You tried your best to hold your composure.

“Poison. Tears of Lys. It was speculated by a Maester.” He said his eyes filled with remorse for you.

“Who by?” Venom in your voice raised.

“No one knows. Your aunt believed it was me, but it wasn’t.” He shook his head, “It was believed that I or another Lannister had it done due to your father investigating the very claims Ned Stark was. Claims of the legitimacy of my sister's children. A subject I strongly suggest you do not speak of. However, a beheading is not an easy solution to rumors, but it was one they happily took. So poisoning seems out of character.”

“Who do you think it was?” You raised an eyebrow, genuinely curious of his opinion.

“I don't wish to put such things in your mind.” He said and you rolled your eyes.

“Please.” You asserted,

“It would need to be someone with such access to such a poison, and potential to gain from the death. And that person, could only be one person.”

“Petyr.” You said, finally realizing it. “I’ll kill him.”

“Then they shall kill you, my lady.” He got up and walked towards you, “I have no doubt that is your wish, and I no doubt you have the courage to complete it. But you should know, if you’re caught they’ll cut that pretty head off. Doesn’t matter if you’re married to me or not.” He said but you were hardly listening as you paced the room, looking at the ground, piecing things together finally.

“That’s why he said those things…” You said under your breath, unaware that he’d heard you.

“What things?” He asked you in a whisper but it sounded protective, and his hand reached for yours, his face was concerned.

“I should have married him, I'd still have my birthright.” You summarized.

“Well if he said that, he either wants to fuck you or kill you.” He said, you looked at him with a disgusted and confused look. “Think of it, he requested your hand long ago and was rejected. He wants your birthright so badly he killed the man who rejected him, so you’d be in line to inherit. As soon as you are betrothed to someone else he steals it from under you anyways by marrying your Aunt. Who’s to say he wouldn’t have married you just to kill you to have it all for himself.” He said with that natural confidence he always had.

“And which do you want with me, to fuck me or kill me? You’re father betrothed us together because of my birthright, that isn’t lost on me.”

“Well, I did promise I would never harm you.” He said with a raised eyebrow and a smirk. “You always were an observant girl. Just as smart as you are pretty.” He said softly. It made your stomach flip.

✧ ‧˚₊ ❆ ‧ ₊ ⊹˚✧ ‧˚₊ ❆ ‧ ₊ ⊹˚✧ ‧˚₊ ❆ ‧ ₊ ⊹˚✧ ‧˚₊ ❆ ‧ ₊ ⊹˚

“I don’t understand it.” You said, teary eyed peering into the fastness of the mountains surrounding your castle.

“You will one day, long from now. When you are a woman grown, when you’ve a Lord husband and sons of your own.” Your father said with a smile.

“I won’t. Not even then.” You said, your face remained stoic but your eyes teared, water falling out of them and off your cheeks with each blink you took. Your father sighed, it was always a fight with you. “I won’t ever have a child.” You said more sternly.

“Now, you are speaking of nonsense.” He said growing more agitated.

“How could you possibly even think I could, ever, after all I saw that day?” You said turning to face him. “The blood and screams. My mothers last breath was a scream, and my brother’s a cry!”

“She was my wife and he was my son, Y/N. Do you not think I grieve for them too?”

“No I do not. Not when you marry her sister.”

“Your mother, and your brother have died. It is a tragedy- a nightmare I wish to wake us both from but cannot. My heart has broken, but our name cannot die with them.”

“Is that all you care of? The name?” You raised your furrowed brows.

“Our history books do not tell a tale of blood but of names.” He said sternly.

“I wish I could’ve been a son.” You shook your head,

“I’d not wish for you to be a son.” He tried to reach his hand out towards you. But you backed away from him.

“Not for you, but for my mother. She’d be alive if it wasn’t for your pride.”

“You speak out of anger, daughter.”

“I speak out of disgust, father.”

You turned away from him. You didn’t hear from your father until that very night. He let himself into your room as you laid in your bed just half asleep. He pet the side of your head softly. You opened your eyes softly.

“Before your birth. Your mother delivered three children. All were born without breathing. When You were still in your mothers womb, I prayed every night to old Gods and the new for you to be healthy, for you to be alive. When you were born, I thanked them everyday. I still do.” He said softly as if to not fully wake you from your sleep. “The vale, the east, the gates of the moon must rest in the hands of a leader capable of keeping it safe. Capable of asking hard questions, someone headstrong, and wise. Someone capable. And you my daughter you are capable.” He said, with such devotion and love you’d hardly ever heard from him before. “It is a heavy burden but you are my daughter. My heir. I shall not live forever. One day you shall be the Keeper of the Gates of the Moon, Lady of the Eyrie, Defender of the Vale, and Warden of the East. No son born shall challenge it.” He said in a lower voice. “You are my daughter.” He stated once more before rubbing his thumb on the temple of your head and leaving you to rest.

You’d not responded. You simply allowed your tears to fall down your cheek. You wouldn’t be able to forgive him, but you would still love him. You’d be eternally loyal to him, just as he was to you.

That was when you woke up. You often dreamt of memories. Ones of your mother holding you as a young girl, singing sweet songs to you. Memories of the Knights of the Vale teaching you to ride Lika when she was still young, like you were. Even the memory of holding your brother as he took his last breath.

But this memory made your heart ache harder after realizing the man who killed your father is now the head of his house. And now you know, you’d have to avenge him. First however, you’d need an army.

That day however would not have been the day to plan it, as there was another army knocking on your cages door.

✧ ‧˚₊ ❆ ‧ ₊ ⊹˚✧ ‧˚₊ ❆ ‧ ₊ ⊹˚✧ ‧˚₊ ❆ ‧ ₊ ⊹˚✧ ‧˚₊ ❆ ‧ ₊ ⊹˚

That day you were taken deep within the keep. Tyrion’s men who you now knew were Bronn and Payne escorted you there personally.

As you entered the deep underground chambers of the Keep, you were taken aback by how small it was. Crowded by women, children, and babies.

“(Y/N)” Cersei called towards you, you obeyed her call and stood in front of her as she was being poured wine. “Pour some for Lady (Y/N).” She said to the maid behind her. You could smell the wine emanating off of her.

You took the wine, and took a long sip.

“Are you frightened, my dear?”

“Nervous.” You said taking a breath after your long sip.

“Wine will help with that.” She said, “Come drink, sit.” She said, throwing a pillow down for you, “Whom do you fear more for yourself or my brother?” You were taken aback by such a question, but not surprised by how drunk she was.

“Your Grace, I-”

“You don’t have to act, anymore, I understand it. To be betrothed to a man you don’t love I understand that well enough.”

“Your brother is a good man.” You earnestly,

“Is he?” She smiled condescendingly into her glass as she sipped from it. “My advice, if he survives this. Once you are wed, have his baby. It is the only happiness life will grant you.” She said looking over at a woman holding her fairly newly born child in her arms. You looked over at the same woman with her babe. You found yourself feeling strangely empty at the sight.

“I think I could be a good mother.” You said, almost blurted out, as you looked at the woman and her babe.

“You’d be a fierce one. You’re already too fierce for your own good, if you’d a little falcon in your nest you’d be even worse.” She said with a drunken smile.

The words rung in your head.

✧ ‧˚₊ ❆

Meanwhile,

Sandor entered a small area, filled with knights, gold cloaks, city watch, kings guards, all the kinds of men he hated. Specifically one, Bronn, who had a naked woman in his lap.

“Welcome friends.” Bronn called out as if to gain good will. “This rounds on me,”

He ignored his greeting, only giving him a scowl. He sat as he got himself a cup of ale, he drank most of it down wishing that it was stronger, he chugged the rest of it.

“I don’t think he likes me,” Bronn said to the naked woman on his lap.

Sandor placed his cup onto the table.

“It's warm in here, we've got beautiful women and good brown ale and all you want is to put one of us in the cold dark ground, with no women to keep us company.” Bronn jested,

“There’s women in the ground. I’ve put some there, so have you.” Sandor said with annoyance.

“Aye, but you’ve saved some ‘aven’t ya? Like that little blue bird my lord loves so much. Aye?”

Sandor felt a heat rising in his chest hearing those words, but he was unwilling to show it. “You saved that bird from the mobs didn’t ye’? What man would go against his own King's orders, and fight his way through an angry mob, just for a gal? Hm? That makes you a great hero.” Bronn said as he drank.

He hadn’t thought anyone would have questioned what he did for you in such a way. Especially not in front of an entire room of men. It felt like a challenge. “You think you’re a hard man?” Sandor said back,

“Oh I know I am,” Bronn jested as he patted the woman on his lap. The men in the room laughed, but soon were silenced by Sandor's scowl that spanned over the room like a flood of cold water.

“You like fucking, drinking, and singing. But killing, killings’ what you love most. You're just like me.” Sandor stood and towered over Bronn, “Only smaller.”

“Is that what you love most?” He asked, no doubt drunk with confidence.

“Your Lord Imp’s going to miss you.” Sandor said as his hand met the handle of his sword.

Bronn stood with a sigh, “Aye, I suppose he will some day.” He said as his hand met the handle of his dagger.

Just before anything could happen, the bells of war rang.

“One last drink?” Bronn offered, to which with a gruff sigh Sandor gave in and accepted.

✧ ‧˚₊ ❆

While war raged on, you were oblivious to the horrors happening outside the walls of the Keep.

Loras barged in calling to the Queen,

“What is it!” She snapped,

“The imp has set blackwater on fire. Stannis’s ships are burning, but-” Loras’s tone shifted “His fleets have breached city walls.”

“Bring Joffrey to his chambers, now!” She barked at him, as Loras stormed off, unhappy with such a cowardly choice.

Cersei sat back in her chair, “I lied to you. Ser Illyn is not here to protect us. You want to know the truth? Stannis might take the city but he will not take us alive.” She said into her cup.

You placed your glass down, you glanced at Illyn Payne who scowled at you. You wouldn’t have that be the last face you’d see.

As Ser Loras entered the room once more, you stood and rushed to him, your hand touched his briefly as you ran out of the room. You could hear Cersei yell out “Let her go.” As you ran down the halls towards your chambers.

✧ ‧˚₊ ❆

As you entered your chambers you were content to find a corner of it to hide in til the war was over. If Stannis took the city, maybe he’d help you if you pledged your loyalties to him. That was until you were startled by a large man you saw in the corner of your eye. Your large man.

“I’m leaving, I can’t stay here.” He said as he drank from a wineskin in the corner of your room.

You were startled, but that feeling subsided soon as confusion set in. Why wasn’t he fighting?

“What’re you doing in here?”

“You always ask that.” He said as he took another swig. “The cities on fire. Men, burning.” You began to realize how truly frightened he was. He stood and walked towards you closer and closer til he towered over you. “Do you want to go home?” His tone, gentle

“I don’t have a home.” You looked up at him with big eyes, and furrowed brows.

“I’ll make one for ya.” He rasped. Your face heated up as you imagined it. A small cottage, a large farm, you and him in simple clothes, sleeping in one bed. Maybe, even a babe in your belly, maybe not. But, what of your duties? The promises you swore to keep.

“I can’t betray my name. I can’t leave my fathers death unjusted.” Your eyes tearing up as you spoke, he could see the glimmer of water sparkle over your big eyes.

“Cant or wont?” He grabbed onto your arm and his voice was slightly harsher.

“Can’t” You almost cried out, but you being you, you were unwilling to cry. He let your arm go.

“I’ll keep you safe. Safer than the men here can, safer than the dwarf can. Anyone looks in your direction, I’ll hang them by their own guts.” It was as if he was pleading.

“I made an oath, long time ago but I made it to someone I love. I can’t leave the Vale like this.”

He sighed, “I’ll take you North. To the Starks. They’ll get you that army you want. I promise I’ll get you there.” He said softly, his hand now grabbing ahold of yours.

“You can’t promise such a thing-”

“I can- I will.” He assured me. He knew he would do anything for you. Anything to be near you.

You looked into his blood covered face. How the light casted a frightening shadow over his horrific appearance. To anyone else this would have been one of the more terrifying sights they’d ever seen so close to them. But to you, you were face to face with an angel.

“Alright then.” You whispered,

You're an angel, I'm a dog

Or you're a dog and I'm your man

You believe me like a god

I'll destroy you like I am

I'm sorry I'm the one you love

No one will ever love me like you again

So when you leave me, I should die

I deserve it, don't I?

I can feel it gettin' near

Like flashlights comin' down the way

One day you'll figure me out

I'll meet judgment by the hounds

People always gave me love

Others were never to blame after all

You believe me like a god

I'll betray you like a man

NOTE: Now that was a whole lotta shit huh? The next one will be a lot better. This one is def gonna be a really good transition to the next stage in this story and believe you me - its gonna be nutty… k love ya bye. OH also yeah I did add a mitksi song what about it? RIP Sandor Clegane you would have loved mitksi’s new album.

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katoobee · 8 months ago

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I HAVE. MY OWN DREAMTALE HEADCANON THAT HAS GOTTEN A BIT. LARGE.

so i wanna put it into a big post!

i like the ideas for Nightmare that Passive and Corrupted are separate beings, as its implied (or iirc, outwardly stated) in the story that Nightmare isnt a worse version of himself, its literally just a really evil entity possesing him.

so with toying with the set ideas for Nightmare (different person, negativity, shapeshifting) i came up with this!!

the general idea for this version of Nightmare is that his Evil Schemes and Dastardly Deeds have been resoundingly successful, much to the dismay of literally everyone

his power becomes abundant due to the amount of negativity in the Multiverse, and he changes his form more and more. (my HC height of Nightmare is related to this!)

his minions (ie Killer Dust Horror) slowly get more and more beat down by Nightmare and look more exhausted, due to more prevalent abuse in the gang

Nightmare loses the need to manipulate other AUs by appearing as Sans. his body starts to look,,, saggy. with the more power he gains, his features more long and "incorrect" (like he's not respecting anatomy). the teeth in his mouth are the only thing that moves when he speaks.

his minions notice this around (i guess i can call it stages?) stage 3, and theyve started feeling like theyre not respecting Nightmare's orders anymore, and that they're respecting someone elses orders.

all this leads to this image which also introduces

NIGHT TERROR

Night Terror i imagine, is quite literally the Human that killed Nim and was imbued into the Tree of Feelings, once again given form. the driving force that started everything

he no longer hides in the costume of Nightmare nor sans, as he shows himself for what he truly is. (quite literally tore off his skin and stepped out of it like a costume, i might draw this later)

he knows fully what his presence entails, and he plans to uphold himself to that no matter what. he will stop at nothing to cause as much death, destruction, and suffering as possible.

he's freakishly powerful, a step above how Nightmare already was.

Dream is the only thing that can stop him completely, with the help of weakening him by other sanses and other powerful bodies.

calls Dream and Nightmare "Nim-Child/Children"

his body is still goopy, but its smoother and not runny. akin to surface tension in water.

his eyes glow when he speaks.

he can summon knives, mimics of the actual knife that killed Nim. he can also summon a LOT more tentacles. these are all lot stronger than his relatively "weaker" form

he can single out one person in an AT-Lich like manner (uses this to talk to Dream directly, and also generally uses few-line commands)

his hands can become coated in pure toxicity, acting like agonizing acid that isnt just exclusive to Dream. his fingers can also become sharp like razors when coated in the toxicity.

where everyone else speaks in the sound-font, noise for each letter, he has his own voice. like fully, audible voice

he still is going for Dream's golden apple, but is more forceful about it due to his mask basically being dropped

(visuals made here with lyrics from a song by Chonny Jash, yes i know its a LOZ song IT JUST FITS THE VIBE)

i imagine "killing" Night Terror restores the real Nightmare to what he was once was. "killing" Night Terror doesn't actually kill him, but makes him go into dormancy, keeping himself inside of Nightmare's soul, like a worm burrowed into an apple.

the only feasible way to save Nightmare is for Dream to severely hurt himself, since negativity is like acid to him,,,

arms go byebye!

i also believe that reverting Nightmare back to normal would mean he'd still be his young age, like when Dream was encased in stone

ok thats all i have to say about this if anyones curious feel free to ask about it :]

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nameless-flame · 1 year ago

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Incorrect Quotes #49

====================

*Zeus knocks over [Name]'s ice cream*

*[Name] breaks a fortune cookie*

[Name]: Oh look it's yours! It says; "Death by knives and fire, foreseen to happen by-"

*[Name] glances at Hades*

*Hades glares back*

*[Name] sighs*

[Name]: "-by next Monday," since my murder allowance for the week is already spent.

*Hades glares harder*

*[Name] rolls their eyes*

[Name]: And we are apparently not supposed to kill our partner's family members because it's quote-on-quote "ill-mannered and illegal."

#snv #record of ragnarok #record of ragnorak #shuumatsu no valkyrie #shuumatsu no valkirye #record of ragnarok x reader #snv hades

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leonw4nter · 10 months ago

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The Dimming Star of a Formerly Worthy Show Dog

RE4R!Leon x F!Reader royal AU

To his mother and father, their princely son is simply checking on his subjects in person to assess the detrition of the plague in illness-struck towns and uphold the dignified and respectable image of the house of Condor for the hopeless masses to look up to. If one were to ask why the king and queen would not step a single foot out of their grand palace, they both feared that they would be tainted by the wrath of God that rained down like hellfire on the sinful masses– their fair skins swollen with black and oozing lumps, the healthy glow of their rosy cheeks taken away by the pallidness of contagion; they both very much preferred to be safe and secure in the comfort of their grandiose palace, wrapped in silks as they stayed away from the suffering below. Their son, the crown prince Leon, could not sit idly and stubbornly left the luxurious threshold of safety and clean air. He reasoned that he must see how the populace is doing in this time of pestilence, arguing that to see him would lift their weary spirits for it offered solace to know that the kingdom is still intact. He did not lie– that truly is his intention, ever the benevolent man he is, but he also wanted to look for you; the last he’s heard of you was from the palace’s dance instructor, somberly informing you that you moved to a town away to find a profitable alehouse to dance in.

“She does not feel the welcome of the palace,” he recalls the instructor saying as he looked out the window. “Most especially from the king and queen. Their gazes were always one of disrelishness when casted on her.”

“But I dearly welcome her,” Leon recalls responding as a deepening frown curled his lip downwards. “She has never done the king and queen wrong, hasn’t she? What is their motive for this animosity?”

The instructor beside him sighed, hands clasped behind him to rest at his lower back. “It is for the very reason that you dearly welcome her that they are contemptuous. She is a stellar dancer, yes– an excellent one at her craft, but she is not nobility. In this world, what are God-given gifts if one is not of the aristocracy?”

“All of them are radiant stars– her, her sisters. Their only fault is that the Lord planted these stars on the wrong sky, with the incorrect folk. Their light will not be marvelled in the manner that they deserve.” The instructor finishes.

Anger and earnest irritation brewed in the pits of his stomach, threatening to rise to his chest, and spill through the piercing and violent nature of emotionally-fueled language. His fists balled at his side, nostrils flared, as indignation dulled his will to adhere to princely decorum.

Not even the mask that covered the bottom half of his face could keep the stench of death at bay, the eastward bound wind worsening the putrid air. Death was everywhere– in the air, lined along the streets, at the mouth of rivers, in houses of stone and wood; corpses could be seen brought out of houses and tossed into carts before the carts would head to either the plague pits in churchyards or the mouth of the rivers. Distant cries and groans could be heard as well, dampening Leon’s spirits but he can’t stop now– he has to keep going, for you and for the people that need him. Mud squelched with each step he took, depressions in the ground trailing behind him as he walked further deeper into the settlement. Not even those with money and the firmest belief in the Lord were free, the body of a wealthy landlord being carried out for a burial as a priest mumbled prayers. He figured that it would be the least he could do for those that have already died to offer a prayer, a futile action yet one that brought comfort; he found it uncomfortable to think that those who were well-off in life were sent back home with services from the church, to lay in a nicely dug pit with a stone to remember them by yet the poor were tossed into a hole with no sign that these people ever lived, smiled, cried, and loved.

He passed by 3 dug holes and prayed 3 prayers each time: a prayer for firmer faith, guidance for the beloved departed, and protection for a friend before a long journey; if only he had brought his prayer beads, he would’ve prayed the rosary too. He walks along the grassy shore of the river, rocks crunching beneath his leather boots. River air was supposedly good for one’s health, said the physicians, for it brought clean air downstream with the flow of water; just like him, there were people flocking to walk alongside the moving water and breathe in some of the supposedly healthy air– children, girls with buckets to fetch some cleaning water, and mothers who were out for a stroll with their children. He recognizes a woman as he trails a distance behind her; her back is no longer upright and now has a slight curve, her hair tied into a short ponytail at the base of her skull. She appears to be carrying a weight concentrated to her right hip, which Leon realizes is a child. The way she walks is familiar yet also foreign to him, bringing flashes of the past to the forefront of his mind. He takes longer strides towards the woman, wanting to check up on her if she is really someone he once knew or if the weariness of the town is playing tricks on his mind already. Within a few steps he is an arm’s length away from her but she turns around before he can approach her and the sadness that seized him felt like a lightning bug getting trapped in a small, black box with one hole to let the light in. Seeing her felt like coming across a time-worn book, the lines on her eyes telling stories of endless struggles and dreams let loose; she looked far beyond 31, each graying strand of frizzy hair a marker of the trials that aged her beyond her time. The youthful sparkle of her eyes were now buried under the heavy cloak of sorrow, he noticed, as she peered at his face to try and remember who he was.

“Amanda,” Leon breathed in an airy voice. Her face lit up at seeing him, the unexpected presence of an old friend a balm to her marred soul.

“Leon,” she said back to him, stepping forward. “Oh, Leon. You have grown into a fine man. You tower over me now! Life has been kind to you, it seems.”

Leon grimaced slightly; if this is what has become of your sister, what fate has befallen you? “I have thought about you and your sisters, what you three have done upon leaving the palace.”

She sighed, a sad one, as she looked at the river where more bodies were being disposed of, opposite to your shoreline. “My hair has become streaked with gray because I spent most of my life worrying and fearing instead of dreaming. I am unhappy to tell you that the same has gone for my two other sisters. Years were endured rather than enjoyed,” she regretfully told him.

“Lucia,” Leon recalled. “I would also like to see her, before I see [name].”

Amanda fell silent, readjusting her position to carry her child a lot more properly. A hand coming up to cradle the base of his delicate skull.

“She had only 27 years when she passed this mortal coil,” she quietly said as she attempted to conceal the cracks of her voice. “Perhaps her body was far too weak to birth a child and thus failed her, physicians said that she had lost too much blood. This baby I carry now is hers, as I have decided to care for him in her stead. God grant her young soul eternal repose.”

Lucia had adored Leon when the sisters still danced regularly in the palace, always accompanying you in finding flowers to adorn Leons’ hair and armor with. She was the youngest among your trio and the fiercest; she did not stand for any prejudice and mistreatment to anyone she cared for deeply, disliked by some standoffish men of the court for her unlady-like decorum, an opinion Leon did not understand. He shed a single tear for her, reminiscing fond memories– memories of when he and her engaged in vulgar banter which resulted in Leon getting beatings, her keeping the palace dog company, and Leon timidly asking for advice in successfully courting you.

“What have you three lived through?” he faintly asks, eyes slightly glossy.

“The world demanded much too soon for three girls who only wanted to dance in gilded halls and feel the rhythm of strings and percussion lift us closer to heaven. Alas, we would have continued to dance until our legs could not and our strengths would fail us but the eyes of the king and queen are not purposed to see my sister with her love.”

Leon knew what she talked about, hanging down his head; he regrets that he did not fight tooth and nail to keep the sisters he has grown fond of growing up with, agonizing over the bitter ebb of love denied.

“Take me to [name]. I want to see her.”

“I am afraid I cannot do that.”

“Why not, Amanda?”

“I cannot let you do that, I cannot.”

“It would kill me swift if you continue to deny me to see [name] than any wrath of a pestilence. I beg and implore you, Amanda, I need to see [name].”

She looked at the blond in front of her, visibly growing more antsy and overwrought with unease. She sighed, growing weak at the possibility that this dignified prince would get on his knees and press his lips on the dirtied ground if it meant having to his love. “It would kill him swiftly if he heard the tenderness [name]’s voice possessed when she spoke of you rather than my denial of you seeing her”, she thought.

“[Name], she has it.” She said.

Leon asked what ‘it’ was, though that was done in an act of denial of the fact for he knew what ‘it’ is.

“She does not want anyone near her– not even I, she speaks to me through her boarded window. She fears that I and the young one will catch it too.”

“Where is she?” Leon asks, the sensation of the prick of tears in his eyes letting itself be known.

“She won’t want to see you.”

“I want to see her. Give me directions and I will walk to where she is, swim if need be.”

And so she told him where she lived, heart heavy as she watched the stubbornly persistent and brave prince make a mad dash to the house she lived in, praying to God that He listen to humankind just this once to provide Leon with the bravery in his heart that he so needed.

─────────────────────────────────────────────────────

The portion of town where you lived in was where all the sick were placed in order to properly separate those who were well, unwell, and dying. Doctors went in and out of houses with their beaked masks and black cloaks, carrying bags of medicinal implements and prayer booklets; they performed the rites for the religious dying because no priest was willing to, so they offered reprieve in a form different from the medicines they typically offered. Doors were marked and plastered with signs cautioning visitors to take measured decisions to avoid catching the plague themselves yet the fear of catching the plague did not faze him in the slightest bit, determined to soothe you with his presence and try to initiate conversation to put up the illusion that all is well and death does not surround them like a bird eager for a worm. Leon lifts his mask higher up his face, walking down the path that led to the house you were in. He did his best to not linger too much on the faint prayers, crying, and groaning he heard as he passed by other houses, growing increasingly overwhelmed with a potent melancholy. After some time, he gets to your house and knocks at the door then waits until you acknowledge the knocks.

“Amanda…?” he hears your weak voice call out, a rattling tone beneath your shrill voice. If he didn’t know that was you, he wouldn’t have recognized it.

“It’s Leon,” he says as he knocks again but this time a little louder. “Your Leon.”

“Leon…?” you ask from behind the door, trying to figure out if this is delirium that came with the plague or if it really is your Leon. “Amanda…?” you weakly call out once again.

“No, it’s not Amanda. It’s Leon,” he patiently repeats in a gentle tone as he picks up on the uncertainty in your infirm voice.

“You mustn’t… come in…,” you say as you try to sit up, which proves to be a Herculean task for you. “I am… terribly… ill.”

“No, I insist I see you [name]. My body is strong and my mind is sound, I do not fear neither illness nor death because my true fear resides in the possibility of never seeing you again. Please, open the door.”

You scoff to yourself before you cough once more, mustering what little strength your body has left to arise from your bed and get up to open the door. The door was only a few steps away from you yet the distance felt longer, hobbling along on unstable and weakened feet to reach the rusting metal handle and finally see your love after 6 long years. You open the door and see Leon, the lower half of his face concealed with a white cloth; his hair still remained the same flaxen color, albeit his strands have grown a little longer for they now veiled his rosy ears; his eyes have become more deep-set yet his blue irises still retained their piercing gaze, if not more intensely.

“Oh, [Name].”

He takes your hand, only holding on to the scarred tips of your finger as he tries to stave off the overwhelming desire to kiss you again like he did 6 years past. Your knee begins to fail you, brought down to the ground by weakness and Leon rushes to meet you at your level, worry furrowing his face.

“Let me carry you,” he says as he begins to scoop you into his chest and stands up to full height, walking to your bed. You nod as you shut your eyes, ashamed that he had to see you in this undesirable state with your hair strewn and sticking to your sweat-drenched forehead with lumps all around your neck, clavicle, and arms.

“Surely you must fear illness in one way or another,” you quietly whisper to him as he lays you down. “Does your stomach not churn when you see the work of contagion upon my body and grow afraid that this may happen to you?”

“There is a slight fear that threatens to paralyze me, one that lingers at the back of my mind and it stays there, for a more powerful fear of leaving you alone settles at the forefront.”

He gently lays you down, bringing your blanket up to your chest and taking a handkerchief from a pocket in his pants and using it to wipe the accumulating sweat on your body.

“Thank you,” your voice comes out in a shrill and raspy whisper and Leon simply nods, giving you a closed smile as he settles right at your bedside and tucks the handkerchief back to his pocket.

“How have you been, [Name]?” he asks, beginning the conversation.

“Swell,” you respond with a strained smile. “All soft and easy… for a… little… while.”

“I understand why you and your sisters chose to leave the palace, it can be… suffocating in there but I am quite baffled as to why you never wrote to me. Did you not love me enough or did I love you too much that it suffocated you in the same manner that life in the palace did?”

“I… love you… in ardent devotion… far greater than… the most devout… Catholic and their worship… of God, a force too… great that it could… divide. I very much… wanted to see you, talk to you… but my presence and involvement in your life… shall blight your image and your family’s regality.”

“[Name], forget about my family– they are far too occupied with image and I am far too occupied with you. I would abdicate for you, nevermind the ire of my mother or father towards me for all that matters is you.”

“You know… how they are–” you are interrupted by a cough, sitting up to be able to breathe a lot better with Leon gently patting your dampened back. “T-thank you, sweetheart. As I was… saying, they’ll think… that I have bewitched you… rendered you stupid…”

“You have bewitched me, that they have gotten right, but I care not for what they think– only both of us know what we have.”

You nod weakly and muster up the strength to smile up at him through glossy eyes as his hand strokes your hair, gently patting you without the fear of contracting the disease. A comfortable silence befalls the small house, with Leon occasionally humming some tunes and softly reassuring you: “all is well, all is well”.

“I will find medicine for you,” Leon breaks the silence. “My father has a cousin who has come down with the illness but has recovered, he took medicine from the far East. Just wait until I get back very soon, can you do that for me sweetheart?”

“Medicine?” you rasp almost noiselessly. “No, no… it is far too… precious to be… used… on me.”

“No, [Name]. Please, let me save you. You have saved me from an emptying sadness all those years past now it is my turn to save you so do let me.”

There is not much that you can do as your love is steadfast in finding this famed herbal medicine from the farthest east there is. You are grateful for his efforts and stay silent instead, listening to him ramble on and talk endlessly while he tenderly enveloped your pale hand in his as if you were both young adults once more.

─────────────────────────────────────────────────────

“How is the town doing, son?” His mother asks sternly as she drops a sugar cube into her steaming cup of tea.

“Morale is down, there is death everywhere.” He coldly responds, gaze distant. “This malady is far worse than we thought– plague physicians and prayers alone are not enough to stem the progression of this disease. We must step in, after all, we have resources–”

“Resources that we will use to treat your father’s cousin. It is at our family’s disposal so do not even think that we will squander away what meager medicines there are. Perhaps it is the fate of those sheep-biting scuts that God has stricken them down with His wrath and our family dare not to interrupt His will upon them.”

“Mother!” He exclaims, slamming a heavy hand down the table. Tea sloshes around in its cups and pots, small droplets of a burnt red shade staining the table cloth. “How dare you invoke the wrath of God as justification for your selfishness and moral cowardice! It is extremely abhorrent of you to withhold aid from those who need us most, your arrogance in deciding who is to live and who is to perish is nothing short of blasphemy!”

She sips her tea silently, lips softly touching the teacup as her eyes look on at the variety of roses in the garden. After taking a sip, she presses her lips together and sets the cup back down to its plate.

“Your anger is coming from somewhere,” she observes, returning the iciness back to her son. “Have you gone stupid from the dancer again, Leon?”

“That is none of your business.” He seethes, glaring.

“You dare call me ‘abhorrent’ for putting our family first when deep down, you want the medicine to give to her specifically.”

“I am the crown prince of the people– to her, most of all. I value their lives more than I do mine.”

“You truly have gone stupid because of some wench, Leon, this is unprincely of you to the superlative level. You are willing to lay down money on the possibility that she is to live? How foolish– did you not realize that the buboes of this plague leaves unsightly scars? You will grow to dislike her–”

“I have carried her ill-stricken form in my arms and fondly patted her hair with these hands. I cannot find it in me to dislike her nor do I wish to, it is simply impossible.”

“Leon–”

“I will go back to the town after 3 evenings with medicine. I will crawl back, if need be, and that is final.”

“Very well, then.”

Leon is surprised that his mother says nothing and returns to calmly sipping tea, yet he sees that her knuckles have gone pale so he stays alert, knowing that she could very well be scheming.

“I shall go talk with father now.”

He turns around and marches back to the inside of the palace, walking to the study of his father the king.

His father was just as apprehensive as his mother, incredibly unwilling to let Leon have even a single flake of the medicine. This resulted in screaming and threats of abdication and disowning, as an argument between two stubborn men of the house would usually do. Leon, though unwilling, resorted to a compromise: he would obtain the medicinal ingredients and produce them himself with the assistance of a scholar educated in the art of healing. This process would take long, for it required all ingredients to be finely ground into powder in order to be packed into a ball easy to swallow for the driest of throats. His parents grumbled and let him have his way but not before warning him that this would be an arduous undertaking, a Herculean effort all for a woman who is due her time soon. Right away, he sent his right hand men and advisers to seek out any available merchant who was willing to enter their kingdom. He struggled with the efforts, most of them bearing no fruit, but refused to appear bothered or intimidated by the pressure of his situation, not wanting to prove the king and queen right. Soon, he acquired several roots and herbs needed and got to work, seeking the guidance and knowledge of apothecaries and scholars knowledgeable on healing. The sun has awoken and slept but Leon did not sleep when the sun did, keeping the moon company as he toiled and studied, perfecting the required ratio to maximize the improvement of his condition. He also read up on balms and salves to soothe and reduce the scarring of the buboes, forgetting to partake in meals and hydrate in his haste.

─────────────────────────────────────────────────────

He sat on his horse, a female Palfrey with an ink-dark glossy coat, and headed for your town, urging her to go faster with the promise of apples and sugar cubes to spur her on. On his leather satchel was some fruit and in a smaller pouch, were the medicines he needed. Before packing it in his pouch, he has already had it reviewed by trusted advisers. He pushed down his confidence, not wanting to grow certain when he hasn’t distributed it yet. Upon spotting the first few houses in the distance, he softly encouraged his Palfrey to go on faster, just a little more.

“Come on, beauty, you can go faster– please,” he urged her.

Soon he arrives, dismounting from his steed, and spotting a few doctors exiting and entering houses. He calls one over and does not let them kneel down, informing them of what he brings.

“These, these medicines. I have crafted them a few days back, but they are still of quality, as my tutors have said. They are well-versed in healing so I trust their judgement,” he says. “I have obtained ingredients and herbs from trusted merchants in the far east, where the herbs are in abundance and the plague has not reached them yet.”

The plague doctor takes one of the tablets and lifts his avian mask, bringing the tablet near his nostril and takes several precautionary sniffs and observations. He nods, informing Leon that he will provide this to a patient of his and check back with him to note improvements in condition. Leon meets more of the cloaked doctors, advising them and repeating the same things he said. His confidence grows and he is certain, speeding past other houses to get to yours. He arrives there and knocks on your house, vigorous clacks against the wooden door.

“[Name]? It is your Leon, I am here.” He says a little louder, so he may be heard from the inside.

“Leon?” A weak female voice responds, but it is not yours. He stays silent, trying to give this voice a name.

“Who is inside?” He asks. “I have come to visit [Name], I bear medicine that may help her.”

He hears soft steps approaching the door, growing increasingly hyper in his eagerness to see you. The door finally opens but he is met with Amanda’s face instead.

“Where is my [Name]?” He asks, trying to see over her shoulder.

Amanda appears as if she is wearing a veil, a very thin one for if Leon dared to peer into her gaze, he might know what rocked his love’s sister. She steps aside and quietly allows Leon entry, the man pacing quickly to your bedside to see you. You look far worse than you did days ago when he just visited, the lumps on your neck scarily large that Leon felt weak. Your eyes were closed yet you were still breathing, albeit very shallowly and hoarsely, each intake of air marked with a low rattle in your chest. You lift a hand slightly from your abdomen where it rested and point a finger at Leon, to which he responds by identifying himself.

“Yes, it is your Leon. The Leon who you loved at 21,” he softly says. “Worry not, my dear, I have medicine in my pouch.”

Amanda steps beside him and places a hand on his shoulder and he feels her hand shake so he turns around and his gaze is met with glassy eyes.

“[Name] has just received her final rites, there is a man nearby with dead carts waiting for her,” she sadly says. “She is quite fortunate that she has received blessings, most of the sick here do not for the reverends are quite apprehensive.”

Her voice cracks and she stops speaking because she knows that her voice will crawl out in cracks and shakiness. Leon can only stay silent and appear strong yet his soul was crumbling away, turning into dust being blown away by a cold wind.

“She hasn’t much, has she?” he asks silently as he pats back the matted hair on your head, trying to offer you some semblance of comfort.

“Yes,” your sister responds. “She exhausted her throat screaming your name, she thought you’d been here with her as she was growing more delirious with fever. I could hear her sing the songs you taught her– ‘Dearest Sight of My Heart’ and ‘Greensleeves’.”

“So she has been seeing visions of me when in reality I am not near?” he asks.

“Yes, she has. And for that moment, she looked quite… jovial. Even the vision of you soothed her for a moment and I did not wish to whisk away what little comfort she had.”

You were asleep now, a finger inched near Leon’s. The rattling was still low in your chest yet your intakes of breath were now more shallow, more rapid, as if you were fighting some force and losing.

Leon curled his finger around yours yet you gently withdrew it. Instead, your arms were stretched out to the side like how it was when you danced. Your fingers were spaced out, gently fluttering as much as you could as your arms were swaying. He could see your feet twitch as well, along to some music only you could hear. This routine is familiar with Leon, the routine he loved to see you dance in gilded halls and grand banquets. He hummed the tune of the ballad, Amanda joining him, as he watched you slowly begin to grow more impassioned with whatever movements you could make. You opened your eyes and you were back in the grand ballroom in beautiful drapes and your hair in wavy tendrils above your head, pinned in place with a jewel-encrusted hairpin. Amanda looked youthful again, and so did Lucia– she was a maiden once again. You were spinning and jumping in the air, arms stretched above you as you felt the heavens on your fingertips. Your movements accompanied the lute and shawms, floating from one corner of the room to another. Out of the corner of your eye, you see Leon– soft, bright-eyed, and all smiles. He’s 21 again, just like you are, and he runs up to you to hug you.

“Leon!” you squeal when he hugs you even tighter, acting like a second corset, as he lifts you off the ground. “I am still rehearsing, surely it cannot be as great as you regard it to be!”

He places you back down on your feet and cups your cheeks, pressing his lips to yours to capture it in a silken kiss. You hear your sisters cheer and squeal in the back, prompting a smirk to widen on your lips.

“You discredit yourself for your artistic prowess, my [Name]. You are my god and I am sure I exist for the sole purpose of worshipping your grace.”

“Oh, stop it Leon. What do you want from me?” you tease as he peppers your cheeks in kisses.

“You,” he responds. “And that is all I ask. The banquet is yet to begin and our guests have not completed attendance yet so may I take you to the gardens?”

You look behind your sisters, who urge you on. You nod and Leon chuckles, bowing to your sisters before he takes you by the hand and leads you out to where it is bright.

Leon carries you in his arms with a tearful Amanda trailing closely behind him, her nephew asleep on her shoulder. You have fallen into the slumber with no end so he carries you to where you will be laid to rest properly instead of letting the cart take you away and toss you into a pit with many others. He sheds tears, albeit silently, as he lowers you. He and your sister fix your hair away from your face and pose your hands to appear as if you were praying, fingers entwined before dirt conceals you from the upper world to finally let your soul freely prance and leap around in fields of eternal repose where you greet your second-eldest sister and patiently wait for the loved ones who you’ve left behind.

NOTE - This fic has been marinating in my docs for like a month bc I've been fighting off writer's block and I'm also starting to grow busy bc I've already got like 5 projects assigned by the first week of the academic year so there's a chance that this fic is like... wonky which I understand tbh 😭 I have some WIPs waiting to be finished, some of them are requests so for the people who requested like months ago yk... dw I'm getting around to working on it 😭😭 Also yk that one bongo remix of that one Coldplay song? I don't know why but I find it so funny like it's so overstimulating, I just have to laugh 😭😭😭 ALSO I GOT IN IN MY SCHOOL'S BOOK CLUB SIUEHSH!!!@!$#% Anyway, thanks for reading my fics!! I appreciate it a lot!! I <3 YOUUU!!!!!!

The star dividers were made by @adornedwithlight , the images are made by me (sourced from Pinterest).

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vomitspit2 · 3 months ago

Text

concept with jade leech. (expansion from BACK TO CHEST (SOUL TO SOUL))

There’s a severed ear on his desk.

Controlling his excited breath, Jade shuts his eyes tightly and counts down from ten. Should he also pinch himself to make sure this is not some wondrous dream, a dream that shifts seductively to fulfill his deepest desires before raping him with cruel reality. No, a pinch would be overkill. But — he’s at four in his count — Jade has to make sure it is really there.

When he reopens his eyes, the severed body part still lies there, unmoving and unchanged. A squishy lump of warm sand flesh with curves and divots is lying on his desk. No imperfections. No miscalculation. Anatomically correct!

There’s a severed ear on his desk; Jade could not be happier at this development.

Jade sniffs back his bubbling emotions. Pain flares in his sinuses. Fumes have been burning his nostrils for a little over … three hours. My goodness, he has been really losing track of time in such a capricious manner; he is ever so unpunctual at this phase of his life.

Honestly, the clock does nothing for him anymore and he is only able to measure time passing by how many sticks or cones of incense he burns. He’s on the third stick of Worm’s Wart, down to five-sixth of itself, about to switch to a fourth.

He licks his lips, tasting metal and each swirling aroma of potions that suffocates the botanical garden. He could pick up a flower and only smell metal, metal, metal.

The ear is lucky it is not a nose.

After all, the body part Jade had been originally trying to make was an ear — which makes this potion a tiny, successful stepping stone to the bigger picture that he's hoping to accomplish. Next, will he attempt an eyeball or a tongue or a nose? He has the lumbar system which he could work through, picking and choosing his favorite vertebrae to make first, or there is always the complex organ in the whole body, perched up in the roost, a brain is simply three pounds and it is not hard for Jade to find three pounds of mushrooms.

To think, this organ started out as a white button mushroom and will soon perform the function of receiving auditory stimulus.

The body Jade will make for you is going to be clean. Unburdened by any scar and virgin of any tragedy. It will leave his nose raw but heal his heart.

Endlessly curious, he picks up the bloodless ear. The bottom is smooth, reminding him of a theater prop more than a real severed organ. A beam of light from his magestone shines into the entrance. Surgically, Jade peers in to make sure the inner muscles are in correct shape.

If you press your ear to a conch shell, you’ll hear the ocean.

This is incorrect — a conch’s size and shape causes an unique resonance of sound; unable to escape, air within vibrates and reflects soundwaves to boost the sea-esque frequency everyone seems to adore. However, the ocean sounds nothing like the inside of a conch. No mere walls of shell can mimic the cacophony of hunger, terror, and determination found in the Coral Sea.

‘The sound of home,’ Jade thinks longingly, analyzing where the flesh turns and twists to make up the ear canal.

Beyond the maelstrom of noise between life and death, you cannot possibly hear him, but he is sure you will recognize the vibrations of the words he softly whispers into your new ear, mushroom now flesh, like a blind student remembering the familiar patterns of braille. After all, it is his favorite words to say to you.

i love you.

#jade leech x reader #twisted wonderland x reader #jade leech #twisted wonderland

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alittlebitofloveliness · 7 months ago

Note

Why wouldn’t Dally die if only Ponyboy had died, as you mentioned in one of your previous posts?

(Not in a “you’re incorrect” way but in a “I like reading your exposition pieces and this intrigued me, also I wholeheartedly agree but don’t have the words to explain it myself” way)

Hehehehe thank you for this ask anon! Anyone who wants context can find the post that anon is referring to here.

Let's get right into it. Why wouldn't Dally die if only Ponyboy died? Well, quite simply, because Ponyboy isn't Johnny, and thus is not put on a pedestal by Dallas the way Johnny is.

That isn’t to say Dally doesn’t care about Ponyboy. He very clearly does, Ponyboy just doesn’t notice it much, probably because Dally’s care for Ponyboy manifests in the complete opposite manner of his care for Johnny.

Dally’s soft side is reserved for Johnny and Johnny alone, as we’re shown over and over throughout the book. In moments when they’re alone or almost alone we get glimpses of this, from letting Johnny sleep in his room at Bucks, to hiding Johnny without question, to speaking to him in a ‘low pleading voice’ when he’s trying to reason with him. He drags Johnny out of a burning building, and cries over his death 1. Dally knows Johnny is already well aware of all the worst brutalities of the world- he doesn’t need to toughen up or get wise because he already is. What Johnny needs is a reason to live, and to experience some good in the world so he doesn’t forget good things exist and end up cold and mean and jaded like Dallas. To Dally, Johnny’s whole existence is his last true belief that goodness exists in the world, more specifically that good exists in humanity. Poor little beat up tough greaser Johnny Cade is proof that the entirety of the world isn’t evil 100% of the time, because he has every reason to be horrible at every minute of every day and he isn't. Johnny is Dally’s reason to live, because he gives him hope. Johnny has nothing, has grown up being nothing, lives life being looked down on and beaten and he is still not a monster. To Dally, I think this makes Johnny the most important thing in the world. He loves him immensely. Keeping Johnny Johnny is probably the thing he strives to ensure the most. In his own way, Dally is trying to keep Johnny 'gold'. When Johnny dies and Dally starts to unravel, this outlook is the first thing he starts to question and lament. 2. Before, Dally thought the worst thing in the world would be Johnny turning hard and mean. Then Johnny dies, and he realises THIS is the worst thing in the world, because his world is no longer his world anymore. It would have been better, Dallas thinks, for the goodness in Johnny to be snuffed out but Johnny himself to still be here, instead of Johnny being gone altogether, but by then it’s too late. Johnny is gone, the last of Dally’s faith in humanity is gone, and he has no illusions about the world and nothing left to live for. Without Johnny, Dally literally can’t exist.

Dally’s relationship with Ponyboy is very different. He’s protective sure- he gives Pony his jacket, something I’ve written about as a symbol of Dally’s protectiveness before. He doesn't tell Soda where Pony is hiding out, and part of that was because Pony asked him not to. He looks out for Pony, would back him in a rumble like he would any of the gang, and probably threaten a soc or two on his behalf. But Dally does not view Ponyboy a symbol of goodness and humanity the way he views Johnny, so he has no reason to be soft with him in the same way. In fact, I think Dally probably views Pony as somewhat coddled. Ponyboy has Soda to be soft with him and Darry to parent him. Dally doesn’t need to be soft with Ponyboy, because there are others who are, and because Pony’s home life is so much easier than Johnny’s has ever been. I think in Dally’s mind, the best way for him to protect Ponyboy IS to get him to toughen up, get him to learn to look out for himself and get his head out of the clouds. Ponyboy mentions at the drive in, when Johnny tells Dally to leave Cherry alone, that Dally would have hit alone else in the gang who said that- including Pony himself. 3. I don’t think he was wrong. I think Dally might have absolutely taken a swing at Ponyboy if he’d mouthed off instead of Johnny, and if he didn’t it would probably only be because Dally is wary of Darry. Dally couldn’t ever hit Johnny and not only because he’s the pet, but Dally absolutely could and would hit Ponyboy. Probably not hard, not a lot, and probably not often, but Dally was a hood in the 60s. He canonically jumps children, and him and his friend Tim Shepard break each others ribs and grin about it. The gang play fight and tussle. Darry almost broke Steve’s jaw after the all brawn and no brain comment- that was no play fight, it was getting even. If Dally ever felt the need to get even with Ponyboy, I think he’d absolutely hit him. It’s how the gang settles conflicts, physical violence as a punishment was way more common and even acceptable in the 60s, and is simply a normal part of the world Pony and Dally exist in. Point is, Dally cares for Ponyboy, and he’s protective over him because he's incredibly loyal and because Pony is the baby of the gang, but he doesn’t represent humanity or goodness to him the way Johnny does. He’s not Dally’s reason to keep living. To Dally, Ponyboy represent childish naivety, the kind that gets you killed or gets beat out of you at an early age. Since he doesn’t want Pony to die, he’s basically doing his best to beat said naivety out of him without completely driving Pony away.

All this to say, if Pony died instead of Johnny, Dallas would be able to handle it. I think he’d almost expect it in a way. Sure, he’d be devastated, as would the rest of the gang, but Dally is resilient. We don’t get much of his backstory, but clearly he has survived more than a few hardships in his short life. If Pony died he might get harsher, meaner, and colder than ever, but he would survive. He’d try and support Darry and Soda in their grief, would probably jump a few innocents to vent his feelings, but if it was just Pony that had died, Dally could and would theoretically survive the novel.

Of course, based on my last post, we know that had Pony died, JOHNNY would have broken down and completed a version of Dally’s final arc, and thus whether Johnny or Pony die in the fire Dally is doomed, because in both scenarios Johnny dies, and Dally loses his reason to keep living.

It’s kind of the hallmark of him as a character: like Johnny, he’s been dead since the beginning, doomed from the first page. If Dally doesn't die, there's no story in the first place.

It's always going to be a tragedy.

Whirling suddenly, he slammed back against the wall. His face contracted in agony, and sweat streamed down his face. "Damnit, Johnny…" he begged, slamming one fist against the wall, hammering it to make it obey his will. "Oh, damnit, Johnny, don't die, please don't die…"

"I was crazy, you know that, kid? Crazy for wantin' Johnny to stay outa trouble, for not wantin' him to get hard. If he'd been like me he'd never have been in this mess. If he'd got smart like me he'd never have run into that church. That's what you get for helpin' people. Editorials in the paper and a lot of trouble.... You'd better wise up, Pony... you get tough like me and you don't get hurt. You look out for yourself and nothin' can touch you..."

“Dallas scowled for a second. If it had been me, or Two-Bit, or Soda or Steve, or anyone but Johnny, Dally would have flattened him without a moment's hesitation. You just didn't tell Dally Winston what to do. One time, in a dime store, a guy told him to move over at the candy counter. Dally had turned around and belted him so hard it knocked a tooth loose. A complete stranger, too. But Johnny was the gang's pet, and Dally just couldn't hit him.”

#the outsiders #ponyboy curtis #johnny cade #dally winston #dallas winston #the outsiders meta

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salbei-141 · 1 year ago

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My girl (Wanda x reader)

Masterlist

word count: 1.2k

warnings: 18+, fluff, comfort, friends to lovers, trauma, death, love confession, etc.

a/n: woah, first post of the year...almost 5 months into the year...wbk a schedule doesn't exist here.

So, there were a few things that made me realise I was bi and Elizabeth Olsen was one of them - can you blame me? So I propose this!

Also, y'all please if I get any lore incorrect do not come for me, I haven't watched Marvel in a while, and nor can I be bothered to rewatch them either, SUE ME.

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

You and Wanda were best friends and had grown up together in Sokovia - your home country destroyed by the supposed American hero Tony Stark himself. You remember it as clear as day - being huddled between Wanda and Pietro. None of you moved, still as day, and terrified - it was a kind of fear you'd hope you'd never have to experience again. You remember the cries of Wanda as you held onto each other - you were just children at the time, it was a diabolical event to be forced to endure.

To this day you were unsure of what happened to your parents - you could only assume the same had happened to them as had happened to the Maximoff's parents, but you couldn't say for definite, and it weirdly gave you some sort of peace not knowing the brutality of how they had died - although you'd hoped it was quick and succinct in nature.

You were all in your 20s now, and yet not a year had gone by since that day where you'd forgotten the trauma of it all - it weighed upon your shoulders day in and day out like a parasite. What followed the bombing wasn't any better…you were mutants - or at least that's how some people had described you. You felt stronger now though - it felt freeing almost, there was little to fear now. However, nothing could save you from the memories…you, Wanda and Pietro still fell victim to your childhood trauma - especially Wanda.

"Wanda?" you walked into her room tentatively after hearing the soft sounds of her cries - it tore your heart into two, knowing the pain she was in, and more so that she was enduring it alone was hurting you in an indescribable manner that you always felt upon seeing her in any severity of distress.

She was led on her bed curled up like a child clutching onto a teddy you'd got for her Christmas several years ago - it warmed your heart that she still held it so closely and for comfort. You watched as her head turned slightly - her eyes were red and slightly puffy, but she said nothing to you as you stood at the door.

You closed her door silently and moved towards her tentatively as you sat on the side of her bed staring down at her with soft eyes. Moving your hand, you gently carded your fingers through her auburn locks, watching as tears silently rolled down her reddened cheeks.

You remained sat at the edge of her bed, and gently beckoned her into your arms, "Come here, I got you". Instead, she pulled you further onto her bed, so the both of you could get comfortable before she then sunk into the comfort of your arms as she continued to cry into your chest. You moved slightly to adjust to a more comfortable position with her in your arms, and felt as her grip tightened, "I'm not going anywhere…I'll never leave you Wanda". She looked up at you with desperate eyes, "Never?". "Never", you confirmed and kissed her on the forehead as you pulled her against your chest again, holding her with a conviction that you'd only ever designate to her.

You don't know how long had gone by, but Wanda still lay in your arms, having calmed down now. You had been gently running your fingers through her hair, massaging her scalp, feeling as she'd occasionally shiver from your touch.

"Y/N?"

She looked up from your chest with those round, soft eyes that made you cave to her every request.

"Hm?"

You looked back down meeting her gaze, watching as she searched your eyes.

"Thank you."

Tucking a strand of her hair that had fallen across her face back behind her ear, you smiled softly, speaking in a whisper almost, "I'd do anything for you".

"I know", and she stared at you just adoringly as you had been staring at her - neither of you quite aware of the emotions that had transgressed the platonic relationship you both maintained - fearful of losing one another over the looming prospect of an unrequited love. How naive you both were.

You let your hand linger on the side of her face - never having drawn back once her hair had been tucked. Your fingers delicately caressed her cheek - feeling the way it warmed under your touch.

You watched intently as her eyes flickered between your eyes and lips. Should you? You didn't know, scared to ruin things and lose your best friend, but she was also the woman you'd grown to love - she was more than your friend, and she knew that too - you'd both been yearning for this for years – too naïve to notice one another’s loving gazes.

"please", her voice was quiet, meek almost, but you could hear the plead in her voice.

Her eyes looked into your own – begging for your attention, and that's when you'd had enough, you leaned forward – teasingly stopping just before her lips.

“Promise me…promise me we won’t go back to just friends after this…please Wanda”, you searched her eyes for any doubt, and you couldn’t identify anything – her pupils were dilated as she stared into your eyes.

Wanda closed the gap between the both of you, catching you off guard while you’d awaited an answer, but this was the best way she could’ve answered you. Her lips were soft and you were quick to respond to her. You could still taste the remnants of salt from her tears, which had been long forgotten as the both of you were entrenched in one another.

It was euphoric - the way her lips moved along with yours - it was better than any dream you'd ever had about her; the days you’d deafly listen to her as she’d speak in front of you, only for you to have been too busy watching the way her lips moved as she spoke, before turning into a grin as she’d realise you’d been in a word of your own.

You let your hand drift from her face down her arm – feeling the way her skin goose-bumped as your supple touch passed over the exposed skin of her arm until you rested it on her waist as she kept herself steady with her hands wrapped in your shirt.

A soft moan reverberated in her throat as you lightly gripped her waist more – a smirk plastering your face as you continued kissing her.

The both of you slowly pulled away fluttering yours open. Nothing was said as you both smiled at each other before falling into a fit of giggles as she buried her face in your chest and you in the nape of her neck.

“We’re idiots”, she mumbled against you, as she gently lifted her face to meet yours again – both laying against her pillows with little space separating you.

“I love you”, you couldn’t hold it in any longer as it blurted out of you. She knew you meant it – you’d never looked so serious about anything as you did now.

She leaned forward pressing her lips to yours again, “I love you too…I love you so much Y/N”.

You both stared into each other’s eyes – soft gazes lingering as you gently stroked her waist with your thumb.

“Now you can really never leave me”, she smiled at you – referencing your earlier comment back to you.

“I never planned on it anyway”, you pressed a kiss to her forehead, bringing her close to your chest as her arms wrapped around you. "My girl", you whispered into her ear hearing her hum in content as you proceeded to lay in each other’s hold in silence with the occasional kiss – the reality a surreal eutopia that you’d both thought unlikely.

#fem reader #wlw #fluff #fanfic #wanda maximoff #wanda x you #wanda x reader #wanda maximoff x reader #wanda maximoff fanfiction #marvel #avengers #mcu #lesbian #bisexual #elizabeth olsen #elizabeth olsen x reader #elizabeth olsen x y/n #wanda x y/n #wanda x fem!reader

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brucewaynehater101 · 10 months ago

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How the Bats argue against Jason's murder in fics

Now, Jason's murders vary in fics on a spectrum. There's murderous killing even common goons up to only those folks who are repeat, violent offenders that are not able to be contained/do their time (whether due to a corrupt system or them escaping).

We are gonna chat about the second one [in simple terms, Jason being particular and only killing the really evil bastards].

Side note, this is neither arguing for or against Jason's methods. This addresses how Jason may relinquish killing in fics in a more realistic manner than simply because he was told to or he wants to make amends

I've seen the Bats arguing shit like:

"Murder is wrong"

"This is not how we operate"

"We are not judge, jury, and executioner"

"This makes you a villain/evil/a murderer"

These arguments, frankly, are shit. This should not convince Jason to stop. Red Hood is killing from a logical-based moral standpoint (by neutralizing the threat permanently, he is saving inevitable future victims). Jason believes his option is frowned upon, but ultimately the right path. It's a "I'm doing what's necessary even if it damns me" mindset.

Arguing it's wrong will simply make him scoff or laugh. He knows the Bats don't like it, and he know they find it morally reprehensible. He still finds his actions to be necessary.

Jason isn't a child that needs to be told "right" and "wrong." He simply has a different moral code. Instead, these arguments in a fic serve as a reflection on the Bat that makes those statements.

This is not a diss to anyone's religion, but a similar comparison is to folks who base their moral code on holy texts and then try to tell other people what's "right" or "wrong" based on what their scripture says. If the other person doesn't have the same religion, you simply can not make moral arguments based on texts they don't believe in... Cause that writing has no weight to them. You would need to argue why something is "wrong" without resorting to: because [] says so.

By only declaring it as wrong, all that Bat is doing is showcasing their inability to communicate/be morally flexible. They are showing an unwillingness to acknowledge Jason's points or try to engage in counterpoints to convince him. These arguments usually predate the Bats trying to force Jason to stop killing instead of allowing him to make the choice for himself.

That is a perfectly fantastic fic idea to explore, but this wouldn't persuade Jason to change his ways. In fact, it may make him dig his heels into his methods more.

For arguments to sway Jason's opinion on how to pursue justice:

There is no oversight for Jason's murders

Cops enforce with killing (regardless of how you feel about the truth of this statement, Jason would hate this comparison)

Killing takes away chances for reformation

The threat of death causes false confessions/fear-based responses

Unclear standards on killing leads to innocents fearing Red Hood and not feeling safe

Escalation can occur (especially in fucking Gotham) when people feel their lives are threatened

Killing takes a mental strain and is thus harmful to Jason

Death is permanent and they can't suffer

There is no remedy for human error if they are dead

I'm sure there's more, but these are starting points to stop Jason's murders or ween him off of it [such as requiring Babs or Tim or Dick or Steph or the Outlaws or fucking Alfred to double check Jason's work before the execution].

Once again, I am not claiming any of these reasons are "correct" or that Jason's way is "incorrect." This is how a certain dynamic may be influenced by various conversation paths

#jason todd #dc red hood #dc au #dc universe #jason would probably feel responsible if someone he let go (not killed) was able to do horrible shit afterwards #no amount of “it's not right” at that point would convince jason that it wasn't a mistake to show them mercy

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death-at-20k-volts · 14 days ago

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Hai, I saw ur post on generative AI and couldn’t agree more. Ty for sharing ur knowledge!!!!

Seeing ur background in CS,,, I wanna ask how do u think V1 and other machines operate? My HC is that they have a main CPU that does like OS management and stuff, some human brain chunks (grown or extracted) as neural networks kinda as we know it now as learning/exploration modules, and normal processors for precise computation cores. The blood and additional organs are to keep the brain cells alive. And they have blood to energy converters for the rest of the whatevers. I might be nerding out but I really want to see what another CS person would think on this.

Btw ur such a good artist!!!! I look up to u so much as a CS student and beginner drawer. Please never stop being so epic <3

okay okay okAY OKAY- I'll note I'm still ironing out more solid headcanons as I've only just really started to dip my toes into writing about the Ultrakill universe, so this is gonna be more 'speculative spitballing' than anything

I'll also put the full lot under a read more 'cause I'll probably get rambly with this one

So with regards to machines - particularly V1 - in fic I've kinda been taking a 'grounded in reality but taking some fictional liberties all the same' kind of approach -- as much as I do have an understanding and manner-of-thinking rooted in real-world technical knowledge, the reality is AI just Does Not work in the ways necessary for 'sentience'. A certain amount of 'suspension of disbelief' is required, I think.

Further to add, there also comes a point where you do have to consider the readability of it, too -- as you say, stuff like this might be our bread and butter, but there's a lot of people who don't have that technical background. On one hand, writing a very specific niche for people also in that specific niche sounds fun -- on the other, I'd like the work to still be enjoyable for those not 'in the know' as it were. Ultimately while some wild misrepresentations of tech does make me cringe a bit on a kneejerk reaction -- I ought to temper my expectations a little. Plus, if I'm being honest, I mix up my terminology a lot and I have a degree in this shit LMFAO

Anyway -- stuff that I have written so far in my drafts definitely tilts more towards 'total synthesis even of organic systems'; at their core, V1 is a machine, and their behaviors reflect that reality accordingly. They have a manner of processing things in absolutes, logic-driven and fairly rigid in nature, even when you account for the fact that they likely have multitudes of algorithmic processes dedicated to knowledge acquisition and learning. Machine Learning algorithms are less able to account for anomalies, less able to demonstrate adaptive pattern prediction when a dataset is smaller -- V1 hasn't been in Hell very long at all, and a consequence will be limited data to work with. Thus -- mistakes are bound to happen. Incorrect predictions are bound to happen. Less so with the more data they accumulate over time, admittedly, but still.

However, given they're in possession of organic bits (synthesized or not), as well as the fact that the updated death screen basically confirms a legitimate fear of dying, there's opportunity for internal conflict -- as well as something that can make up for that rigidity in data processing.

The widely-accepted idea is that y'know, blood gave the machines sentience. I went a bit further with the idea, that when V1 was created, their fear of death was a feature and not a side-effect. The bits that could be considered organic are used for things such as hormone synthesis: adrenaline, cortisol, endorphins, oxycotin. Recipes for human instinct of survival, translated along artificial neural pathways into a language a machine can understand and interpret. Fear of dying is very efficient at keeping one alive: it transforms what's otherwise a mathematical calculation into incentive. AI by itself won't care for mistakes - it can't, there's nothing actually 'intelligent' about artificial intelligence - so in a really twisted, fucked up way, it pays to instil an understanding of consequence for those mistakes.

(These same incentive systems are also what drive V1 to do crazier and crazier stunts -- it feels awesome, so hell yeah they're gonna backflip through Hell while shooting coins to nail husks and demons and shit in the face.)

The above is a very specific idea I've had clattering around in my head, now I'll get to the more generalized techy shit.

Definitely some form of overarching operating system holding it all together, naturally (I have to wonder if it's the same SmileOS the Terminals use? Would V1's be a beta build, or on par with the Terminals, or a slightly outdated but still-stable version? Or do they have their own proprietary OS more suited to what they were made for and the kinds of processes they operate?)

They'd also have a few different kinds of ML/AI algorithms for different purposes -- for example, combat analysis could be relegated to a Support Vector Machine (SVM) ML algorithm (or multiple) -- something that's useful for data classification (e.g, categorizing different enemies) and regression (i.e predicting continuous values -- perhaps behavioral analysis?). SVMs are fairly versatile on both fronts of classification and regression, so I'd wager a fair chunk of their processing is done by this.

SVMs can be used in natural language processing (NLP) but given the implied complexity of language understanding we see ingame (i.e comprehending bossfight monologues, reading books, etc) there's probably a dedicated Large Language Model (LLM) of some kind; earlier and more rudimentary language processing ML models couldn't do things as complex as relationship and context recognition between words, but multi-dimensional vectors like you'd find in an LLM can.

Of course if you go the technical route instead of the 'this is a result of the blood-sentience thing', that does leave the question of why their makers would give a war machine something as presumably useless as language processing. I mean, if V1 was built to counter Earthmovers solo, I highly doubt 'collaborative effort' was on the cards. Or maybe it was; that's the fun in headcanons~

As I've said, I'm still kinda at the stage of figuring out what I want my own HCs to be, so this is the only concrete musings I can offer at the minute -- though I really enjoyed this opportunity to think about it, so thank you!

Best of luck with your studies and your art, anon. <3

#ultrakill #headcanon talk #system.txt #answered asks

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apathetic-tortoise · 1 year ago

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Bun: I like murder mysteries

Tan, trying to impress him: I’ve been a suspect in two murder cases

#incorrect quotes #manner of death #bun #tan #tanbun

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cummodus · 4 months ago

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Okay no your thing for Caracalla's stabbing still gets me. It is intriguing I want to know more. Why is it hot and is it just him because Geta's entire deal just seems to make you sad. Am I incorrect. I'm so curious. You can also not tell me and I'll just be sitting here watching your tags like "a mystery for the centuries. fascinating" but also.

I was left staring at this ask in pure wonder. My thoughts to be found fascinating? I can't imagine. I'm flattered and very much flustered but I'll try to explain.

You're not wrong that the way Geta was killed doesn't invoke the same kind of feelings in me that Caracalla's death does. But it's more so what happens after he's already dead that upsets me.

The neck is such a sensual, vulnerable, and exposed part of the body, maybe the most vulnerable. Exposing your neck is a show of trust, of respect, of surrender. It's so intimate. The way Geta's kneeling on the floor and how Macrinus grabs his hair and slices his neck. That's so hot it's unreal actually. Indeed because the neck is such an intimate, vulnerable part of the body I'm such a whore for neck cutting. When he's first slashed and the blood gushes out and his eyes go dark it's still hot. If he was just sliced and left bleeding out I would be extremely horny about that too. But the beheading and the head parading in it's violence and humiliation is too brutal it's not hot to me.

Let's see if I can even begin to articulate my feelings about Caracalla.

Seeing that trickle of blood from his ear makes me shudder everytime. I look at it and feel this kind of warmth coiling in the pit of my stomach, a deep satisfaction in my chest. I have no other word for it than that I just feel horny. It's that intoxicated feeling.

There is something so beautiful in the delicateness of the manner he was killed. Sticking a needle through an ear, piercing the brain, in its full violence, is still so subtle, noiseless. It's nearly unnoticeable that he is dead, if not for the faintest trickle of blood from his ear. Something about it is so alluring. A small flow of blood on the side of his face, his neck, his clothes. His lifeless, still body laying there his body not marred beyond an invisible wound.

Him being stabbed in the brain of all things, too. Gods there's just something about it. It's such a rare way to kill off a character. And the main thing about Caracalla's character is his mind. The way he rules the Empire has so much to do with his diseased, sadistic mind. But even beyond the disease and unraveling mind there is the vicious nature that is innate to him. He's really like this little god of sadism, hedonistically indulging in his cruelty. His pure and unashamed bloodlust. Giving into every impulse to find bliss. And the amount of pleasure he gets from indulging in people's agony is terrifying and so enthralling. So him being killed by being stabbed through the ear is so powerful. The thing that makes his character so special, the main source and his reason for cruelty and evil is just his mind. And then so quickly his light is extinguished. And in such a delicate, almost elegant way.

#asks

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honey-riley · 1 year ago

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Love You To Death || S.R.

WARNINGS: Military themes, guns, weapons, violence, detailed gore, mentions of Simon's past.

A/N: This contains an OC :) her name is Honey Tailer (my user is after her 🫡), she's German, so I hope you brought your google translate or other translators. There are more descriptors of her in the story itself <3

A/N pt.2: I'm learning German, and for most of the dialog in German, I use a translator. So, if anything is incorrect in German, don't behead me pls.

wc: 5.9k

1 || 2

War.

That's all that ever ran through him. A traumatized, mean, brooding war machine. Ever since he was little, that's all he could remember. The war within his household, the constant abuse that his father passed around. The constant abuse he endured as a child had profound and lasting effects on him. It shaped his worldview, eroded his sense of self-worth, and left him with deep emotional scars that manifested in his brooding and mean demeanor. The war within his household became the war within himself, and it consumed him every day.

He had never truly felt warmth. Sure, he had happy moments, moments where he could forget the trauma, moments where the gray cloud looming above him would clear. But only for a moment. He was human after all. The impact of his traumatic childhood on his relationships was profound. He struggled to form deep connections with others, always keeping them at arms length, afraid of being hurt again. His fear of vulnerability and his need for control made it difficult for him to trust and open up to others, resulting in a cycle of loneliness and isolation.

Riddling himself with routines, sticking to schedules, running everything in a timely, comfortable manner is what he loves. What he thrived on. It was something that he knew he could rely on. Every morning, he would wake up at the exact same time, following a strict routine that he had meticulously planned out. From the moment he opened his eyes to the moment he closed them again at night, every minute of his day was accounted for. He found solace in the predictability of his schedule, as it provided a sense of control and stability in a chaotic world. His routines became his lifeline, a way for him to regain some semblance of order in his life and protect himself from the unpredictable nature of human interactions.

So, the day that someone broke that routine for him, that was a day that he was going to remember.

Preparing for a mission, he went in with his normal routine - shower, get his gear on, put the mask on, prepare mentally, head to base, scan in, have breakfast, pack his tactical vest, check his gear, clean his weapons, and head out to the chopper by 0400.

This time, when he got to the chopper, there was a new face. Striking green eyes, long black hair that was slicked back into a regulatory military bun, fair skin, and God, was she short. Standing at four feet, eleven inches, just barely meeting the height requirements.

"Lieutenant." Laswell nodded as he approached. "This is Sergeant Honey Tailer, hope you don't mind her joining you today." She added with a smile. Ghost stuck his hand out for Honey to shake, which she accepted, giving him a firm shake back.

He took in her appearance one more time, noting her black, polished boots, her uniform, which wasn't digital camo, but more like spotted camo. She had a German flag on her shoulders and on her tactical vest.

"My pleasure, Lieutenant." She smiled softly, her German accent apparent in her words. It wasn't strong, it was subtle, she sounded like she had been speaking English her entire life - but she hadn't.

"It's great to meet you, Sergeant." He nodded, releasing her hand.

"Honey's going to be your DM for today. She'll provide surveillance, make sure you guys keep your heads." Laswell grinned as she looked over at Honey. DM, or designated marksman, was a good position to be in - a position that they needed in the team.

The team then loaded into the chopper, strapping into their seats. Honey's rifle sat on her chest, the barrel pointing to the tin floor of the chopper as she looked out of the window. She stared off, lost in thought, devising a plan on how she would go about this. It was an in and out mission, quick and easy - if things went according to plan.

Honey would provide recon and examine from a distance, while the team went in, gathering intel, hopefully going undetected, then Soap would plant the bombs, they would all get back onto the chopper, where Soap would detonate them.

"You'll do just fine, kid." Price's gruff voice snapped her out of thought as he patted her on the shoulder. Honey shot him a small, tight lipped, slightly nervous smile. She was used to this kind of stuff, but to work with a team she had never met, find her groove all over again, and to do it in time, was nerve wracking.

"This isn't your first time, right?" Ghost grunted as he looked over at her, his voice deep, almost like a growl.

"No, sir. I've been deployed multiple times." She replied with a nod.

Ghost took that in an almost snooty, stuck up way. Like she was so young, and she had all this experience, and she sounded like she was bragging about it. That irked him.

Instead of saying anything, he stayed quiet, crossing his arms over his chest. To pass the time, Honey put her AirPods in, and turned on some music, letting out a small sigh as she leaned back into her chair.

There was something about her that Ghost didn't find appealing. Something about her annoyed him, but he couldn't tell what it was.

The metallic sound of her ring clanking against her rifle as she tapped her fingers to the beat of the song she was listening to only made his annoyance grow.

"Wha' song are ye listenin' to?" Soap asked, nudging her.

"Oh, Love You To Death by Type O Negative." Honey said, looking over at him with a small smile.

"Damn, gothic stuff." Soap chuckled, cuing Honey to nod. "Yer pal, Ghostie over there loves that kind of music." Soap chuckled, nodding towards Ghost, making him let out a small scoff.

Not only was Honey now annoying him, she also had the same taste in music? That felt like it wasn't going to fly with him for whatever reason. He was already annoyed that his routine had been disrupted, and now, her presence alone annoyed him more.

"Alright, team. We're landing in Verdansk, just to refresh, you are to take out Makarov. He's in a highly guarded area, with plenty of people surrounding him." Laswell said over the comms.

"Copy." Honey replied, letting out a small sigh. She was the one who was tasked with disturbing the hive - taking out Makarov. She had already been filled in on why they needed him dead, and all the other necessary things such as his identity, where he would be at, his rank, what he looked like.

Once the chopper landed Price divided everyone into partners, and one trio. Ghost and Honey were tasked with surveillance. Ghost was Honey's spotter.

'I'm gonna be stuck with this annoying, snooty, stuck up bitch?' Ghost thought to himself. He kept his opinions inward, thankfully. Usually, with new recruits, he was very vocal about his disdain for them. This time, he kept his mouth shut, just wanting to get the mission done quicker.

Honey established a sniper's nest, and laid on the roof of the building opposite of where the team would be infiltrating.

"What's the drag?" Honey whispered, looking through her iron sights, ready to set her rifle up.

"Not a clue." Ghost grunted as he looked through the scope of his own rifle, adjusting accordingly. He did know, he just wanted her to struggle a bit, make her more 'human' in his eyes.

"You're no help." Honey muttered under her breath, looking down her iron sights again. She glanced over at Ghost for a moment, turning to her own rifle, contemplating something.

She deftly reached over, sliding the scope off of his rifle.

'Now she's trying to fuck with my gear?' Ghost scorned in his own mind. He looked over at her, his brows furrowed under his mask before he snatched his scope back, sliding it back on.

"Du erzeugst ein Glitzern." She growled, taking it back off.

"English." Ghost muttered under his breath, starting to get pissed off.

"You're creating a glint. There's people in that building that can see you because of your scope." She growled, looking over at the moon for a second before looking back at him. She subtly lifted her hand, pointing at the opposing building, and indeed, a faint reflection from the scope could be seen if you knew where to look.

He let out an audible scoff, rolling his eyes. He adjusted his rifle, getting used to just using his iron sights.

"It's a 42 meter separation, the wind is blowing south-east. We're facing north-west. The wind is 6 knots. Light breeze." He replied, telling her what she would need to adjust her rifle.

"Any visuals on Makarov?" Laswell said through the comms.

Honey glanced through a pair of binoculars for a second, seeing Makarov working at a table in an empty room, his back turned to the window.

"Positive. Black, short hair, suit, I can't tell how tall he is, but Ghost can verify that it's him." Honey replied through the comms. "It's him, Kate." Ghost muttered into the comms. "Permission to take the shot?" Honey asked Laswell.

"Granted." Laswell replied.

Honey put down the binoculars and Ghost picked them up, ready to watch Honey shoot Makarov.

Honey lined up her shot, calculating the drag, and the possible path that the bullet would take once it hit the glass. Doubt nibbled at the edges of her mind, raising its voice as her finger hovered over the trigger. But she pushed it away, reminding herself of the countless hours of training. She took a deep breath, pulling the rifle tight to her shoulder, holding her breath so that the shot was steady. She loaded her chamber, taking the rifle off of safety, and slowly squeezed the trigger.

Ghost's heart raced. He felt a pang of jealousy, mixed with a swirl of emotions. 'This should've been mine,' He thought, his chest tightening. 'This is my team. What does she think she's doing, muscling in on my territory?' His fists clenched around the binoculars, sweat dripping from his temple.

The bullet shattered through the glass, sending a gory red mist into the air as Makarov's head exploded. Ghost's jaw clenched as his anger bubbled, the realization of what just happened setting in.

Honey laid her rifle down, staying on her stomach as she glanced over to Ghost. She could see the tension in his body, the balaclava clinging to his face with each heavy gasp for air. Unsure of how to respond to Ghost's obvious displeasure, she gave him a small, tight lipped, reassuring smile.

Ghost glared back, his eyes filled with the intensity of his rage. 'She's taken everything from me,' he thought. 'I can't let her win. I can't let her take this from me too.'

In the aftermath, the team sat in stunned silence, their gazes fixed on the lifeless body now sprawled on the floor. The reality of their success hung in the air, a weighty, shared accomplishment that lingered, tainted by Ghost's bitter resentment. This was a man that they had been tracking for years and Honey came in and shot him like it was nothing. Like it was the easiest thing in the world. And God, that smile afterwards pissed him off so much more.

'What the fuck is she doing? This was supposed to be my job. What the hell does she know about shooting?' Ghost fought with himself internally. He hated this. He ha=ted everything about her.

The pair watched as the team infiltrated the room, occasional gunfire sounding through the air. Honey watched as Soap went in, took a laptop and all the needed files, planting a few bombs on his way out.

Honey stood up, grabbing her rifle, unloading the chamber and putting it back onto safety. Ghost stood up as well, grabbing his own rifle, storming his way back down the flight of stairs to the ground floor.

"Ghost." Honey said as she followed him, her rifle slung over her back. He didn't bother waiting for her, or even listening to her. He silently stormed his way back to the chopper, getting in, and buckling himself up.

Honey set their things back where they belonged on the chopper, ensuring that nothing would fall out. There was an awkward silence as they waited for the rest of the team to get back to where the chopper was. Nikolai sat in the cockpit.

"How was the mission? You finally nail him?" Nikolai grinned, his thick Russian accent apparent in his words as he looked back through the door, glancing at Ghost.

"Honey did." Ghost muttered, his fists balled under his biceps as he crossed his arms. "Her shot was just luck." He added, looking outside of the chopper, avoiding eye contact. He knew it was more than luck - it was skill, but he didn’t want to admit it.

Honey winced at his words, looking over at him, her eyes narrowing slightly. She glanced away, keeping her eyes off of him. She had always been doubted. She had worked her entire life for this moment, and the entire time, she had been doubted. She didn't know why it even hurt at this point - she should've expected it. But, she was going to stand up for herself for once - even if it didn't work.

Honey looked at him, her brow furrowing. "Luck?" She asked, her voice slightly hurt. "I took the damn shot, calculated it. I did everything I needed to. And it's just luck? I’ve worked my entire life for this, I’ve worked my ass off. Making sure that I could make a damn shot." She added. Honey wanted to get frustrated, she wanted to argue, but she took a deep breath, keeping her mouth shut.

Ghost's jaw dropped slightly at her response. His glare softened, his unwavering anger faltering for the first time. He didn't know what to say to counter her words, her confidence - and for once, he found himself at a loss.

'All of my years of practicing, honing, just for it to be chalked up to luck? Fuck this guy.' Honey thought to herself, letting out a sigh. She wanted to be on this team, she had worked for it for years. She wanted to be on the top - the best of the best, and this was her chance. She wasn't going to ruin it.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the rest of the team getting into the chopper, carrying files, laptops, and USB sticks. Everything that they could get their hands on that could be important, they took.

"Let's watch this puppy blow." Soap chuckled as he buckled into the chopper. Nikolai lifted the chopper off the ground, getting it a distance away before Soap pressed the button, making the entire building explode and collapse in on itself.

Honey watched as the orange and yellow flames licked the air, huge billows of smoke and debris shooting up into the air.

"Christ." Honey murmured, watching the smoke shoot up. The blast wave then hit the chopper, making it sway and vibrate. Nikolai quickly corrected, starting their flight back. The flight back to base was almost silent, everyone processing what had just happened, and why it had happened.

'Why was Honey the one to kill Makarov? Why was this new recruit the one who got to end the man we had fought to kill for years? And why was it so easy for her?' Ghost was furious at the thought of it.

'Why did she get the pleasure? The satisfaction?'

When they got back to base, Ghost just wanted to get his report filled and then think things through in his quarters, but of course, Laswell had other plans.

"You and Honey are bunking together." Laswell said as she opened the door to his quarters. Honey stood behind Laswell, her bag slung on her shoulder as well as a few other things in her hands - two pillows and a blanket.

"What about Soap?" Ghost asked, looking over at the other bed in the room - the bed where Soap slept. That side of the room was blank, Soap moved rooms.

"Soap bunked with Gaz. We don't have another room for Honey, so she's going with you." Laswell said, turning around and walking away. Honey came in quietly, her steps silent.

She placed her things on the bed, avoiding him. She busied herself with the task of getting her things set up - making the bed, putting her things in her dresser and closet.

"There are rules here." Ghost grunted as he watched her, his attention drawn away from his paperwork.

"Keep your shit on your side of the room, keep it clean, keep it neat, and don't talk to me." He added. Honey didn't do anything but nod as she folded her clothes. Pajamas, uniforms, dress uniforms, civilian clothes - they were all put away neatly.

There was something about her, something that kept his attention away from his paperwork. Something that kept him from focusing. Maybe it was the rage towards her, maybe it was the envy - there was something. Something that he hated. Something that Simon despised. Ghost hated it more.

What do we think of the first part, y'all? Do we love it? Hate it? Eh? Lmk what I can work on as well! My ask me is still open :))

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izzyabij · 4 months ago

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Honestly i just wanna ramble about light for a second even if Im not making any sense- regardless I wanted to talk about how I saw this particular scene in the manga in terms of how Light was in the beginning of the manga.

In this scene it almost feels like for a second he felt called out- like he’s reminded of his initial ‘hesitation’ and feelings in the beginning when he found out the death note was actually real and not some stupid joke. Like a brief point of clarity- that initial ‘doubt’ that he felt in the beginning in terms of his actions and what exactly that made him.

When he realizes that the death note actually works he looks sick- he’s in disbelief about everything. And he’s shaking, nervous over the fact that he had killed two people. At first his first inclination was to and I quote, ‘Get…. rid of this evil thing.’ But before he could settle that thought he stopped himself. Despite his shakiness and apparent fear he starts rationalizing too himself.

‘ I was actually doing a service killing him…’

‘But what about the second guy? That wasn’t worth the death penalty, what he did…’

These two thoughts of the first two people he killed really puts certain things into light (lmao) when we are talking about how he changes throughout the manga in terms of mindset and how far he would go. After these thoughts of his he begins excusing it with- this is what I’ve been thinking all along! The world is a rotten mess- It NEEDS to be cleaned up….

He’s rationalizing to himself his own actions. Almost convincing himself to accept a certain mindset and position on the subject. Regardless, clutching his bag in hand he’s like- and I can ACTUALLY do it. It wouldn’t be impossible with this in hand. This notebook. However in the next page we see him curled up in his own blanket seemingly fearful over the very notion of doing such a thing. ‘Does he even have the guts? Could he really do such a thing?’

He starts to then sort of debate with himself about it.

‘Just two, and look at me… Well it’s only natural. They’re human lives… Of course it isn’t easy.’

‘Can I take it? Maybe not.’

Then he starts delving into something else, convincing himself that he CAN’T quit. He CAN’T give up- So what if he loses peace of mind? Somebody HAS to do this. And he deems it as himself. I mean who else would have the guts? Who else but him?

‘I could do it… not just that… I’m the only one who could do it.’ (Wonder where I’ve heard that line before)

Then in the next page we see Ryuk being like i really don’t give a fuck when Light is telling him about how its been affecting him.

Anyways- Back to the first picture of panels I showed you at the top- regarding the fact that this is more towards the beginning of the story I think it wouldn’t be incorrect to assume he really did feel that flash of original weakness he had in terms of using the death note. That is of course until he clings to the mindset he has now built for himself- convincing himself that he is doing a service to the people. To the world. How could he possibly be evil? Be wrong. He’s making a good choice. He’s helping. He’s not a bad person. They deserve it.

Plus he is the only one who could. Who could handle it? Who could do it… If it isn’t him, who? So how could you call him evil?

And thus in a childish manner he acts out against the bait dangled in-front of him.

Regardless I just love Light sm and his character- especially the differences in the beginning- his rationalization and basically self consoling methods to validate his choices to himself.

Anyways i hope this makes sense- i think it does! I just like to ramble

#death note #light #light yagami #death note discussion #death note manga #Lights big brown eyes #lights such a silly guy #Lights such a loser

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shinuryoxx · 3 months ago

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pairing/s: mentioned (past) player 196/kang mi-na x male!oc, platonic!male!oc x female!oc, slight thanos x male!oc, slight nam-gyu x male!oc, slight myung-gi x male!oc, slight thangyu

cw: dead dove: do not eat, unreliable narrator, canon divergence, slow burn, canon-typical violence, mature language, brief use of the 'f' slur, modern-day references, use of firearms, canonical character death, description of death, description of blood and gore, brief mentions of undiagnosed mental illness if you squint, slight body shaming, brief mentions of drug use, emotional manipulation

a/n: i used deepl for some translations, so i apologize in advance for any incorrect information provided.

word count: 3,752

italics in narration = thoughts

italics in dialogue = word emphasis

bold in narration = word emphasis

bold in dialogue = non-korean language

translation/s = (¹) young gentleman, (²) fucking faggots

➌ 𝗴𝗿𝗲𝗲𝗻 𝗹𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁, 𝗿𝗲𝗱 𝗹𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁 __

ִ┈┈┈┈˖ ࣪⊹ ִ┈┈┈┈ ♰ ┈┈┈┈ ⊹ ִֶָ𓂅˖ ࣪⊹

𝗔𝗡 𝗔𝗨𝗗𝗜𝗕𝗟𝗘 click can be heard from when the green double doors unlock and open. players immediately start piling into the field, as well as angelo with kira hot on his tail. he's forced to squint his eyes. the facility's lights are nothing compared to the natural brightness of the day.

“welcome to the first game. all players, please wait a moment on the field. let me repeat. all players, please wait a moment on the field.”

“hey, señorito¹.” angelo tenses up as a certain purple-haired man comes up from behind him, and slings an arm around his shoulder like they're good friends. having been talking to kira prior to being interrupted, the filipino shoots su-bong an annoyed glare out of the corner of his eyes. angelo doesn't bother actually facing him. why would he if this random guy doesn't deserve it?

“don't you know who i am?”

“am i supposed to?" without much care, angelo shoves su-bong's arm off his shoulders, not hiding his obvious disinterest in the other player. however, that doesn't seem to deter the purple-haired man at all. whether su-bong simply brushed it off, thinking he's playing hard to get, or just doesn't care, angelo can't tell, nor can he be bothered enough to think deeply about it.

“not really,” su-bong toothily grins before pointing a tattooed finger at angelo then at himself while wiggling his eyebrows. “we can get to know each other. tell me about yourself.”

“you first,”

angelo knows, already hearing the voice of regret whispering in the back of his mind, the moment the corner of su-bong's mouth quirks up that he should've picked a different dialogue option. that mischievous smile splits and a rap made directly on the spot erupts from the purple-haired man.

“♪ in the sea of faces, you caught my eye ♪—”

“all right. nevermind. that's a wrap.” pinching the bridge of his nose, angelo swiftly cuts in before the second-hand embarrassment gets worse. he doesn't need to peer at kira beside him to know she's holding back her laughter. well, would you look at that? she can have manners. sometimes.

angelo hurriedly clasps his hand together with kira's, ready to get away from this weirdo when the blonde is pushed to the side by none other than su-bong's little lapdog. “woah, there. where do you think you're going, hm? don't you know who that is?” a pair of hands rest on the filipino's shoulders, drawing harsh circles through the cheap fabric of his uniform.

“i frankly don't care.” angelo's dark eyes hardened with the perfect mimicry of annoyance. geez, do people not know personal space nowadays? nam-gyu's face twists into something ugly, clearly not taking kindly to his attitude. “hold on,” as if sensing a fight about to brew between the two, su-bong holds up his tattooed hand and effectively prevents the situation from escalating further.

puzzlement knits nam-gyu's eyebrows together, and it doesn't take two for angelo to pick up on his lack of knowledge of the english language. “the purple teletubby said you're unsightly.” the filipino kindly assists with the translation. though, nam-gyu can see right through his bullshit. “yeah, right. you inbred prick—”

“come on now. what's with the hostility? nam-su, apologize to the gentleman.” hilariously enough, su-bong seems to take angelo's side rather than his self-proclaimed friend. the filipino finds amusement at the betrayed look nam-gyu offers the older male, reminded of a dog being reprimanded by its owner.

nam-gyu, for his part, replaces his disgruntled features with a forced easy-going smile. “heh, what?”

“you heard me, nam-su.”

“nam-gyu,”

“whatever. nam-gyu.”

with a purse of his lips at the purple-haired man's dismissal, nam-gyu scrutinizes the barely contained smugness that has overtaken angelo's face, who merely peers at him expectantly. oh, how much nam-gyu just wishes to scratch out those eerily empty eyes. pretty boy or not.

angelo was sure the man with the short bob wouldn't go through with it, but nam-gyu surprised him by actually managing to swallow down his pride. “i'm… sorry, okay?” wow, how genuine and heartfelt, the filipino deadpans at the half-assed apology.

“i’m not,” satisfied with crushing another man's ego like it's a goal in his life's to-do list, angelo decides to discard the leech clinging to him and stabs his heel into nam-gyu's foot, making sure to dig his own into the sensitive tendon and bone nice and sharp for good measure. nam-gyu releases the filipino as expected and grits out an agonized hiss as he stands on one foot and clutches the other.

angelo struts away triumphantly, hands in his pockets while kira follows suit with her own pep in her step. although, she's still feeling petty about being swatted to the side as easily as one does to a mere insect, so she may or may not have intentionally bumped shoulders with an already out of balanced nam-gyu.

kira's sassy remark dies on the tip of her tongue once she catches sight of the two men a bit too close to each other for comfort and to be considered hetero. the blonde stares… and stares even more with as much judgment as she can muster. “homo yarō do mome²…”

jolting away from su-bong's steady hold on him as though the touch burns and scalds, nam-gyu's lips draw back in a snarl. “what did you just say?”

“what did you hear?” kira grins mockingly in turn.

“i'd rather not repeat it.” mouth set on a thin line, nam-gyu snaps back instead, firstly because he hadn't understood what she'd say and secondly since he's certain it'd been a jab to further grate on his nerves.

the japanese woman only scoffs, then unabashedly holds up her middle finger as she turns on her heel and leaves with a sing-songy tone. “well, then i guess we'll never know~”

…

“that bitch—”

“what's that?”

“an oversized doll, it seems like.” angelo impassively notes, leaning a bit forward and squinting at the figure mi-na's pointing to at the far end of the sunny field. “whose idea was it to dress the poor thing like that? that orange overall skirt and yellow t-shirt clash together like a rabbit's front teeth.” disgust gleams strongly in kira's hazel eyes, her arms folded under her chest.

mi-na is immediately there to back her up, “right?”

seagulls can be faintly heard squawking somewhere in the far distance, but what halts the most participants’ noisy chattering is the deafening boom of the entrance clanking shut behind them. that should've been enough warning for them to start questioning things like before instead of turning a blind eye at the promise of moolah, a huge sum at that.

unfortunately, angelo's no better than the people in the room with him. he's already as blind as he is without his glasses anyway.

“the first game is red light, green light. cross the finish line without getting caught in five minutes. if you do, you pass.”

“psshh, that's easy—” kira rests her hands on her hips. she's basically won already, there's no debate.

“everyone!” a man, player 456 and one of the many who'd spoken up during the earlier discussion at the dormitory, panickedly brushes by anyone in his path to get to the front of the herd of players. he yells and flails his arms agitatedly. angelo admits that it's an effective way of attracting their attention. that's for sure.

“everyone, listen up! pay attention! listen carefully! this is not just a game! if you lose the game… you die!” additionally, it's also a one-way ticket to be perceived as a mad man as the tense silence shortly fills with men and women alike ridiculing the older man.

a disbelieving scoff here.

“what is he saying?” a mistrustful chuckle there.

“hey! what are you talking about? we're going to die playing red-light, green-light?” and finally a skeptical query.

player 456 seems awfully determined, though, and doesn't shrink under the suspicion he receives. “yes, that's right! if they catch you moving, they will kill you. they will shoot you from somewhere!”

“that guy must be drunk.” mi-na voices with a tiny smirk.

“or high,” angelo gives his two cents.

“or both,” giggling softly, kira pipes up next.

“—that dolls eyes are motion detectors!”

that finally causes angelo to pause in thought. hm, he wouldn't be at all surprised if it actually turns out to be a robot ‘cause if he remembers correctly, the ‘it’ has to turn away or cover their eyes for the game to work. gouging out the two women's reactions on either side of him, angelo predicts them not taking the older man seriously by now… and he's right.

“you have to believe me!” the more player 456 pleads and persists, the more others continue to make cruel comments. angelo can almost pity the man. almost.

a low whirring emanates from the giant doll as it stiffly and slowly turns to face the leafless tree. huh, would you look at that. the thing really is a robot, angelo muses with a dry snort. “do not be alarmed or panic! no matter what happens, do not panic and start running!” the filipino's ears are starting to hurt from all his incessant yammering.

“obviously,” not being the only person to be fed up, kira throws her head back and groans impatiently. aren't they supposed to be playing games and not uselessly running your mouth? she can compose a long list of all the other stuff she could be doing at the moment with more value than whatever comes out of that boomer's mouth.

“let the game begin.” and with that, the five-minute timer activates. finally.

“♪ green light, red light ♪”

“oh, that's not creepy…” kira mutters sarcastically, ceasing her movements just like everyone else when the doll faces them yet again. her comment earns her a quiet “shut up,” from angelo and repressed sniggers from a subtly shaking mi-na.

“freeze!” and each player grudgingly does as told. “well done! you just need to stay calm like this! we just have to move and stop at the right time. then we can all win. we can survive together!”

“♪ green light, red light ♪”

“freeze!” another advice from player 456. “don't move and stay still! just relax! speak with your mouth covered. it's dangerous.”

“♪ green light, red light ♪”

“freeze!”

for the next couple of seconds, it's all but a repeat of the same god awful, child-like singing from the female doll and the deep voice spouting ceaseless command after command roughly five or more times. nobody exactly makes the effort to keep count when they're more concerned about their matching goal of winning the first out of the six games they'd be playing.

angelo uses this opportunity to allow his gaze to wander as it pleases while it's still relatively peaceful. almost more than half of the five-minute timer has passed… or he hopes he's seeing that right. either way, every participant seems to be pretty determined. the sharp lines of his jaws clench a slight. that's not good. mr. square mask might not have spelled out the details of how the prize money is planned to be distributed, but angelo has a feeling less players in the game would work better in his favor.

“a bee?!”

a sigh passes through angelo's pierced nose.

nonetheless, if mi-na had even intent on having a lick of money to pay off the debt she's so adamant not to bring up, she should've known better than to let a measly insect ruin her chances so early on… angelo takes his musings back. it's actually quite in character for her.

“bang!”

the scent of metal trickles in the air little by little, staining the fresh air of the sea nearby. getting (and still being) involved with shady business, angelo is no stranger to a gunshot, and definitely not one so close. the memories it resurfaces aren't necessary to say the least.

out the corner of his eye, angelo can make out kira's taller figure reactively flinching as mi-na, a grotesque hole now making home right on the center of her pale forehead, limply drops to the rough floor beside her. the red bleeds like wine spilled on white cloth, and it paints a twisted image on the blonde's milky skin.

warm — is what first pops in angelo's head. fresh blood is always warm at first.

the filipino can't say the same about mi-na's eyes, though. for once, they lack the warmth and comfort they've always held. for once, what leers back matches the dullness in his own.

“player 196, eliminated.”

right, the game.

and just like that, the calm before the storm had just ended. all it took was a simple turn of the head, gaze zeroing on the brunette's corpse, and at long last… a female shriek.

…

dumbasses.

angelo deadpans, teeth lightly nipping the inside of his cheek as his nose crinkled judgmentally. absolute fucking dumbasses. what were the odds that player 456 wasn't actually some schizophrenic old man? of course, no one could've known for sure, but still. if the objective is not to move then don't move for fuck's sake.

easier said than done, apparently.

side-eyeing kira, angelo can tell she's just one wrong move away from being another body on the ground as the rest of the other game participants. it's a stark reminder to the filipino that; yes, she and everyone else are human beings with thoughts and feelings. normal human beings, a voice helpfully supplies from somewhere in his mind. something angelo isn't and never will be. he's come to accept that with no shame.

“no! don't move!” player 456 pleads oh so desperately, yet gunshot after gunshot is fired for every second the doll spots the tiniest of movement.

“freeze!” comes a last-ditch shout. not a peep can be heard. and for a second, you might feel like you can finally let out a breath of relief…

“bang!”

another body meets the earth.

“let me repeat. you can move forward while the tagger shouts, ‘green light, red light’. if your movement is detected afterward, you will be eliminated.” the woman on the pa robotically states.

“♪ green light, red light ♪”

while everyone else keeps their feet rooted in place, angelo is already taking multiple steps forward, his legs as nimble as can be. he doesn't get far before the doll turns back around.

“♪ green light, red light ♪”

oh, for fuck's sake. angelo has to give himself a pat on the back for successfully suppressing an eye roll later. with a low grunt, the filipino turns and marches back towards a still-frozen kira, his fingers curling firmly around her left wrist. he proceeds to roughly haul her in front of him, uncaring if she ends up stumbling or not. “move your flat ass if you want to live.”

that seems to finally bring kira back to reality.

“flat?! i'll have you know my ass is anything but flat!” leave it to the blonde to prioritize her precious buttocks in a life or death situation.

at least, angelo isn't the only sensible person in the area as player 456 rushes ahead the unmoving crowd, too. “hm,” an observant hum emits from the filipino's chest when he catches sight of su-bong hurriedly shoveling something into his mouth. so that's his poison.

just before angelo spins back the right direction, his eyes, emptied of human emotion as always, connects with a particular ex-youtuber's own. he merely jerks his head at the timer's direction. “the clock's ticking,” angelo's gaze reminds, to which myung-gi's forehead creases in response to.

why are you trying to help me? myung-gi attempts to communicate with a look as well, but angelo has already faced the other way.

“you will also die if you don't make it there in time! that doll is a motion detector! but it can't detect motion that's not visible to it! get behind someone bigger than you! like you're doing ‘follow the leader’! we're running out of time! we've got to move!”

as player 456 carries on with playing hero, many participants glance over and watch him freely wave his left hand behind his back without getting a bullet lodged in any part of his body. angelo can more or less see the gears turning in each head, some of their previously disbelieving gazes being replaced with a sense of gratefulness for the older man's purposeful help.

it appears to encourage the players to get over the fear that grips at their hearts in favor of making it out alive because one by one, they finally start moving from their places as soon as the doll allows them to, doing as adviced and forming long lines.

wow. angelo almost wants to applaud player 456 for his determination.

“seriously?”

“what? he did say to get behind someone bigger.” angelo gives the faintest shrug of his shoulders, smugly glaring holes into the back of kira's head. “find someone else to be your damn shield!” she hisses back.

ah. so she's still bitter about the comment about her bottom.

a dry snort leaves angelo. “if you say so,” he ambles past her at the next green light, and as predicted, footsteps quickly follow him, not even a second later. “wait— don't leave me behind!”

“what the hell?” cries out a random man.

the duo's attention is grabbed by the sound of bodies hitting the ground, accompanied by thunderous bangs.

“bye~” su-bong coos mockingly, arms outstretched in front of him as an impish smirk paints his lips.

“fucking psychopath,” kira openly grimaces at the purple-haired man's actions. however, angelo doesn't pay her any mind, too busy upholding the staring contest he has somehow got himself into with the other man. su-bong, for his part, seems eager to see the filipino's reaction. like a puppy after performing a trick for it's master, awaiting any hint of approval.

unfortunately for the purple-haired player, angelo is the wrong person to turn to for praise. scoffing under his breath, he blankly studies su-bong for barely another second before pressing on with his goal of reaching the finish line.

“race you there,”

“why you little—”

“i thought people with longer legs were supposed to be faster.” angelo releases an exaggerated sigh, leaning against the enormous, leafless fake tree with his arms crossed over his chest as he shakes his head in faux disappointment.

“oh, shut your trap. i was trying not to get killed along the way!” seeking to catch her breath, kira's chest rises and falls rapidly, and she shoots him a mean scowl from where she's hunched over under the sun.

this time angelo doesn't hold himself back from rolling his eyes to the back of his head. boredom swiftly overtakes his features while he surveys the sunny field still packed with hundreds of participants. it makes the filipino briefly wonder about the prize money and how much would be accumulated at the end of this game.

eh, who knows. mr. square guard will reveal it at some point.

“mi-na…”

angelo lifts an eyebrow at kira, who he's just noticed became uncharacteristically quiet. naturally, he understands what she's referring to, despite having only uttered his ex-girlfriend's name.

“there's no use crying over spoiled milk.” is all angelo replies with.

that didn't seem to be the right thing to say since kira is quick to turn to him with a livid expression, a vein popping on her neck. “...‘no use crying over spoiled milk’? angelo, mi-na just died right in front of us, and you're telling me to just… forget about it?! she was my friend! fuck, i know you've never been the empathetic type, but, like— come on, really?”

“crying over her loss isn't going to bring her back,” angelo counters, his mouth set in a hard line. “so it'd serve you better to focus on more fruitful things, like surviving the game if you want to earn money to pay off whatever debt you’ve kept secret from min-jun.”

the mere mention of their boss is enough to win the blonde over; angelo can tell from the way the hardened edges of her honey eyes soften like butter and her tense posture slips.

kira doesn't respond. she never does whenever angelo oh so obviously wins an argument against her.

but that's all right. he knows exactly how to play her like a fiddle.

“let's go!”

ah. angelo had nearly forgotten about the game.

peering back up from where he rests, the filipino draws his lower lip between his teeth as player after player skips over the red finish line. ugh, so much for peace and quiet.

“♪ green light, red light ♪”

all it takes is a small stumble and two more gunshots ring out.

“it wasn't me. she pushed me. i didn't move! it was her. i didn't move.” angelo doesn't even flinch at the following bang.

“player 444, eliminated.”

what angelo didn't anticipate is for player 456 to suddenly lurch forward and past the finish line once more when the timer's already on 30 seconds, much less for the evidently eliminated player 444 to actually still be very much alive and breathing on the floor.

angelo had thought that elimination meant being killed on the spot; it's what the older man had told them, too. so it's either that bit of information is false or whoever is shooting them has horrible air… or it's on purpose.

the realization causes the filipino's lax posture to straighten.

oh. now, that's an interesting thought.

lacking anything else better to do as the clock ticks away, angelo watches player 456 heave the fallen man and sling his arm over his shoulder. his mouth twitched amusedly when another person, player 120, comes to his aid.

they're the last remaining players before the red finish line, and the air is thick with tension as the doll spins around a final time.

5 seconds left.

“i bet you a new pack of marlboro they won't make it.” kira finally decides to speak up beside him.

“♪ green light, red light ♪”

the moment the doll gives the green flag, all three participants lunge onwards. as if time had slowed down, every onlooker holds their breath in anticipation… but no gunshot sounds out.

“thanks for the new cigs,” angelo snorts dryly at the chagrined groan and middle finger he receives.

𝗖𝗛𝗔𝗣𝗧𝗘𝗥𝗦

♱ 𝟬𝟬

♱ 𝟬𝟭

♱ 𝟬𝟮

♱ 𝟬𝟰

♱ 𝟬𝟱

♱ 𝟬𝟲

♱ 𝟬𝟳

♱ 𝟬𝟴

♱ 𝟬𝟵

♱ 𝟭𝟬

end

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