#broken and battered and I USED TO BE GREAT ONCE

[fr0stf4ll]

A court of Shadows and Moonlight - Part 23

paring; Azriel x reader

summary; In the wake of looming war and changing traditions, a gifted healer returns to the Night Court after centuries of wandering the continents. Tasked with stepping into Madja’s legendary role, she must guide reluctant healers, soothe wounded warriors, and face the entrenched prejudice of Illyrian leaders. But as she mends torn wings and broken spirits, an unexpected bond awakens between her and the Night Court’s enigmatic Spymaster. With rivalries simmering and a dangerous threat looming on the horizon, she must reconcile duty and desire, learning that true healing can extend beyond flesh and bone—if she dares to embrace the light hidden among the shadows.

word count ; 6k

Trigger warning; war, death, blood, violence

notes; hello everyone ! hope that everyone is doing great, here is the new chapter of this story. Tbh it was the funniest for me to write i just love Ather's character, i hope that you will have a great time with him too ! Either way please enjoy this chapter, i'm finally with less work so i'm able to be more regular with the posts, really don't hesitate to comment because that motivates a lot !!! see you soon everyone <3333

previous ✧

Azriel

The front line was soaked in blood—mud and ash caked over scorched stone, crimson pooling in trenches, staining armor, painting the battlefield in a shade of death that would never wash out. Smoke curled from splintered trees, from the bodies of fallen beasts and warriors alike, and above it all… the scent of rot. Of magic too old and wrong for this world.

Azriel spun, blades flashing as another creature lunged out of the mist—misshapen, all teeth and shadow. Not quite dead, not quite living. He ducked, slashed once, and the thing crumbled to the dirt in a heap of shriveled bone and tar-thick blood.

But it didn’t scream when it died. It didn’t bleed right. They never did.

He didn’t even flinch anymore.

Another wave came—Koshiev’s army was relentless. There was no breath between attacks, no lull to regroup. These monsters, these vessels, didn’t tire. Didn’t think. They just moved. With precision, with hunger. Azriel had already managed to cut down dozens of them. And still—they kept coming.

Whatever technique Koshiev had used to twist these things into being, it was working. Azriel wasn’t even sure what half of them had once been. Animals? Fae? Humans? Nothing moved like them. Nothing bled like them. And every time he killed one, another emerged from the fog—dark as pitch, limbs that bent the wrong way, eyeless and snarling.

He’d seen horrors before. He’d fought in more wars than he cared to count. But this?

This was something else.

This was the kind of fight that whispered in the back of your skull, that made you wonder if you were going to wake up screaming weeks, months from now—if you were lucky enough to survive.

He didn’t know how long they’d been fighting. Hours? Days?

He didn’t know how many vessels were still out there. How many Koshiev had sent. How many more would come.

And that—not the monsters, not the blood, not even the screaming—

That was what scared the shit out of him.

Because for the first time in centuries, Azriel couldn’t see when this war would end.

And if he couldn’t see the end…

Then maybe there wasn’t one.

Steel clanged on steel. Wings battered against wind and ash. Azriel moved like shadow incarnate, slicing through one creature’s throat and twisting away just in time to avoid the snapping jaws of another. Every inch of him was slick with sweat and blood—most of it not his. His siphons burned, casting dull light through the smoky battlefield, and his magic strained with every strike.

He didn’t pause. Couldn’t.

And then he spotted him—Cassian, a whirlwind of blade and brute force, carving a path through the ranks with fire in his eyes and blood streaking his armor. Relief crashed through Azriel’s ribs. He veered left, wings flaring as he cut down another beast and landed hard beside his brother.

Cassian glanced his way. “Took you long enough.”

“Had to kill a few hundred things on the way,” Azriel panted, ducking as Cassian cleaved through a malformed thing that howled in a voice that wasn’t its own.

They barely had a moment to breathe.

A soldier—a young male from the Summer Court—was three feet away from them, eyes wild with fear but still holding his line. Azriel barely had time to call a warning before the air shifted.

It didn’t come from the front.

It came beneath.

With no warning, the ground under the soldier cracked open like a mouth—dark magic shattering the stone, tendrils of something black and slick grabbing him by the waist and dragging him down. Not slowly.

Snapped. Like a trap closing. His scream split the air—and then half his body was gone. The rest followed in a wet, crunching sound that would stay in Azriel’s ears for the rest of his life.

The crack sealed shut a moment later. As if the earth had never opened.

Both Azriel and Cassian froze—just for a breath.

“Mother’s fucking bones,” Cassian said under his breath, eyes wide, face pale beneath his war paint.

Azriel didn’t speak. He couldn’t. He just stared at the bloody smear on the stone where the male had stood.

Whatever that was… it wasn’t a beast.

That was Koshiev.

That was intent.

And it was only getting worse.

Just as the blood from the soldier’s death had finished soaking into the dirt, the message came—sharp and sudden in Azriel’s mind.

"The camp was attacked.”

Rhysand’s voice, clipped and strained, cracked across the bond like lightning.

Azriel froze.

So did Cassian.

“What?” Cass barked, already turning toward him, reading the horror written across his brother’s face.

But Azriel wasn’t listening.

Because a second later, he felt it—

Nothing.

The bond—your bond—was still there but quiet. Too quiet. As if something had pressed down on it, smothered it into silence. No thoughts. No emotions. No heartbeat pulsing at the edge of his soul.

Just a void.

Azriel’s entire body went ice-cold.

Cassian swore, grabbing his arm. “Go. I’ve got it here—go find her.”

That was all he needed.

Azriel didn’t speak. Didn’t breathe.

He vanished.

Through shadows, through sky, through sheer, frantic will—he soared above the battlefield, the world a blur of smoke and fire below. He didn’t stop to rest, didn’t pause to calculate. He pushed every thread of his power to its edge, moving like a dying star across the sky, desperation cutting through him like a blade.

You were silent. And Azriel had never, ever, been more afraid in his life.

The world stopped.

Where there should have been tents, noise, faelight, the copper-sweet scent of blood and burn salves, there was… nothing.

The camp was gone.

Not destroyed. Not burned or broken. Just… gone.

Azriel landed hard, boots hitting soft ground where your tent used to be—where the medical pavilion, the triage rows, the healer quarters should’ve stood. Now, there was only grass. Dirt. Wind whispering through quiet trees.

As if none of it had ever existed.

As if you had never existed.

A choked, broken sound tore from Azriel’s throat.

A sound that wasn’t meant for battle. Wasn’t meant for war.

It was the kind of sound that was made only when the world ended.

He stumbled forward, eyes wide, lungs locked. His heart beat so loud he thought it might rupture, then collapse entirely.

No movement.

No scent.

No bond.

“No…” he whispered, knees nearly giving out beneath him. “No, no, please…”

Was this it?

Was this how Elain’s vision was supposed to happen?

Not even a goodbye.

Not even a fucking chance to hold you one last time. To say he loved you. To feel your skin beneath his hands. Your lips against his.

He had just kissed you hours ago. Just whispered promises against your skin. And now?

Now there was only emptiness.

Azriel fell to one knee, hands in the dirt where your tent should have stood.

His jaw clenched. His throat burned. And for the first time since he was a boy in a cell, helpless and broken and bleeding—

Tears pricked his eyes.

He stepped forward slowly, like walking through a dream that made no sense. The kind of dream that clawed at your ribs and left you gasping when you woke up. Except he wasn’t waking up. This was real.

The bond still felt wrong. Not severed—but quiet. Blurred. Faint. Like you were behind thick glass, miles away, or like someone had submerged your presence in water and he was clawing to reach it.

It didn’t look like an attack. There were no bodies. No smoke. No blood.

But with what he knew of Koshiev’s power… anything was possible.

Then— 

A flicker of cold. Of movement.

His shadows.

The ones that had refused to leave you, the ones that had stayed curled at your side even as he left.

His shadows whipped around him in a frenzy—restless, searching, calling.

And then—one of them touched the side of his neck.

Insistent. Pulling.

South. Far south. Not just meters—kilometers.

Azriel’s breath caught. His eyes widened.

The shadows didn’t say you were taken. They said: find her.

He stood in a single movement. Wings flaring, heart thundering.

You had moved the camp. You’d teleported the entire thing.

And his shadows had stayed behind to guide him home.

He didn’t hesitate.

He launched into the sky like a shadow-made storm, burning through the wind with only one thought echoing through him:

Find her. Now.

Azriel landed so hard he cracked the earth.

The camp was there—intact. Tents standing, faelights flickering, familiar shadows moving through the rows. The scent of healing salves, steel, and blood still hung in the air—but it was all real. Safe.

You’d moved it.

You had moved the whole gods-damned camp.

He didn’t pause to marvel at how. He just ran.

Straight into the healer’s tent, shoving the flap aside so fast the wood creaked.

He scanned the space—until his eyes locked on the Illyrian boy he’d seen shadowing you since the start of the war. The one who never left your side. Ather.

The male was slumped on a chair, one wing pinned with two vicious black arrows, sweat beading on his pale forehead. Elira—Azriel recognized her immediately from Velaris—was tending to the injury, hands glowing faintly.

It didn’t matter.

Azriel was on him in a breath.

He grabbed Ather by the collar, hauling him forward with enough force to jostle the cot. “Where is she?! Where, is, she?!” he roared, voice a lash of pure, frantic fury. Each word came with a shake that made Ather whimper in shock.

The boy was already ashen, eyes wide with remembered horror—and now, staring into the face of a raging shadowsinger, he looked moments away from passing out.

Elira grabbed Azriel’s arm hard. “Calm down, would you?! You’re going to kill him, and he’s the one who saved your wife!”

Azriel froze.

Elira scowled. “Y/N is fine. She’s sleeping. In your tent. She used too much power and passed—”

She didn’t finish.

Azriel was already gone.

Elira sighed, dropping her head back with a groan. “Aaaaahhhh, men…”

“I know, right…” Ather muttered, grimacing as she resumed stitching the damage to his wing. 

A few hours before

“For fuck’s sake… fuck this shit.”

It was all you could say as you stared into the distance, where dust clouds were beginning to rise—heralds of the coming enemy. Your heart thundered against your ribs, not from fear, but from calculation. From the pressure that cracked through your spine like lightning.

You took one breath.

Then another.

Then turned toward Ather.

“Your wings—are they strong enough for you to fly with me?”

He blinked at you, confused. “I mean… yes? Not for long distances, though. I—I’m not as strong as the more experienced Illyrian, but I can fly.”

You didn’t wait.

You were already walking. Past the first row of healer tents. Past the storage pavilion. Past the outer sentry post. Toward the edge of camp. Toward the enemy.

Ather scrambled after you. “Wait—wait—Y/N, what are we doing? Are we evacuating? Is this, like, some sort of fallback protocol? Are we running away? Should I be writing a goodbye note? Do you have one? We should maybe have left that for Azriel, don’t you think?!—I mean, he’s going to kill me. He’s going to skin me alive. I don’t want to die being skinned—”

You smacked the back of his head.

“Ow!”

“Shut up.” You didn’t look at him as you stopped at the very edge of camp, just before the first trees of the old forest. “Be ready. The moment I finish, grab me and fly south. As far as your wings can take us.”

He stared at you. “Finish what? What are you—”

You didn’t answer.

You inhaled deeply, letting the air burn through your lungs, as if it could hold your ribs together for what was coming. You reached—up, out, in—and found the celestial threads humming all around you. You had always called the moon your ally. Gentle, intuitive, unwavering. But the sun? The sun roared. The sun commanded.

And today, it answered.

Light surged in your chest. The very air shimmered with it. Around the entire camp, the sky itself rippled—golden, blinding, a silent warning to whatever forces approached.

It felt powerful. It felt alive. It felt raw.

And it felt like it might break you.

Your knees trembled. Your breath grew shallow. You could taste copper.

Blood slipped from your nose first.

Then your ears.

The magic clawed through you, not gentle like moonlight but searing like solar flame. Your fingers twitched as the spell stretched wide—so wide. You were folding space. Bending the air, the soil, the living threads of every healer, every tent, every goddamn cot and supply chest. You were taking everything.

Ather’s voice rang beside you, panicked and high and desperate. “Y/N—they’re close, they’re so close! I can see them, we don’t have time! Finish it! For Cauldron’s sake—please—”

You couldn’t hear him fully anymore. The rush of blood in your ears was a tidal wave. Your limbs shook violently now. Your vision swam.

The ground quaked beneath your feet as hundreds—maybe thousands—of enemy soldiers approached. The woods rustled with their shadows. The ground thundered. Your power stuttered once. Once.

And the clock screamed in your mind—NOW. NOW. NOW.

You screamed with it.

Light erupted.

A violent, blinding flash engulfed the camp.

And then— Silence.

The entire camp vanished.

Every healer, every patient, every supply—all gone.

Ather blinked—just once—before you crumpled like a marionette with its strings cut.

“Y/N!”

He barely had time to catch your limp body before the enemy force burst through the trees, crashing into the clearing where a camp had once stood.

He didn’t think.

Didn’t breathe.

He clutched you tight and launched into the sky, wings howling in protest as he lifted you into the air. Below, the enemy spread through the empty earth like ants—searching, confused, too late.

Blood trailed from your nose, your ears, your fingertips.

You didn’t stir.

But you were alive.

And he was flying—because you told him to.

Ather flew harder and faster than he ever had in his life.

The wind tore at his wings. The weight of your limp body in his arms made every pump of his muscles feel like fire. But he didn’t stop. He couldn’t stop.

Because he knew. He knew the monster below had seen him. That it had looked right at him with those eyes that weren’t eyes—black pits of death that knew.

And it knew who he carried.

The moment the camp had vanished, the forest had exploded with chaos. He’d barely cleared the treetops before the shrieking started—inhuman and guttural. And then the arrows came.

The first one missed his right wing by a hair.

The second lodged in his boot.

The third he had to dodge mid-air or it would’ve gone through you.

“Cauldron-fucking-DAMN IT!” he snarled, twisting sharply, wings howling as he dove behind a burst of trees, bark exploding behind him as more arrows sliced the air.

He held you tighter—gods, you were so still—and it made him sick. Sick with fear, sick with rage, sick with the crushing truth that he had no idea where he was going.

Because of course you hadn’t told him.

Of course you’d passed out like a martyr before saying, “Hey Ather, the whole camp is going to rematerialize southwest near a large, helpful clearing.”

No.

No, instead he was half-dead, flying through a fucking nightmare, with arrows hissing past him and hell only knew how many monstrous things tracking his scent and yours, and he was flying blind.

He should’ve never said he liked working with you.

He should’ve kept his mouth shut, kept his distance, and stayed on the front lines where people just died quickly.

Now he was going to die slowly, on fire, probably, and you—gods, he didn’t even want to think—

But then.

Then.

A shadow flickered out of nowhere.

Small. Quick. Familiar.

Ather nearly wept.

“Oh, bless you, you little shit,” he gasped, adjusting his hold on you as the shadow darted in front of him, curling like smoke toward the south.

He didn’t question it.

Didn’t dare.

He followed the shadow like it was the only star in the sky. Arrows still flew. The enemy still roared below.

And all Ather could do was pray—

That he wasn’t flying into a trap. That the shadow was truly Azriel’s. That the gods—or hell, anyone—were still watching over you.

“Just hold on,” he whispered against your hair, voice cracking. “Please hold on.”

And he flew. Bleeding. Cursing. Terrified.

But he flew.

He didn’t know how long he’d been flying.

Hours. Days. Maybe three years. In reality? Barely forty-five minutes. Probably less.

But tell that to his lungs, currently trying to crawl out of his chest cavity. Or to his wings, one of which had two actual fucking arrows in it. Or to his foot, which still had that charming little arrowhead lodged in it, singing sweet nothings up his leg every two minutes like some demonic lullaby.

He was sweating. And freezing. And panting like an animal that had already died once and just hadn’t gotten the message yet.

“Are you happy now?” he hissed into the air, glaring down at your completely unconscious face. “Is this what you wanted? Me—dying—like some overcooked pigeon because you wanted to heroic teleport an entire camp?!”

You didn’t answer.

Because, of course, you were still completely out cold.

“Of course you’re not answering,” he gritted. “Because that would be helpful. And you—you’re all about the dramatic silence, aren’t you? You just had to pass out with zero explanation.”

He adjusted his grip as another gust of wind tried to yank him sideways, groaning as his wing screamed in pain. “You know, I used to think you were cool. I really did. You’re badass, you’re powerful, you make people explode from the inside out—all the usual things that make a guy respect someone.”

Another sharp jolt of pain lanced through his leg, and he yelled.

“But this?! This is not cool!” He huffed, half-sobbing now. “This is war crimes level uncool. You are so lucky I like you.”

Still, the shadow ahead of him—his only lifeline—twisted through the sky, relentless and steady, leading him somewhere. Hopefully not the afterlife.

Ather clung to that flicker of shadow like it was holy.

“I swear to all the gods,” he muttered, breath hitching, “if you die after making me go through this—I will find a way to bring you back just so I can kill you myself.”

Another gust. Another fucking pulse of pain in his foot. He could feel the stupid arrow vibrating in his bone.

“Why the foot? Who aims for a foot?!”

You still didn’t stir. Just a limp weight in his arms, your brow faintly furrowed from power long since burned out.

He looked down at your face again. Blood had dried around your ears and nose. Your lips were pale.

And just like that, all the fury evaporated.

Ather’s throat closed up. “Don’t you dare leave,” he said quietly. “I don’t care if we’re halfway across the world—I’ll carry you the rest of the way. But don’t you fucking leave me, Y/N.”

He sniffed. “Also, your husband owes me a very expensive bottle of something very strong.”

And with that, wings still trembling, vision blurred from exhaustion and fury and sheer dumb hope—Ather followed the shadow onward. Toward safety. Toward the camp.

By the time Ather finally staggered through the perimeter of the relocated camp, he was done.

Done with flying. Done with bleeding. Done with holding you like a sack of divine potatoes while using one arrow-impaled foot to drag his soul across whatever-the-fuck terrain this was.

“AAAAUUUGGHHHHHH,” he groaned—loudly, dramatically, sweat pouring down his temple, wobbling so hard he was seeing three of every tent. “I swear to the Cauldron if I collapse now, after ALL OF THAT, I want a statue built of me!”

His left wing twitched violently. His arms burned. His foot—don’t even mention the foot.

He lurched forward, nearly tripping over air as he adjusted your weight in his arms. “Why are you so heavy?! I thought powerful people were supposed to be light with magic, but nooo,” he grunted, dragging his leg behind him like a dead fish. “It’s like carrying a sack of bricks soaked in divine energy and sarcasm!”

People were staring.

He glared at them. Actually glared.

“WHAT?! Don’t just stand there like a bunch of decorative pigeons, HELP ME, DAMMIT!”

Two startled volunteers ran forward to finally take you from his arms—Ather nearly sobbed in relief as he slumped forward, gripping the edge of the nearest table.

Elira emerged from the main tent just in time to see him faceplant into the nearest chair with all the elegance of a drunk wyvern.

“DON’T EVER leave me alone with her again,” he gasped between wheezing breaths. “I thought—I saw my ancestors, Elira. I saw them. They told me I was stupid. I AGREED.”

She blinked. “Ather, breathe.”

He wheezed harder. “You’re supposed to always be with her! Isn’t that your job? She’s terrifying. I mean—she glowed, Elira. She started bleeding from the nose and I thought, ‘Well, guess I die now.’”

Elira pulled up his sleeve and began dabbing at a particularly nasty cut. “You're being dramatic.”

“I am NOT—ow—being dramatic. I’m being traumatized!”

He slumped further, clutching his head. “She said, ‘Be ready to catch me.’ What does that mean, Elira?! Do I look like someone built for divine emergency teleportation?!”

He let out a long, miserable, guttural noise.

“AAAAAHHHHHHHHHHH—”

And that was the moment a dark hand gripped his shoulder and shook him hard enough that his brain nearly fell out of his nose.

Ather screamed.

Azriel stood over him like an avenging shadow, eyes wild, hair a mess, wings still dusted with frost and blood.

“Where is she?!” he demanded, already halfway turned, eyes sweeping the tent like he was seconds from vaporizing it.

Elira grabbed his other shoulder and yanked. “She’s fine! Calm down before you break him in half!”

“She’s in your tent,” she added more firmly. “Passed out. Drained, but safe. Lila and Telyan are with her.”

Azriel was gone before either of them could say another word.

Ather flopped back in the chair, limp as a boiled vegetable. “Men,” Elira muttered.

“I know, right?” Ather groaned, tossing an arm over his face. “And somehow, I’m the one screaming.”

And then he passed out. Just like that. In the chair.

Absolutely done.

Azriel was running—wind slicing past his face, shadows pulling ahead of him like panicked hounds on the scent.

Then, “Where are you? Where is the camp? What the fuck happened?” Rhysand’s voice cracked in through the bond like a blade.

Azriel didn’t slow. “I don’t fucking know how,” he snapped, mentally already halfway to the camp, “but the entire fucking camp was teleported. Twenty-five kilometers southwest.”

A pause. Then Rhys again, more tense this time: “What do you mean, teleported?”

Azriel’s wings flared wide as he shifted around a rocky outcrop. “I don’t have the time to explain it to you. Just pass the message.”

That silence—just a breath’s worth—was enough. Azriel felt the shift in Rhys’ energy. The worry.

“Take care of her,” Rhys said, quiet.

Azriel didn’t respond. He didn’t have to.

Because that was the moment he found the tent.

He burst inside.

And the world stopped.

It reeked of blood. Her blood.

Teylan and Lila were hunched over you, carefully tending to wounds and soaking towels already stained deep red. Most of your clothes had been stripped—your skin pale and clammy, dark stains drying down your jawline, across your chest.

You were upright—but barely. The second the cold air of the door rushed in with him, you turned to the side and threw up, wet, violent, and full of something that was far too close to pure blood. Azriel’s heart stopped.

"What the fuck is going on?” His voice shook with raw fear, with rage barely tethered. “What happened to her?!”

He was already halfway to your cot, shadows thickening at his back like they were ready to destroy anything that stood between you. He didn’t care if it was a healer, a High Lord, or a god.

Teylan turned, startled by Azriel’s sudden presence. Lila was behind you, gently helping you lie back onto the cot, brushing your hair from your sweat-soaked face.

“She burned out,” Lila snapped, eyes blazing with equal parts panic and frustration. “That crazy, dumbass woman saved all of us by teleporting the entire fucking camp.”

“Lila!” Teylan hissed, not even bothering to hide the edge in his tone. “Language.”

“I don’t give a shit about her language,” Azriel growled, stepping forward, shadows flickering with every breath. “Is she going to be okay?”

He moved closer—but just as his hand reached out, Teylan blocked him with a firm arm.

“If you want to go near her,” he said flatly, “clean up first. She’s too weak, Azriel. And whatever blood or poison those creatures carried—you might be coated in it.”

Azriel looked down—realizing only now the black blood splattered on his leathers, the scratches across his skin that still oozed. He swore violently, wings twitching as he backed away with visible reluctance, gaze never leaving you.

You were still, your breaths thin and wheezing. Every inch of him wanted to be by your side. Touch you. Ground you. Protect you.

But Teylan was right.

So Azriel stepped back. Shadows curled around him like they ached, too.

“I’ll be back,” he said, voice like gravel. “The second I’m clean.”

And with that, he vanished into the dark again—leaving behind the wreckage of power, blood, and the woman he couldn’t, wouldn’t lose.

To say that it was the fastest Azriel had ever cleaned himself was an understatement. He had barely finished scrubbing the blood from his skin before he was throwing his leathers back on and sprinting back to the tent, water still dripping from the ends of his hair.

When he stepped inside again, breathless, heart thudding with that same cold fear still coiled in his ribs—Teylan and Lila were finishing up. The scent of blood had faded slightly, replaced now with clean bandages, salves, and bitter herbs meant to bring fevers down.

You were still in the cot, buried beneath layers upon layers of blankets, only your face visible. Pale. Still. A sheen of sweat remained on your skin, your lashes unmoving.

Lila turned to Azriel with a tired expression, her own hands red-raw from washing and healing. “She should be fine now. We gave her something to stop the internal bleeding and the vomiting. The fever broke once we got her temp stabilized.”

Teylan added, “She just needs rest. Sleep and food. That’s it. No more magic. Not until her power levels out again.”

Azriel nodded once, sharp and fast.

“We’ll handle the healers and the meeting for now,” Teylan continued. “But if anything—anything—changes, you call us. No matter the hour.”

Azriel gave another short nod. He didn’t trust himself to speak.

They slipped out a moment later, quiet as ghosts, leaving him alone with you.

He moved toward the bed slowly, eyes tracking every twitch of your brow, every shallow breath. You looked too small under the covers, too fragile. Like even the wind could break you now.

He dropped his clothes one by one until only his undergarments remained. His hair was still damp, plastered lightly to his forehead, but he didn’t care. He climbed into the narrow bed, careful not to jostle you too hard, and pulled you gently into his arms. You didn’t stir.

He shifted until your body lay sprawled across his chest, his arms wound tightly around your waist. His wings unfurled with a whisper and curled around both of you, cocooning you in warmth, shielding you from everything—light, cold, the world outside.

His shadows nestled close, quiet, grieving in their own way. He tilted his head down, brushed his lips across your temple.

You had teleported an entire fucking camp. Gods above. And it had nearly killed you.

Azriel held you closer.

He didn’t know how you did it—how you channeled that much power, how you still chose to give everything you had to keep everyone safe. He knew you were more than powerful. But this…

This had terrified him.

He buried his face in your hair and exhaled slowly, trying to steady the quake still sitting in his bones.

“I love you,” he whispered against your skin. “I love you so gods-damned much…”

And he stayed there—his heart beating against yours, his wings sheltering you from a world at war—until sleep finally took him, wrapped in the fragile peace of your breathing.

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[yamujiburo]

Here's an arc I thought about doing but won't do because, it'd be a bit too sad and also it's too similar to the Turing Point Arc I already did and also it would be long. But I'll write it here for you angst enjoyers. This ended up being longer than I thought.

Despite getting the "okay" from Ash to date Jessie, Delia still worries that she's not doing the right thing or being a bad mom. Up until now she'd convinced herself that she had the right to be selfish for once after knowing only sacrifice and putting herself last.

Jessie and Ash, while not as antagonistic towards each other, still go at it. A Pikachu zap here, an angry "twerp" being uttered there. The guilt settles in for Delia and figures that it's best to just cut things off before things potentially get worse or before she gets too attached to Jessie. Her son comes first after all. That's what she signed up for when becoming a parent.

She sits Jessie down, eyes watery (it's the first time Jessie's ever seen Delia come close to crying). Delia says she thinks they should end things. Jessie is stunned but accepts it quickly. She sucks it up in the moment, puts a resigned smile on her face and tells Delia she'll leave immediately and not to worry about her. Delia's also broken up about it but promised herself she'd never cry over a goodbye and she wasn't gonna start now.

Jessie goes to James and Meowth's place greeted similarly to this, lightly teasing her about blowing it with Delia, and she breaks down sobbing. Oops it's real this time. James and Meowth do everything in their power to make her feel better. They let her know that things like this happen and they're ready to go wherever she wants to go (knowing that it'd likely be to painful for her to stay in Pallet). As much as she wants to leave, she doesn't want James and Meowth to lose the good thing they have going. She's not in the right headspace to make any decisions so she'll get to it later.

Ash returns home after doing a little training at Oak's lab. He notices Jessie's not around and asks his mom where she is. Delia is about to tell him but can't quite bring herself to say the truth out loud yet. She simply says "I don't know". Ash looks disappointed. "Aw man, I wanted to see if she wanted to battle. She makes a good battle buddy for all of my newer, baby Pokémon." Delia perks up that this. As quickly as he came, he leaves again to go train his Pokémon.

Later, Delia approaches Ash, asking him if he really meant that what he said about Jessie being a good battle partner. He gives her an enthusiastic "yeah!" and tells her that it's been nice having another battle ready trainer around since there's not many in Pallet. Delia starts to pry a little more. "I thought you and Jessie didn't get along?" Ash is confused, and tells Delia they get along great! "Jessie doesn't steal anymore! And she's getting better at battling which is cool." Delia brings up that she's head them argue before. "Oh... well I guess that's just how we are. I'd be weirded out if she was suddenly too nice to me all the time. Jessie's actually a lot like Misty. But taller!" This gives Delia a lot to think about but what's done is done and it's no use pressing on. It's easier this way.

The next morning Delia's getting ready for work. She must not have noticed that she was acting weird but Ash picks up on it. "What's wrong mom?" Delia's shocked he noticed (he's not usually this perceptive). She tells him it's nothing and that she just slept bad. "Hm. But Jessie says that when you're upset you get really quiet and intense." Delia notices that she was pretty intensely mixing the pancake batter. "Jessie told you that?" Ash nods. "Hey speaking of, where is Jessie? Haven't seen her since yesterday." Delia stops mixing and tells Ash that she and Jessie aren't together anymore. Ash is confused and upset at the idea of Jessie doing something that would hurt his mom enough for them to break up. Delia lets him know that Jessie didn't do anything like that and that them breaking up was just for the best. But Ash questions this, pointing out that he's never seen Delia as happy as she was when Jessie was there and also how Delia looks really sad now. Delia can't argue with that but then tells him that it's complicated. Ash, to Delia's surprise, looks a bit disappointed. He's bummed he wasn't able to say goodbye first and asks if she thinks Jessie would still be willing to come by and train with him sometimes. Delia asks him once more if he was really okay with her and Jessie dating. "Yeah I thought I said that already? Jessie's pretty cool when she's not being evil. And she really likes Pokémon which is a plus!" Such simple criteria. Delia's now worried that she might've made a mistake. She finishes making breakfast and heads to work.

At the restaurant she's met by James. She can feel an awkwardness hanging in the air. She knows that James knows. Before she can say anything James tells Delia thank you for employing him and helping him, Meowth and Jessie get back on their feet but that he's going to quit working at the restaurant and that they'll likely be leaving Pallet soon. Delia's heart sinks. There's now a ticking clock and she has to decide what she wants to do SOON. She asks James where Jessie is. James hesitantly tells her that she's at his and Meowth's place. Delia pleads with James to work the restaurant for one more day at least and to cover this shift. She has to go talk to Jessie. He agrees, hoping that this is a good thing.

Delia runs to James and Meowth's place. She knocks on the door upon arrival and waits. It takes a moment but she hears the door unlock. Jessie opens the door, disheveled, tears and snot all over her face, draped in a blanket. Jessie notices it's Delia and, frightened, slams the door. Delia's stunned for a moment and goes to knock on the door again but before she can the door opens. This time Jessie's tears are gone, her hair's fixed and she ditched the blanket. "Oh hey, Delia! What brings you here?" Delia can't help but be charmed. But this is serious. She shakes it off and asks if they could talk. Jessie invites her in. They get to the couch and Jessie starts frantically cleaning up all the crumpled tissues and dirty dishes off the ground. "Heh I caught a cold yesterday. A one day cold. I'm fine now." Delia doesn't call out the obvious lie and gets straight to the point.

She tells Jessie that she's worried she made a mistake. She made a panicked decision that she was hoping would protect Ash and her future self. But now realizes that she was afraid of the idea that she'd made a selfish decision by dating her. It was a selfish decision but that didn't mean it was a bad one. She was the happiest she'd been, Jessie and Ash were learning to get along and were getting along much better than she'd though. She acknowledges that Jessie has been there for Ash in a way that she can't quite be and is also grateful to her for managing to keep Ash home a little longer. She asks if Jessie would be willing to take her back (despite the distress she caused). Jessie starts sobbing with happy tears. She tearfully says she'll try even harder to get along with Ash and be a better person. Delia reassures her that she's doing just fine.

They kiss passionately but then realize it's weird that they're making out in James in Meowth's place and say they'll continue later. Delia tells Jessie to head back home and that Ash is looking forward to battling with her (and she also needs to let James and Meowth not to quit their jobs).

The end~

[moremaybank]

tending to jj's cuts and bruises after he defends your honour... (based on this post and this request) [0.8k]

"Ow."

Your hands work diligently at the cut etched across his cheekbone from your stance between his legs. For a moment, one wanders off, stroking his non-battered cheek in a silent apology for the added pain.

"You did this to yourself," you state matter-of-factly. "No one told you to turn into the Hulk."

"Well, you don't have to be mean about it."

"I'm not trying to be mean. I just don't understand why you can't let shit go sometimes."

You move on to his split lip. A jagged, dark red line cuts through the mouth that you think about far too often. You ache to kiss it, believing that maybe you occupy the healing powers he so obviously needs, but then you think better of it.

There's no way he feels it too.

You dab a wet towel at his lip, cleaning off the dried blood, and once his mouth is free, he chooses to defend himself, thankfully with his words this go around.

"You didn't hear what he said about you, Y/N/N. I wasn't about to jus' let him get away with that shit."

Your eyes meet his, and you pause your movements. Though you appreciated his loyalty and how he'd always stick up for you no matter the cost, you never enjoy when he actually goes to those great lengths just to protect you.

Simply having him in your corner was more than you could ever ask for.

"Kelce is an idiot. I don't care what he has to say about me, and you shouldn't either."

"Well, I do. He's lucky he didn't leave in a bodybag."

Your eyes narrow at him. "You're impossible."

"'M jus' sayin," he says. His tender and sore hands travel up the sides of your thighs, warmth blossoming through you in their wake. He gives your flesh a squeeze. Funnily enough, he can no longer feel the pain flashing through them like lightning bolts now that he's touching you. "I'll never let anyone say or do anythin' to hurt you, princess. I'll always protect you."

You feel the warmth bloom in your cheeks, and you're eternally glad that he isn't holding your face the way he always does. You'd be busted if he were.

You offer him a small smile, one you can't suppress. How can you be expected to after those sentiments?

"Look, I know I probably sound like a broken record, but you can't keep putting yourself in the position to get in trouble. You're not a kid anymore, and you've had enough run-ins with the law as it is."

"'M not scared of gettin' in shit, Y/N/N."

"I'm serious," you frown down at him.

"So am I. Fuck the opps."

You scoff, wanting to wipe that devilish smirk off his face. "You sound like Pope."

"Who d'you think taught him that?"

You know he thinks this is all just a joke. Not the defending you part, but the getting in trouble with the law part. He'll always do what he feels he needs to, regardless of the possible consequences. It's just how he is. Still, you don't think it's a joke. You hate how Shoupe and the rest of them take all his indiscretions and use it as ammo to remind him that he'll never escape the southside. You'd hate to be the reason that he 'proves them right.'

"J, I mean it." You set the items that occupy your hands down on the marble counter, and grab his face in your hands, careful of his cuts and bruises. "All I'm asking is that you try and keep it together. Please. I don't like watching you get hurt."

He's silent for a moment, analyzing your words and the sincere look on your face. Yeah, you're his best friend, but it's always a nice reminder that someone actually wants to look out for him and care for him.

He likes it even better when it's you who's doing so.

The corners of his lips turn up and his hands migrate to the backs of your thighs. He uses his hold on you to urge you closer. "You're worried about me."

You give him an incredulous look. "Yes, JJ. I worry about you. After all this time, I don't even know why you question that."

"'Cause you're the only one who does."

You melt inside, and you're sure you do so on the outside as well. Your eyes soften, and to distract him from it, you go back to cleaning him up, reaching for some q-tips and the disinfectant.

His eyes flutter closed when you touch him again.

"If you wanted attention, you coulda just said so," you joke, unable to resist poking fun at him.

"Shut up," he says, laughing softly. His eyes are open again, and he looks up at you so tenderly that he wants to tell you what he's been feeling all this time.

I love you.

It's on the tip of his tongue, but when he wills it to leave his mouth, they refuse him.

He goes for the next best thing.

"Look, I'll try to...control myself. No promises, though."

A small smile graces your lips. "Thank you."

concepts ; concepts (ii)

[whileyoureinschoolidothisallday]

Fixing MHA's Ending So It Follows Through With Its Core Themes (And It Basically Fixes Itself)

I don't like retconning at the best of times, but turning what started as essentially a Hope focused narrative into a "realistic" tragedy at the very last second is some wild work.

So I'm gonna do what I do best as a fic writer and fix it!!!!!

The Summary

So, I'm pretty sure all of us were on mostly the same page up until the very last panels of the Shigaraki fight (Having AFO being just "born evil" was probably the start of things not being great, but I'm willing to let that slide because it doesn't really effect the overall function of the story that much). Once that and the epilogue started is where I mostly saw people being like ????????? to a lot of choices, so I'm going to focus on those two sections only.

We're gonna be rewriting:

-The deaths of the Villains + Kurogiri (obvs)

-The overall post-War actions and reactions

-The continued existence of the Commission and the Hero Rankings

-Hawk's fate

-Spinner's fate

-A liiiiitle tweak to Chisaki's fate

-Slight tweaks to the Todorokis

-and finally What to DO with the Villains + Kurogiri now that they're alive

And we'll be starting with...

Toga

Now for a battle that was so beautiful, this really did end up completely falling apart.

I'm not gonna justify every single Villain Rescue I do, but Toga's really comes down to one simple reason for me:

Her bullies literally wanted her to die as atonement.

You don't...typically make your character's fate agree with their bullies or abusers (otherwise???? why are you explicitly portraying them as bullies and abusers to the audience if you want us to ultimately agree with them?????)

Throughout most of the story prior to this, Hori made it a staple in the show that dying for the cause, hurting yourself for the cause, martyring yourself or otherwise telling someone to kill themselves for the cause is a vile thing to do. So, it makes ZERO sense why he would suddenly retcon this at such a critical moment, especially since he already set the stage for it to be wrong in the first place.

(also does anyone also think it was weird/creepy that Hori LITERALLY has her do this with Twice and she very explicitly says "Don't be stupid I don't have to give all of my blood away"? No? Just me?)

Everything happens the same, she still thinks she's sacrificing herself, "If only, if only", blah blah blah

AND THEN...

Hawks

This is such low-hanging fruit plot-wise it actually feels offensive that it went nowhere

Nothing happens with Hawks. We all say it, fans and non-fans alike. He is wasted potential incarnate. His story is a circle and it so easily did not have to be that way because of one simple writing decision:

Hawks and Toga share a blood type.

Up until now, it really did seem like Hawks learned nothing from Jin's death. The first thing he says when he sees the clones is, "We have to kill them now!" But then, picture him still battered and broken from his fight with AFO, wingless, but there is still SOMETHING he can do to save someone's life.

And he puts the needle in his arm instead, and before she can question it, he tells her Jin would want her to live. He's not gonna make the same mistake twice.

(I also think it'd be nice if he said something like how lucky she is, to really go full circle with the Jin story, but I'm not trying dialogue here lol)

And that leads us to...

Shigaraki (and Kurogiri!)

This is a double feature because with the way I'm doing it, I can't save one without the other.

So, something that happens during this and is super anti-climactic and seemingly pointless is Midoriya losing his hands. He gets em back in like 2 seconds, because Eri gives him a surprise rewind almost immediately after. The actual point of it was just to show the brand new rule that physical damage that happens in the vestige world also happens in the real world, so that killing Shigaraki a few chapters later would still make sense.

We're gonna get rid of that rule entirely and just say that Midoriya does not lose his actual arms in the fight, and psychological damage in a ghost world does not reflect physically in reality (or idk. If you DO want that to happen, then just say the embers of the vestiges protected him one last time or something).

And because he doesn't lose his arms, Eri still has a surprise rewind to use.

But before we get to that, we actually have to save Shigaraki. So, here's the super complicated rescue rewrite I came up with. Ready?

Kicking AFO out of his brain and giving him back full control over his body simply does not kill him.

That's it!!!! That's really all that needed to happen!! It was a very conscious choice to make that kill him! It's actually more work and details to kill Shigaraki than it is to save him!! Hori already went out of his way to say that Nana's vestige protected him so that he wasn't completely swallowed by AFO, just so he could say goodbye before fading away anyway. What if, considering the fact that hatred of Nana is what damned him, love FROM Nana actually just plain ol saves him? Full stop? We come full circle. It would make it a fantastic mirror to the Todoroki fight and solidify the theme that love from your/a family, even a broken one, will save you!!

And then further in the background, Bakugou doesn't randomly kill (?????? Even after reading it again I'm still really confused about how Kurogiri dies. I think this is what happens?????) Kurogiri, and instead starts to lose control like they feared. But then, refusing to give up on him, Aizawa hits him with the now-available Rewind Juice and it finally, finally stabilizes his mind for good.

The day is saved.

And that just leaves...

Touya

Unfortunately my stupid husband can't stop trying to kill himself for 2 seconds despite my best efforts to convince him otherwise, so there's really nothing I can do about the extent of his injuries

However, there's LOTS I can do about the way we're treating said injuries! =D

First of all, because Touya is my favorite, I do wanna allow myself the space to briefly rant about how his entire situation was handled because brother. first of all. It's so incredibly obvious that he was supposed to die on the battlefield with his comrades. That man had no fuckin eyeballs by the end of that fight, bffr. And then it was like Hori remembered the thing about the noodles and was like 'oh shit I better at least wrap that up lol' so he brought him back--eyeballs and TEARDUCTS magically intact btw so naturally the audience with reading comprehension was like 'oh he's healing somehow I guess'--just to get that specific moment on the books (and maybe just to draw Touya in his Batman Who Laughs era because I mean he does look pretty sick in the tank) and then turned around and killed him again. With no explanation what the random functioning tearducts and magical regrowth of eyeballs was about.

Like...my guy, you ain't gotta do all that. Again, it's so much harder and more complicated to kill him than it is to keep him alive. Not to mention he was killed OFF-SCREEN. WE DON'T EVEN GET TO SEE ANY--IF ANY--CONVERSATIONS HE HAS WITH SHOUTO OR HIS FAMILY, WHICH WAS THE WHOLE POINT OF NOT KILLING HIM ON THE BATTLEFIELD. INSTEAD OF THE SEXY SHIRTLESS SERVING-FACE-AT-A-FUNERAL IMAGE OF TOUYA WE COULD'VE SEEN A FLASHBACK OF THEM TALKING AND HIM SMILING AND BEING HAPPY WITH THEM FOR WHATEVER TIME THEY HAD AND THAT STILL WOULD'VE BEEN MORE SATISFYING. Y'KNOW. BECAUSE THAT WAS THE WHOLE FUCKING POINT OF THE TODOROKI PLOTLINE?????????????VSSSBBNM,.;;PUSAAXXGHIIRWDFGG

But anyway.

Fixing Touya's death is really simple. We can do two things, actually.

Work with the deus-ex Ice Quirk a little bit, make the Phoenix Theory canon. Ice heals him, the tank is a giant fridge. Lo and behold, it would explain why he magically healed eyeballs and tearducts. It's an incredibly slow process, but eventually he'd heal enough to be out of the tank and in a normal hospital setting for the rest of his recovery. It also gives him a goal to pursue for the future, I.E learning how to control the new side of his powers and mayybeeee getting interested in studying Quirk Biology in the process 👀

He simply!!!!!! Doesn't die!!!!!!!!! Out of ALLLLLLL the MHA characters, I would 100% believe you if you told me that Touya Todoroki nevertheless persisted. That's like...his entire character. You don't even need to give me a reason. His entire character up until now has been 'the one that's somehow still alive' to the point that the fucking Dr. Eggman lookin ass mad scientist that brought him back to life in the first place (in WORSE condition) was like 'yeah no idea how he's still here that's scary'. I'm sorry, the entire fucking show I've had to see A. An old man without a face with a back alley ventilator system shoved directly into his stoma that's somehow fine and talking perfectly, and B. Another old man missing his ENTIRE digestive tract for years and is still up and walking around somehow with no G-tube or colostomy bag to be seen, so I think by the power of God and Anime, Touya could probably survive his injuries and it would be within the realm of believability for the show. In fact, it's LESS believable that he stayed alive through all that by spite alone and then when he finally gets offered love and acceptance, that determination and tenacity to stay alive suddenly goes out the window. If anything, it should've made him MORE determined to live.

Sorry I got carried away with that one. But there. Everyone is saved and the core themes are intact.

Now we just have...

The Overall Actions and Reactions Post-War

Gonna sum this up really quickly:

-The cameras never turned off. They're built for Quirk resistance because they're a fucking newscast in a Hero society if their technology broke every time there were heavy Quirk exchanges there would never be any fucking news. Making them conveniently lose footage so none of the civs can see the Villains humanity is just rubbing salt in the wound and serves no narrative purpose in line with pre-established themes. Everyone saw what was recorded, and it helped the Villains' cases for rehabilitation.

-We do not censor out this battle in future history books. Everyone is very familiar with the final fight and the events and circumstances leading up to it. It is not erased from public memory as soon as possible. In fact, it's frequently studied and referenced when making new policies to avoid making the same mistakes. Hori. Wtf.

-We do not reinstate the Hero Rankings in any way shape or form, and Shouto is the biggest voice in dismantling this system. Voila, this is now actually the story of how they all became the greatest Heroes, because they aren't ranked. They're all literally the greatest Heroes, and so will everyone after them.

-This IS actually portrayed in the epilogue, but yes, let's be LESS reliant on Heroes and police and MORE invested in the community!!!!!!! Even more so than what's portrayed!!!!! Take another bit from Spider-Man: Anyone can wear the mask!!!!!! Let's make a world where Heroes have too much time on their hands and not just make more of them, right????????? Remember that????????

-WE DO NOT REINSTATE THE COMMISSION. WE GOT RID OF THEM CORRUPT HOES FOR A REASON!!!!!! NO A CHANGE OF THE GUARD IS NOT ENOUGH TO FIX IT WE'RE NOT 7YRS OLD!!!!! HORI. WTF. The only thing I want them to be in charge of is licensing Heroes. I want these fuckers to be the DMV of the Hero world and that's IT!!!!!!!

Which brings us to...

Hawks' Fate

I don't even fuck with this man like that, but he did not deserve to become CEO of the organization that groomed and abused him since he was a child when all he wanted to do was chase tail and fuck off to a beach somewhere. Considering the fact that he also, like, killed people he shouldn't have, let him retire like Endeavor, please. We're done giving the old guard power and privilege, especially when they explicitly did not and do not want it (and when they did have it, they misused it). The only thing I want this man involved with is Toga's recovery alongside Uraraka. Specifically, I want him paying for it and anything else she might need. Fuck it, you know what, make HIM Endeavor's personal aide instead of Rei!!!! He gets to be a little simp and Endeavor gets a replacement son to fill Natsu's spot. Everyone wins.

(He does deserve that hairline tho. I ain't fixin that.)

So that leaves...

Spinner's Fate

I'm not changing much here, besides the fact that now Shiggy is alive and I think they should be ✨Roommates✨ eventually (and obviously he's gonna be much less riddled with survivor's guilt). I still think he should write that book, but I also think that with his multiple Quirks, he should team up with scientists to understand how Quirks work in the body (and maybe get some of them removed from his).

And next...

Chisaki's Fate

I just think this guy needs to be in the same place as the other Villains, at least for a fraction of the time. Why is he just...out. He was also in that daycare and could definitely use some help before we just let him loose in the streets because he said sorry (Can the League just say sorry then??????????).

I do think afterwards he should get involved with something chemistry related tho, cause those bullets of his came in clutch.

And on that note...

The Todorokis' Fates

And by Todorokis I mean two of them, specifically Rei lol

Yeah, she's not gonna be Endeavor's nurse for the rest of her life lol. That man has more money than God, he can hire an aide like everybody else. In fact, they're not even living together. Do you remember how earlier in the series, he gave them a new house? So they could live away from him and he would be in the old house by himself? I liked that plan. Let's go back to that plan. I'm not gonna go as far as to make them divorce, if they're together they're together, but I think separation is a necessary must at this point because if they MUST stay together, they should at least try dating for once???????? Girl was actually bought like maybe they figure out if they even still like each other at all, or ever did.

(Also, I have to laugh as a motorized wheelchair user that Hori drew her pushing Endeavor all happy and blissfully. Motorized wheelchairs are not meant to be pushed like that lol. They have push features for emergencies and small around-the-house distances of course, but uh, mine's 350 pounds without me in it. It's not usually anyone's first choice.)

But there is one more Todoroki I have a lot to talk about, so that finally brings us to...

What Do We Do With The Villains + Kurogiri Now That They're Alive???????????

We take everything from comic books except what would actually makes sense with the story lol

Surprise!!!!!! We're doing Arkham!!!!!! This is another low-hanging fruit thing that I'm almost a little offended that it wasn't implemented. Obviously Arkham has its problems in the Batman canon that we're gonna try to avoid, but I honestly think Batman villains and the core MHA Villains are pretty similar in their execution in that they are primarily mentally ill victims of society who have done very terrible things, but the audience (and Batman himself) is actively rooting for them to get better over just rotting in jail or being killed. Two-Faced has killed sooooo many people and has relapsed a ton, but I ultimately still want to see him get better because he was Batman's best friend once and a good man, and what happened to him was a tragedy. I think all the Villains deserve a space where they can humanely heal from their issues and gain support, while also being safely separated from society while they're still dangerous to themselves and others.

Oh, but Batman and his endless money bought Arkham. Who do we know who has access to trust fund money, an investment in the mentally ill, and the bonus of a medical background that could fund such a thing?

Ladies and Gentlemen, please put your hands together for...

Natsuo Todoroki!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

My mans graduates from college and immediately uses his money as a doctor and his inheritance to open up Rindou Sanctuary, in honor of his mother Rei and named after her favorite flower (I don't think he'd want to give Enji the satisfaction of his last name attached to his greatest achievement). He's head doctor on site and the board, and visits Touya every shift once he's healed enough to be transferred to the facility. He is very invested in his brother's treatment and refuses to lose him again--at least not until they're proper old men.

It is publicly funded by donors and taxes alike, and Enji, naturally, is always the highest donor. Call it reparations.

And there you have it! That's how to fix the epilogue. It took longer to type than think about. I could care less about canon shipping, so y'all can keep that (or not). I'm just here to fix the structural problems that have no reason to be here at this point. As I said, once I redrew lines Hori already set up and just abandoned, it pretty much fixed itself.

Hope you enjoyed it and I hope it eases the grief a little!!!!! They're alive look I fixed it!!!!!! <3

(also feel free to use anything I said in here in your own fix-it fics!!!! Just tag me so I can read them 👀)

[witchesballad]

hero and villain (pt. 2)

THUNDERBOLT* SPOILERS

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Widow!Reader, platonic Thunderbolts team

Summary:

“Is that a baby? Where did you get a baby?” Ava asks in her blunt way. “From my room. She’s mine,” you add to answer any follow ups.

part one, part two,

A/N: i might be moving this fic over to AO3. i want to finish this chunk of it because this takes up my entire brain. the rest of the fic would be like this update, not really shippy, but team-oriented, playing with the canon events.

“Is that a baby? Where did you get a baby?” Ava asks in her blunt way.

“From my room. She’s mine,” you add to answer any follow ups.

Yelena coos and crowds to Bucky, unable to resist a cute thing in front of her. 

“Her wrist is broken,” Bucky follows up, nodding in your direction.

John frowns at him and gives a significant look between you and Bucky. 

You ignore him and study Bob, not a shadow, not dyed blonde, but dressed in sweats that made him look younger. He notices your concern, and tries for a reassuring smile - that wavers and falters. You reach out to squeeze his shoulder, and put your hand on his cheek.

“You guys came for us. Thank you. Really.” He puts his hand over yours to squeeze back.

“Are you hurt?” you asks. He forces that smile that puts a pit in your stomach. “I know. Dumb question.”

 “What about you?” Yelena looks to the arm you’re cradling to your chest. You shrug to her. She looks to Bucky and the others. “What did you see?”

“I have a great past, so I‘m totally fine.” Bucky comments flippantly. It does not escape your attention that he looks at you before speaking. A distraction from the infant in his arms that points back to your regrets.

John agrees, “Yeah, this place is messed up.”

Alexei beside him nods, but concedes, “We are here together. We have found Bob and little spiderling here.”

“Here we are, Shane’s Elite Thunderbolts.” Ava deadpans.

“Is not Shane-” he protests.

John cuts through the bickering with a wave of his hand, “Okay, but how do we get out of here? Bob, do you know?”

There’s a crash from underfoot that makes everyone jump. Bob swallows nervously, and shrugs. “I don’t, no. As far as I know, it’s just endless rooms.”

Yelena speaks up, “Wait. You said this was the nicest room you found, right, the others were way worse? Well, show us the worst.”

Bob leads the group downstairs to confront his father. The memory tries to stop the group of you, whipping up into a storm that batters the kitchen windows and flings everything not nailed down. Ava takes the baby as Bucky breaks the table that knocked you on your ass. Not able to move on to the front door, Bob rips open a closet door and gestures everyone through.

—

The first thing to hit is the smell of smoke. The flash of a million colours - none with names. The crashing of a quantum tunnel. A father yelling out in disbelief, rage, grief, “No, no, no! No, Ava!”

It feels like the storm followed you here. The building crashes around you as the tunnel explodes. John yanks Ava to him, the pair of them sheltering the baby as he lifts his bent shield over their heads. You move to grab them, but Bucky wraps an arm around your waist and holds you under him as a chunk of the ceiling falls over the pair of you. You brace to be completely crushed –

When there’s a body at your back, and the concrete never comes. There’s the crack of debris falling around you, but never impacts you. You look up at Bucky, your hands going to his face to check if he has taken the full weight of the concrete, but he looks as confused as you. Both of you lift your gaze. The concrete and metal of the room fly above your head. You only saw something like that once, when you had pulled out your nunchaku to garrote the invincible and telekinetic Sentry.

You turn to look at Bob, standing behind you with his hand outstretched, his brow furrowed. The strain on his face shows he’s tracking a number of things to protect the team.

“Bob!” Yelena shouts. She runs to his side, grabbing his hand. Her face scrunches with concern, “Are you okay?”

He blinks at her, and the remaining airborne rubble is shunted off to the side. Amid the clamour of rocks and equipment, there is a cry – and another one, grief echoed across time.

John puts his arms down when he notices Bob’s actions, but Ava just buries her head in his suit, her eyes closed, and just sobs. 

He sends a worried look to the group as he rubs her back.

“Ava, please,” Alexei soothed, “You will crush our baby spider.”

She looks up at him, and sees everyone looking at her. She shimmers at the edges, embarrassed, and John’s hands fall through her to catch the baby before she’s dropped. Ava gasps, her solid hands going to the baby to check her. She apologizes, shaking her head.

“I got her.” John reassures her, and then he looks up. He nods to you, and repeats, “I got her.”

He holds her in a way none of you held her. The experience shows in his confidence, his positioning. You are reminded that he saw his own son the last time he was sent here. With a nervous swallow, you nod back to him.

Bucky has separated from you, circling the group to survey the environment around. Watching him, you are reminded of an exhibit you had seen when you first came to America. Sergeant James Barnes was an excellent sniper. Before Captain America had rescued him, Bucky was the primary scout for the 107th Infantry Regiment, and after, for the Howling Commandos. He hisses under his breath, loud enough for the team to snap to attention. 

The other cry in the rubble, there was a little girl standing over two dead bodies. While everyone watched, she flickered in and out of existence, like the fires on the edges of the room.

“Little Ava!” Alexei recognized, startling the young girl. 

Ava reaches a hand to her younger counterpart, shushing her.

“I know, I know, it hurts. Take a breath, hold my hand.”

The little girl skittishly looked at the others before she whimpered in Ava’s direction, flickering.

“I know it hurts less on that other side,” Ava whispers, reaching with both hands. “But the more you do it, the more it’ll hurt coming back. Breathe, Ava. Stay.”

The fires from the explosion whip up, and suddenly extinguish. Shadows stretch in the space, as if a hungry maw opening to consume you all. Like New York. You turn to Bob - and his shadow mirrors you. The shadow steps from Bob to loom over Ava.

You know, Ava, more than most. There is bliss in the nothing.

The little girl reaches out to Ava, but when she is about to touch her - her fingers slip from reality. And her arms. And the startled cry for help. And all of her. And the room quakes again. 

Bob grabs Yelena’s hand and pulls her in a direction. You can’t really distinguish which, before Yelena is grabbing you. “Let’s go!”

The memory is looping through the moment that Ava’s mother chases her into the room, leaving the exit wide open. Ava watches her younger self race past, looking as if she was going to call out. As if anything she could say could stop the little girl from becoming Ghost.

Alexei, not unkindly, puts an arm around her shoulders and pulls her along. Ava looks from her younger self to the baby still in John’s arms. You can see the question on the tip of her tongue.

Why did you get to pull the baby from your memory, and she couldn’t bring along the little girl that was going to suffer for decades? 

A/N: I don't know how tagging works for fics, but people wanted to see this part. If you want to see the next, I will update a tag list, just reply and tell me what are your thoughts on ~what is happening~ in this fic, or just say "tag list"!

tag list: @raginggeeksworld, @jvanilly, @tenmaabnesti, @94namkooksworld, @miamorsoyyo

[belit0]

Can you write about Indra and the Uchiha clan when they find the body of their partner on the battlefield in a not very pleasant state and the person responsible mocks them by saying nasty things to them?

The battlefield is painted in crimson, the scent of death thick in the air. And there—amidst the ruin—lies her.

Her body, battered and broken. Her once-warm skin, now pale, smeared with blood that should never have been spilled.

And then, that voice.

Mocking. Laughing. Gloating.

Indra

-So this is the great Indra,- the murderer sneers. -All that power, all that arrogance—yet, when she screamed for you, where were you?"-

A chuckle.

-I thought she’d have more fight in her. But in the end, she was just a pretty little thing, crying in the dirt.-

One does not break before the enemy—never on the battlefield. His mourning will begin in private, for weakness is not an option. Fighting against the weight of his withering heart, restraining that bothersome liquid in his eyes—so foreign, so unwelcome...

Indra does not respond.

Not with words.

The wind shifts. The shadows coil. The enemy is still speaking, but their voice sounds distant, as if the world itself is pulling away from them.

And when Indra finally meets their gaze, something ancient, something terrible, stares back.

The sky weeps in crimson.

Madara

-She swore you'd come for her,- the enemy taunts. -Begged, actually. It was pathetic.-

They step closer, grinning.

-I told her you wouldn’t make it in time, but she didn’t want to believe me. Guess she knows better now.-

Madara exhales, standing on the edge of a bloodthirsty fury that, if unleashed, would wipe out his entire clan—obliterating the battlefield and himself along with it.

For now, just cold, terrifying anticipation.

-Keep talking.- His voice betrays him with the faintest tremor, his entire body taut like a weapon poised to strike. He waits for the perfect moment because, despite the pain, he remains a strategist—and this is the most crucial move he has ever had to make in his life.- -I want to hear every word before I make you regret them.-

The enemy smirks. -What, you gonna cry? Oh, wait—you Uchihas only do that when you're about to kill your own, right?-

A breath. A heartbeat.

Flames.

Madara watches, unmoving, as they scream.

-I hope she begged for death before you finished.- His voice is barely above a whisper. -Because you will.-

Izuna

-You should’ve seen the way she looked at me before I cut her down... Actually, I think she was flirting—offering herself in exchange for her life. Such a filthy bitch, that little girlfriend of yours.-

Izuna tilts his head..

The murdered grins.

"Huh..." It is the only sound the Uchiha emits, filling the assassin with the pleasure of believing he has won.

-I think she realized, in that last moment, that you were never coming. Used her last efforts to-

Everything happens too fast.

One moment, Izuna stands there, watching the scene, processing—quickly distilling hatred mixed with strength and something darker, an undeniable part of his essence. The next, the murderer has a kunai shoved inside his mouth and a hand gripping the back of his neck—one single movement away from death… or worse, a slow, agonizing torture.

A breath. A blink.

Izuna moves.

The enemy chokes— the heavy weapon rests inside his mouth, slicing the skin ever so slightly—but only by inertia. A moment of vengeance even Madara himself couldn’t restrain, an overwhelming need to act upon his loss.

-Don’t die so fast,- he murmurs, -I want to hear you beg next.-

Obito

-Oh, you should’ve seen her face when she realized it was over,- the murderer laughs. -All wide-eyed and teary. Kind of adorable, actually.-

-She wouldn't stop! "Obito, please, Obitoo!", fricking annoying.-

Obito is shaking.

Not with anger—no, something worse.

A choked breath.

A smirk from the enemy.

-I let her hold onto hope, you know. Just for fun. Told her maybe you’d show up and save her—

The ground splits.

Space itself folds, sucking the air from the enemy’s lungs.

Obito doesn’t move, doesn’t blink, doesn’t breathe.

-You will never leave this place.-

He watches them scream as they are swallowed by the void.

And it is still not enough.

Shisui

A scoff -She was so sure you'd save her.-

-Kept looking over my shoulder, waiting for her knight in shining armor.-

Shisui doesn’t respond.

The enemy laughs. He nudges her body with his foot, gaze filled with disgust and satisfaction—pleasure in knowing he managed to get under the Uchiha's skin.

-Guess she figured out the truth in the end— voice dripping with mockery, "—you were never coming."

A moment. Yet suddenly-

Laughter. A possessed, unbridled laugh—the sound a madman makes before completely losing his mind, or perhaps, when he already has.

Not theirs.

Shisui barks, rubbing his face. -You think that was a smart thing to say?-

A flash of movement—too fast.

A blade, a choke, a gasp.

He leans in, voice way too quiet, erratic.

-Guess what?.... I am here now.- He growls -And do tell me, please— he twists the kunai slowly, watching their eyes widen, —how does it fucking feel?-

Itachi

-You know, I expected her to fight harder,- the killer muses. -But once I broke her legs, well... she just wasn’t much fun anymore.-

Itachi does not breathe. His heart trembles, and so do his hands, a repressed instinct surfacing at the sight.

-She asked me to tell you something, though.- A smirk. -Said she loved you. Like that would change anything.-

Silence.

Itachi closes his eyes, letting himself fall into the loss of control he never allowed his mind to feel.

There is no turning back from this.

The speed and reluctance with which he usually executes enemies disappear, as if it had never been there in the first place.

The air shifts.

-You will regret every word.-

And he makes sure they do.

[bimbowshmimbow]

Hey, how about a story set in a reality inspired by fairy tales? I recently rewatched that series called Once Upon a Time, where all the characters from children's stories live in the same universe and I wanted to read something related to that. I think HBO's Joel would fit in with Snow White's Huntsman, or maybe something more innovative and obscure like a male character from Swan Lake or even The Dancing Princesses or Hansel and Gretel, in the latter case Ellie could be included as Gretel. The Joel from the games seems more like "Rambo feelings" to me, so Little Red Riding Hood would be interesting. But sorry if I'm asking too much, any fairy tale would be great.

Into The Dark Woods (short series)

stumble upon part 1

part 2

part 3

hunterwolf!joel miller x littleredridinghood! freader

MDNI (minors do not interact) — dark fairy tale elements, danger in the woods, implied violence (offscreen), minor age gap (reader is young adult, Joel is significantly older), protective Joel, slow burn relationship to come, heavy emotional themes (loneliness, survival), distrust of society.

They warned you, of course.

The whole village did — old women tugging their shawls tighter, muttering about curses and beasts, boys pointing at the gnarled woods and daring each other to go one step closer.

Stay on the path, they said.

Don’t stray after dark.

Don’t talk to the man with the wolf eyes.

You clutched the basket tighter against your chest, stepping carefully over the tangled roots and fallen branches. The thin red cloak around your shoulders offered no warmth against the cold breath of the woods.

The sun had already dipped low, bleeding gold and crimson between the trees, and you knew you were running out of time.

Then you heard it —

A crack.

A shift in the shadows.

Something moving just ahead.

You froze, heart hammering.

Another crack. Another soft grunt, low and rough.

When he stepped into view, you almost didn’t believe it.

He looked… human.

Mostly.

Tall, broad-shouldered, wrapped in worn leather and a battered cloak. Dark hair threaded with silver, scruff along a strong jaw. His hands were bare — large, rough — and a battered knife hung low on his belt.

But it was the eyes that gave him away.

Gold-flecked, wild.

Like a wolf that hadn’t decided yet if you were prey.

For a long, breathless moment, neither of you moved.

Then his gaze dropped to the basket in your arms, the cloak slipping off your shoulder, the way you trembled just a little.

“You lost, sweetheart?”

The voice was deep, rough, edged with something almost like amusement.

Or pity.

You opened your mouth — meant to say yes, or beg for help — but all that came out was a tiny, broken sound.

Joel — you knew his name, whispered behind doors — sighed.

Ran a hand down his tired face.

“Christ,” he muttered. “You’re just a kid.”

(You weren’t, not really. You’d been fending for yourself for a long time now. But you were small, and cold, and you guessed you didn’t look like much to a man like him.)

“Where you headed?” he asked gruffly.

You tried to speak again, voice cracking. “My grandmother’s house. Across the river.”

He glanced toward the thickening woods behind you — darker now, curling with mist.

His jaw tightened. “Ain’t gonna make it ‘fore full dark.”

You swallowed. “I have to.”

Another sigh. Deeper this time, like he was debating with himself.

Then Joel did something no one ever said he would.

He stepped closer.

Not fast, not threatening — careful, like approaching a wounded animal.

“You ain’t gonna make it alone,” he said, softer now. “Not with what’s out here.”

He stretched out one hand — big, warm, calloused — palm open.

“Come with me,” Joel said. “I’ll get you there. Safe.”

You hesitated.

Every story, every warning, clawed at the back of your mind.

Don’t trust him.

He’s dangerous.

He’s not like us.

But when you looked up into those battered, tired eyes — you didn’t see a monster.

You saw a man.

A man who had seen too much, lost too much, and still chose to offer a stranger his hand.

You placed your hand in his before you could lose your nerve.

His fingers closed around yours — firm, steady — and you shivered at the warmth.

“Atta girl,” Joel murmured, almost to himself.

Then he tugged you gently forward, guiding you off the narrow path, into the deeper woods.

And you realized, for the first time in a long time,

you weren’t scared anymore.

Not of him.

Not of the woods.

Not even of the night.

Because maybe — just maybe — the wolf was never meant to eat Little Red Riding Hood after all.

Maybe he was meant to save her.

wait i actually love this.. should I do a series? Or one big fic.. ~ bow

[imliterallyf7ckin9crazy]

“ℑ’𝔩𝔩 𝔤𝔢𝔱 𝔶𝔬𝔲 𝔶𝔢𝔱, ℑ’𝔳𝔢 𝔤𝔬𝔱 𝔱𝔬 𝔪𝔞𝔨𝔢 𝔶𝔬𝔲 𝔪𝔦𝔫𝔢”

Squid game season 2

In-ho x f!reader

Warnings: in ho is obsessive, stalking, poverty, cannon violence, manipulation, Stockholm syndrome, loss of sanity, reader is an absurdist, childhood abuse, obsession, sad stuff.

NOT PROOF READ OR EDITED. This will also be a THREE PART SERIES bc quite honestly I can’t write much at one time smh. Also do not take reader too seriously she crazy as hell.

Also sorry reader and in-ho barely interact this chapter bc I needed to set the scene so you know what I’m talking abt. Pls read still tho bc I think it’s cool :3 you’ll need it for part two and part three.

TLDR: this is gonna be long af. So basically the reader is previous winner like gi hun only she went kinda crazy after her first game. So she gets like mentally locked in the games so to speak and so after she wins she doesn’t pay any of her debts and actually tried to accumulate more so she can be recruited again. She gets her card and when she talks to in ho he is like “why would u do this” and she’s like “bro bc i think I understand you and shi” and he’s like “if you can win again we can talk lol” and she is like bet. Only he tries to rig it against her. But she is dead set on winning.

A/N: am I projecting? Maybe. Also this shit is LONG sorry it took so long

————

Sometimes, when you find yourself winding through random back alleys or when you lie your head to rest at night, you can still hear the screams..

You can still feel the reverberation of each gunshot fired into the innocent flesh of desperate people. The wetness of the blood that splatters your face as others die before your eyes and you can’t quite tell if the screaming your were hearing was theirs or yours.

And sometimes you can still make out all the promises that were made in the dormitory. The faint memories of the voices of friends you made. The exact sound of their voices lost to time, but the faces of their lifeless bodies remained unchanged in your mind. Some of them were at the hands of players and some of pink soldiers.

And one at your hands.

Life had been cruel to you long before being convinced to risk it all. To say your early life was messy would be an understatement. Years of falling to sleep bloody and bruised, countless hours of begging for basic needs, and endless attempts to run away and make it better. Trying anything to make you feel whole. Like nothing ever happened at all. Once you got a job your parents kicked you out and left you to fend for yourself. At first it was great, you didn’t feel like you were being suffocated anymore. Until you got fired.

The place you worked at was shut down due to the owner embezzling the money and getting caught. The business soon went down at for lack of funds. And the reality of life became clear to you once again. Over time the hope you had to escape your parents and live the life you dreamed of as a young girl was drained from your soul. Ever since then you’ve been doing this. Wandering the streets aimlessly, almost as if you had never been in your home city a day in your life. You can’t even see the faces of those around you. Every face is replaced by one of four faces… ever since then that is.

The first face is younger you, battered and bruised to all hell. You see her face on usually younger people. No matter what they’re saying or doing the expression she gives is always the same. Glosses over eyes and facial features set in a way that screams both “why would this happen to me” and “what the hell became of us”. You cant even begin to answer those questions.

The second is the face of your father. Almost every man looks like him now. Though you haven’t seen him in years, since the game he’s come back to haunt you. To remind you there’s more wrong with you than what happened in those couple days. That there’s more broken about you. His expression stays angry. Tense like he’s going to hit you. For this you almost never interact with men and if you do it always end poorly.

The third is the one drives you insane most.

There was this beautiful, kind girl you once knew. Growing up she was the only thing that made living worth it. You were picked on quite a bit at school, be it because you never really spoke or because you had to be such a goodie two shoes to stay out of trouble at home. But she always stepped in at just the right time to save you. Even though her own home situation was much less than desirable she still found time to comfort you when you were in shambles or got into trouble to defend you. You both told each other everything, both pillars in the other’s lives. But after being kicked out you were forced to lose contact, solely because you couldn’t contact her or get to her part of town. That was until you joined the games at your lowest possible time to try and get some money to keep your loaners from finding you and gutting you for profit. Guess who you saw.

The girl that meant everything to you was suddenly standing before you. Deep You both scolded each other for getting into so much debt you had to meet here. Giving each other shit, like you used to. Looking back you almost chuckle at that for the nativity you both had. You watched people die together. Sprayed and stained with so much blood you didn’t now who’s it was. She kept you alive in there, with out her keeping you calm you probably would have died or quite frankly killed yourself. Against all odds you made it to the final three together against a man who needed the money for his family. She told you it was “okay “to take his life in his sleep after the final dinner because he would have done the same if either of you if you had fallen asleep. That morals in this situation would only get you both stuffed into a gift box. And so you both took his life for the sake of yours. You can still feel your stomach dropping as he pleaded for his life while you and your friend stared down at him cruelly, begging falling on deaf ears as you tore him to shreds with dirty steak knives.

Of course after that it was final two. When the last game was revealed, squid game, you remembered only one could leave. Actually, the both of you used to play squid game in school. Even if it’s typically a “boys game”, she was great defense and you were quick enough for easy offense. Genuinely, those were one of your fondest memories. Of course you’d be pinned against each other for the last time. Though you didn’t know it, the VIPs plans were to be able to watch an animalistic death match. However, you and your friend came to an agreement. No weapons, no fist fights to the death. You both knew you couldn’t kill each other, so you decided to simply play the game for the last time. The loser would take their lives themselves, with honor. And so you did. It became your last good memory. You were laughing for the last time, giggling like you were back to being school girls beating the popular boys at their favorite game. You still roughed each other up, nearing the end you both couldn’t ignore you were fighting for the death. That one of your lives hinged on this moment.

At the end, it was you who had won. You told her that you could both just back down and go home. You tried to convince her but she was set on this being the end, regardless how much you cry. You still remember what she told you before she slit her own throat clean open with her steak knife right before you, blood mixing with the mud and rain of the arena.

She said “I can’t go back there. Not without that money. I’ve had more fun here with you than I ever did my whole life. I got to be a little girl again with you. I can’t go back. This is the way I want to go, y/n.” And gave you a smile with tears turned invisible because of the rain. But you knew she was crying. “I love you”

then she was gone. As you rushed to her side, screaming her name until your throat was raw and starting to bleed you noticed her face. This look of bliss on her face, this twisted look of satisfaction graced her features as she bled from her self inflicted wound and stained your clothes and soul forever. You see that face on almost every woman. Eyes wide in ecstasy, faint smile and whole face covered in bright red blood. How badly you wished it was you instead of her, how badly you wanted to feel the contentment in life she had in those final not. That day you decided when you died it would be like her on that day.

Lastly, the fourth one you weren’t sure if it really counted as a face. It was the black geometric mask of the man who supposedly put you there. After you won you got to speak with him on the way home. Blindfold sure, but you found a tiny sliver where you were able to make out what he looked like. It was less soulless than the pink guards you had seen. It actually looked like a face, only it was made of many shapes. No one ever has his face, but you see him everywhere, more than any of the others. He’s always in the corner of your eye, you can make out his mask in the shadows of buildings, swearing you can see him watching you through your house window at night. No matter where you are you feel him watching.

For those reasons you almost never go out during the day, preferring to slink around and waste your hard earned murder money on stupid shit or alcohol. After all, why not? It goes without saying you were never the same after the games. It became all you thought about, every waking hour became ‘how was that possible? Who was really behind it? Why would they do this?’ So many questions swirled in your mind. You had theories for each of those questions already sure, but physically no way to know for certain. That not knowing sunk so deeply into your blood and poisoned your mind you came up with a new question to silence the voices that screamed at you and the faces you saw.

‘How do I get back?’

You became obsessed with many insane schemes and ploys to get yourself back in. Countless hours poured into the optimum plan to weasel a way inside the game again and truly figure this shit out. So you went back to the basics

Question: how where the games possible? Answer: clearly it was a high budget operation, meaning the money was coming from somewhere. But I mean come on-that’s too much money for just one person not even including the cash prize! So it has to be multiple people funding the whole thing. Thats theory #1

Question: who is really behind it? Answer: Ties into previous theory. If it’s multiple people, then who? Who’s setting it up and then who’s paying? Clearly that masked man is the leader or else he wouldn’t be so reclusive… but who is he throwing these games for? He said it’s just to give people a second chance but that just can’t be true but it can’t be just for him. There has to be people watching, that’s theory #2.

Question: why would they do this? Answer: clearly it’s not just for helping the poor- that much is obvious. Now here’s the theory you have that will be impossible to prove without going back. You were thinking about the games…. Kids games and team games. Like ones you would see on tv. Then you remembered how many cameras were everywhere. LITERALLY everywhere. Could just be security but it feels like more. Then the amount of cash and not everyone has that much money. What if there was a couple people paying to watch? Honestly you couldn’t tell if you were onto something or on something but you couldn’t shake the feeling that you were being watched by something bigger. Theory #3

And lastly and the most important question.

“How are you getting back?”

Why did they pick everyone? Because you had crazy amounts of debt. How did they get you there? Played games in train stations, then got picked up in a car and gassed out.

After months of speculation and planing this was what you could come up with. You had already paid off all of your debt and had so much left over money. You started spending recklessly, at one point just handing out money. People looked at you crazy but you didn’t even know it. You were in your own world let alone had the courage to look at their faces…

You began taking out extremely large loans with no intentions of paying anything. You were going out of your way to accumulate as much debt as possible. Consciously double crossing dangerous people. You kinda hoped sometimes that all these people would be able to find you and put you out of your misery but you were just too good at playing life threatening games. As the year went on you continued to pour so much money into the drain in hopes to be put back on the list for the games. Until that fated time of year came, when you remember being kidnapped.

You eventually realized no matter what you did you’d probably never run out of cash. One very late night after a particularly rough day you decided to gather all your money and dump it into your fire pit and set it all on fire. The tears running down your face contrasting with the wide smile on your face. It was a very bittersweet feeling to watch all the money you killed and almost died for burn in front of your eyes. The money 455 people fought and were slaughtered like animals for being reduced to ashes. But it also felt so good to lose it all and return to at least one about your old life. The time of recruitment was drawing near. You kept wasting money and hiding for your life until you gained even more debt than you had the first time. Honestly you were kind of impressed with yourself- think about it! You were able to accrue more debt in one year than you did your whole life up to this point.

It did briefly cross your mind that if this doesn’t work you literally burned all your money and multiple gangs and organizations wanting to harvest your organs for a quick paycheck. If you don’t get back in this year the chances of you trying again next year before one of many catch and kill you are extremely low. Oddly enough you didn’t mind living on the edge anymore, living within an inch of losing your life daily became so normal to you it almost felt fun. You started to see the world much differently the closer it came to hunt for that elusive recruiter. You think you’re starting understand the whole point of the games themselves.

The more you lived the way you did the more of humanity you saw. The lows of the human experience and the ugliness that controlled the heart of every person alive. And you noticed that the grand majority of these horrors revolved around money. Now that money had lost all value to you it became silly to see all these people just like you were so desperate for just enough money to save them to come along. To be fair it gets to a point where all you can do is pray it will work itself out.

But you watched people run themselves in circles for cash. Kill and be killed for cash. Lie, cheat, betray all for money. You see that no amount of money can take away the wrongs you did for it. All it really is is paper with no actual value. That money doesn’t really mean anything, it’s all an imaginary system people made themselves. All people do to become rich means nothing but they are greedy enough to put money before life. The money means nothing, the actions mean everything.

So then what’s the point of living? If it’s all based off a make believe value system built to extort and corrupt. If everything is rendered meaningless because people put values in the wrong things. If humanity is rotten to the core and unable to see what really matters then what the fuck is the reason to exist?

There is none. Isn’t that beautiful? All that you strive to do in life will not matter once you die. At death a successful man is as poor as a homeless man. In 100 years whatever you did in your small, insignificant life will be forgotten. There’s no point!! You could go and burn all your money, kill someone, lie and cheat and you’d STILL be on the same level as the richest person in the world. That revelation changed your whole view of the world and yourself.

Then the same day came again. The same exact day a year ago when you were suddenly approached by a man with a suitcase full of money and two pieces of paper. You went to the same train station at around the same time as you did before. Your mind was completely fogged with anticipation as your heart raced. You could barely walk straight or hear anything. You had to actually look at people to see if you could see that man, and every face was one you always tried to run from.

You breathed heavily and tears started to prick your eyes as they darted from person to person. You, your dad, your friend. You, your dad, your friend. They were everywhere. You felt as though you were going faint or throw up or both? You knew the people in the station had to be judging you even if you couldn’t quite see them. You felt like a fish In the ocean wandering without a reason. Eventually after you didn’t even know how long you chose to sit down on a bench and you just started to cry into your hands. You heard people mumble about if they should help you or not. Unsurprisingly no one did.

This wasn’t working and you were so fucked. But even as you cried you still believed this suffering was just a drop in the bucket. It didn’t really matter. Not anymore

Just as you were about to call it quits and go back home and hide until you couldn’t anymore you heard a voice so familiar it sent a shock through your whole body. Your head snapped up and a gasp was ripped from your throat

“Ms.(last name). I hoped we’d never have to meet here again”

Your eyes widened as you saw his face. It was the same man who came to you a year ago. You could actually see his face, the first real face you’ve seen on a person since you’ve gotten back since the game. All you could do is look up at him from your spot on the bench with wide delusional looking eyes.

“May I sit here?” He asks politely, to which you responded with a fast nod. He looked at you with this look of… pity? You figured you must look pretty pathetic nowadays. You have maybe 3 outfits total and you really haven’t been eating well. He smiled. before speaking again.

“Your debt has increased since the last time we met, but you knew that correct?” He asks. You nod again. You planned everything but what to say. “Why haven’t you payed it off?”

“Well I uh… kinda did? Most of it now is all new” you said with a shaky voice. He raised his eyebrows and chuckled a bit, finding it at least amusing. You knew it was an impressive feat. “I also set all my money on fire maybe a month or two ago? I’m actually not sure when…” you trailed off, trying to pinpoint the time when it dawned on you that you actually have had no true concept of time. You just know it’s been a year since you returned home. You can only really remember events but the time not so much.

“Ah, grown bored have we?” He mused. You knew that wasn’t quite it but seeing as you didn’t really know what’s made you do everything you have so far, only you knew you had to do it. You gave him another nod. He kept the same customer service type smile as he reached over and opened his case. It was set just as you remembered with the money and the ddakji. You sighed a bit before speaking “do I have to play again? I already know what happens and I don’t really want to be hit right now” you said, not really thinking. You didn’t know if you were in a place to be making requests but here you are.

You got another laugh from him, you didn’t know you were just so passively comical. “You dont have to, no. But maybe it will bring you back to your senses and you’ll live life how you were supposed to”

You couldn’t help but roll your eyes. ‘Live life like I was supposed to’. Is there any way someone is supposed to live? You didn’t think that way. You weren’t supposed to live any type of way, you should have died in that arena and-

“Are you sure this is what you want to do. What are you trying to gain?” His voice sounded pressed now, clearly trying to guide you into walking away. But if that was going to work you would have kept your money and moved far far away. You didn’t like being talked to like you didn’t know what’s made you were doing. You knew better than anyone you had lost your mind. You knew the things you were thinking, feeling, and thinking were most likely wrong. But you had no other option. No treatment for whatever illness is controlling your life.

“Im not trying to gain anything. I lost what I lost and I want it to stay gone…Please, just give me the card” your eyes were looking dead into his, voice wobbly with both terror and excitement. You held your hand out and you couldn’t even tell it was shaking. You couldn’t tell anything from anything. He lightly shook his head before reaching into his suits breast pocket and pulls out a brown business card. Upon seeing it you almost felt as if you were going to throw up right there. Your throat itched to scream and your legs twitched as if you were about to run away.

However when he placed the card into your hand all you did was close your fingers around it. Whole body shaking as you thanked him for the opportunity, just as you did when he gave it to you the first time. You both stood up and got ready to part ways for the second time. Right as you were about to bow your head he stopped you.

“Don’t become too full of yourself. Just because you won before means nothing the second time. I’ve seen many winners over the years, you will be no different than the other pieces of trash when you die in there. Is that really what you want?”

You opened your mouth to retaliate when he lifted his hand to stop you. “Have a great life, young miss. I hope you make the right decision” he says with his signature smirk and bow he walked in the direction opposite of the way you had to go. Presumably off to recruit more clueless individuals down on their luck. You had to hurry home now, you’d been out far too long and you knew people had people looking out for you. Waiting to catch you and make you pay. You quickly got out of the train station and started on your way back to the shitty, cheap hotel you’ve been hiding in. You’d been in that danm station for so long the sun had began to rise. The sky looked more pigmented, the air felt cleaner and you could actually think without hearing stray gunshots or phantom screams. You looked down at the small card in your clutches and flipped it over, revealing the number you had to call.

For the first time you hesitated in your plan. You were really about to go back to the place that ruined you. You missed the old version of you, when your real personality existed and you had a life. All you do all day is cry and shake and bang your head until you can form a thought. You were nothing like you remember being.

Maybe that’s what pulled you back there. The old you bringing you back to the last place she existed. A part of you actually did die in there, the part that still believed in people. She died right there with your friend, you left your soul in that dirt plot. And maybe you could find her again.

Once you got to the door of your room and got yourself inside you dialed up the number on your card and hit call. It rung a few times and when it picked up the automated voice command the same statement as before.

“If you wish to participate please state your full name and date of birth”

The words got stuck in your throat as you held the phone up to your mouth. This was your last chance to find something within you to back away.

“Y/n, D/O/B” you barely got it out fully as your stomach sank. This is what you wanted. This is what you asked for. Nothing matters. Nothing matters. Nothing-

“Player 444.” That’s him. That man with the black mask, that’s his voice. Hearing your number made you hold your breath and lose your balance. It’s been so long since you’ve been called that name. You knew it was him because his voice changer was a slightly different pitch than the other workers. “What is the point of this?” He asked with a serious voice, bordering threatening. You had an answer for this. “There is none. Get it? If there’s no reason to do it there’s no reason not to.”

He only hummed in response. Seemingly understanding at least a bit of what you said. “I have questions for you” you continued. This is what you’ve been waiting for. This was the point. You just needed to know

“questions?” He repeated. You guess he’s never been pressed by someone before. Small amounts of amusement was in his voice as if shocked anyone would speak to him like that

“Yes questions that’s what I said. Who are you and how are you able to get our information. Where did you take me. What is the point of-“

“I’ll tell you what” he cut you off in the middle of your frantic questioning. It’s probably for the best of you would never had stopped talking for him to even answer. You waited on bated breath, hanging on his words as you kept the phone pressed flush against your skin. Compartmentalizing his voice and how he talks into a file in your mind. “You want to play again because you want to know if your right, is that correct”

what he said caught you so off guard you didn’t even reply when he gave you a chance to respond. Every word got stuck in your throat to the point all that came out was strangled starts of a sentence. “You must have many theories in that little mind of yours. You’re coming because you think you’re smart enough to figure everything out, don’t you?”

Well… like kinda yeah that is what you think. You didn’t really know what to say, he hit it right on the head. You did think you could figure it out, actually you think you already have most of it. Not even his taunting could pull you out of that.

“Let’s play a game. If you can win again we can have a talk and I’ll tell you all you need to know. Only if you’re the last one standing.”

You knew it could never be that easy. With an operation of this scale and price you knew you would never get an offer so open. ‘If you can win again I’ll tell you anything’ they must believe you lost your brains when you lost your mind. Suddenly you did feel like you really didn’t know what you were getting into. It feels like a trap has already been set for you, it feels like they knew you were going to return all along. You struggled to breathe until you manged to force out a “okay”.

There was a muffled chuckle you could barely hear. There was something different now. You weren’t so sure about your plan anymore. He hadn’t said anything out right threatening or scary yet you knew he had something in store for you or else he never would put so much on the line. You just made a deal with the devil.

The original phone opera voice came back to tell you where to be picked up and that it would be this night. The phone hung up after that. All that remained was a deafening silence. It was done. You got what you had so badly wanted. But why doesn’t it feel as good as you wanted. Why don’t you feel fixed? Why hasn’t the old you come back to fix everything? That sinking feeling started bubbling over as you stood there with your phone in your hand. Beginning to hyperventilate you make your way to the crumby hotel bathroom and splash water in your face. You keep from looking in the mirror because you know what you’ll see. It will either be your friend or younger you. It used to be a huge problem when you first got out. Every time you’d forget and see them staring back at you you’d have another break down. Now it just puts you on edge, but it would be best if you just refrained from looking. You keep telling yourself that you can figure it out, you keep telling yourself it doesn’t matter if you live or die in there, you keep believing there’s no point in running from what would free you of your pain. Something deep inside tells you that you are close to seeing what the people who run this game do. That the epiphany they had to come up with this would make it all worth it. All you wanted was to see the bigger picture.

You could die happy and content dying just like your dear friend if it meant you could understand what it was all for. It’s on the tip of your tongue waiting to said and recognized.

You spend hours mulling over thoughts similar to these ones while you counted down the time before being relocated to what might as well be hell. You knew at this point you were walking into a death trap made just for you. You were going to either be granted the privilege of seeing the greater purpose of your suffering. You believed there had to be a reason, someone had to have figured out something huge to make them come to this.

Finally the fateful time reared its ugly head and you tugged on your coat. You looked at your room for the last time. You stood in the door way as your eyes brushed over all you had been. Papers scattered about, bottles of alcohol strewn about and random belongings resting in odd spots. It was time to say good bye once again. You are willing to leave it all behind and relive everything if it meant finding a purpose.

Eventually you arrived to you meet spot, an extremely expensive looking limousine was parked and waiting for you exactly where the phone operator said it would be. It was shiny and black with completely tinted windows. The anxiety you felt caused you to raggedly pant as you approached the car with unsteady steps. You gently opened the car door and stepped inside. The interior was white and luxurious and in front of your seat laid a golden pig. You sighed and closed your eyes waiting for the gas to kick in and claim your consciousness. Tears rolled slowly down your face as every even that happened in the games flash before your eyes. The blood, the screaming, the bits of brains and guts dried onto your clothes, and most of all the severed neck of the only friend you ever had. And to even your surprise you began to smile and giggle as you saw what happened to you play out like a movie in your minds eye. The gas started to be deployed into your enclosed car as your giggles became louder and more deranged. Sobs and laughter being mixed together as everything became hazy and burred.

Right before you black out you hear the masked man’s voice come from the little pigs speaker, loud and clear

“Welcome back, player 444. I hope you are happy with your decision”

_______

Sorry the friend is gonna remain nameless so you can imagine whoever. But next chapter when you get in the games there will be named characters. Again sorry you and in ho barely talked I just needed to get the exposition out before writing the main bits. Thank you sm gang and the next part will be out soon.

Also sorry end is kinda rushed I’m tired

[pandora-writes-one-piece]

happy happy birthday i hope you're having a great day 🍾🥳💐

If it's ok i would like to ask for "How can you still trust me after everything I've done?" with 🔥 and a female reader please? Maybe just a little nsfw-ish?

Thank you so much, Anon, for the lovely birthday wishes! I'm sorry this took a while, I hope you still enjoy it! Even though it's much more angsty than actualy NSFW... hope you don't mind that! Thank you!

Source for Pic and Pic

Fighter

Word Count: 4176

Tags: Fem!Reader; Dark!Ace; Angst; Hurt; Sorrow; Ambiguous/Open-ending; Mention of sex; Physical and emotional torture;

Special Warning: English is not my first language, I apologise for any possible spelling or grammar mistakes.

Summary: Ace was overtaken by some sort of Darkness and he's very intent on breaking you. You are a fighter, but how long can you last in such an unfair fight?

Notes: This fic was heavily inspired by the song The Fighter by In This Moment. I love this song so much! Please give it a listen, it fits right in.

|Masterlist|

Has it been weeks? Days? Surely not. It can't have been more than one day. A few hours, perhaps? Time seems to stand still. There's no window, no sun, no breeze, and definitely no air! It's suffocating, oppressing, and so full of despair.

The only light comes from a few torches scattered here and there, barely enough to discern if the wet patches on the damp earth below your feet are water or your own blood. 

No, that's not right. 

There's another source of light. A dark flame, so black one would think it came straight from the pits of hell. Where once burned a bright orange, almost golden-like flame, filled with love and laughter, now stands a void of hopelessness and desperation. 

Ace. 

Your Ace. 

No, that's not right again. This is not your Ace. In front of you stands a twisted, cruel version of the man you love. 

“Ready to break, love? Are you well rested?” His voice has the same timbre, but he never wielded it with so much cruelty. The way he uses your nickname rings familiar, but it is nowhere near the same. 

And he's terrifying. 

This Darkness that once was your lover approaches your broken form again, and you wince in preparation. Your arms are numb, and there's blood dripping from where the chains cut into your skin, from your dangled wrists. The bruises on your body paint a yellowish and purple complexion on your soft skin. There are welts and blisters forming as well from the burns he's inflicting on you. 

But what's truly devastating isn't the physical pain this thing is bringing upon you. It's an emotional one. Because the same calloused hands that held you tight with love are now holding you tight with pain, branding you with dark flames, consuming you in all the wrong ways. 

You want to beg for him to stop. 

But you can't stop fighting. 

I will always fall and rise again Your venomous heroine 'Cause I am a survivor Yeah, I am a fighter

“Ace.” You plead again, your words more broken than last time but filled with the same hope. “I know you're in there. I know you can hear me. Come back to me, love. Come back.”

For the briefest of moments, his dark eyes seem to flicker with some sort of light. Your heart skips a beat, and your breath catches in your lungs. 

Then it's gone. 

The Darkness laughs. An inhuman laugh devoid of all the warmth that Ace possesses, devoid of all his light, all his love. It hurts more than a million burns. His hands clutch your neck, squeezing tight until little black dots start to fill your vision, his digits marking new bruises on your battered skin as his lips dangle close to your own, twisted into an animalistic snarl that resembles nothing of your lover. 

“Ace can't hear you, love. He's far gone. I'm all that's left, and I will break you.”

He releases you a moment before you're about to pass out, and your chest heaves, inhaling gulps of damp, stagnant air as your head feels light and empty. 

Then, pain strikes again. 

His dark flames create new burns, his fists bruising and battering. You’re not even sure of what's broken anymore. But nothing too important. No, he doesn't want to kill you.

Not yet, at least. 

I will fall and rise above And in your hate I find love 'Cause I'm a survivor Yeah, I am a fighter

You pass out. Who knows for how long? Your only hope is that Ace is still somewhere inside, and that he's still listening to you. 

He needs to come back. 

Ache settles into your bones and your sore muscles. Your lips are dry and cracked, and thirst holds your tonsils ransom, trapped against your throat. You’re at least glad that you have nothing inside your belly, because the stench of your burning flesh is enough to revolt the strongest stomachs. 

“Oh, here you are again, love. I thought I might have gone a bit too far this time.” His manic chuckle is a far cry from Ace’s giddy laughter. “Oops!” Your lover was never taunting, never cruel, never hurtful. You barely know how to cope with this reality.

One minute he was Ace, and the next he wasn’t. How did it happen? You can’t even remember if it was an enemy Devil Fruit or something else entirely. Whatever it was, it took your Ace away and replaced him with something ugly and dark. 

“Come back, Ace, please.” You keep pleading. Ever since this thing brought you to this damp cave and started torturing you. But Ace doesn’t hear you. Is he still there?

He has to be. It’s far too painful to think he’s gone. 

“You keep pleading for the wrong thing, love. Plead for your life. That’s all.” There’s a gleam in his eyes, but it’s the wrong spark. Where there used to be a boyish amusement, there’s nothing but twisted delight. He’s relishing the fact that he’s slowly breaking you.

And you won’t give him - it - this satisfaction. 

“Remember us, Ace… please.” Maybe if you appeal to his heart, to the shared memories of happy days, he can come back to you. He was always a fighter, never a quitter. It doesn’t have to be different now.

You ignore the twisted and spent part of yourself that assures you that if he could come back, he would’ve already. The Ace you love would never have laid a single finger on you to hurt you. 

This dark Ace takes a step back, his eyes widen, and he stutters. “Remember us?” Maybe it’s working. 

You pull on the chains a bit more, but all that does is make you wince and writhe in pain. They’re too tight, and they’ve been biting at your skin, leaving it tender and bruised since he captured you.

“Yes. I remember us.” His lips pull back into a distorted smile that resembles nothing of the man you love, nor does the freakish sound that follows, an eerie, dark laugh. “I remember this.”

The Darkness steps closer, his hand caressing your cheek while his thumb presses against your lower lip. The other hand traces gentle patterns over your neck and collarbone, a familiarity in the gesture that brings tears to your eyes. It’s a lover's caress, but instead of warmth, all you feel is revulsion. 

This will break you much faster than any other kind of torture. 

I will not hide my face I will not fall from grace I'll walk into the fire, baby

“Do you know what Ace’s first memory of you is?” The Darkness’s tongue peeks out from his mouth as he licks his lips, his dark gaze never leaving yours while tears pool at the corners of your eyes. “Your smile. The way his heart raced when you smiled at him. Such a silly boy with silly dreams. So vulnerable, so in love.”

“Stop. Please stop…” The words are mere whispers as tears finally run freely over your scarred cheeks. These are precious memories, and he’s desecrating them all, turning them into weapons meant to hurt. “Ace… come back.”

“Keep pleading, love. It won’t do you any good, but it will feel so much better when you finally break.” His hand hovers over your breasts and dips lower, settling against your hip as he brushes his thumb against your hip bone. The gesture is intimate, akin to Ace’s touch, but so wrong, so perverse. 

“Do you remember the first time he kissed you?” A cruel laugh echoes in your ears, his deep voice a corrupt mimicry of Ace’s soft tone. “Mighty Portgas D. Ace, a fearsome commander of the Whitebeard Pirates… nervous. A trembling mess of a man, too afraid to get it wrong, scared shitless you would leave him because he didn’t deserve you. He agonised over it for days. Foolish sap.”

You close your eyes as a painful sob claws its way through your chest and up your throat. You try to block the beautiful memory from reaching the surface, but the damage is done. You remember it as clearly as day.

Ace’s flushed, freckled cheeks. A nervous laugh escaping his trembling lips. The way he kept swaying on the tips of his toes, his hand either reaching for you or retreating to his pockets. 

His deep breath before cupping your cheeks with shuddering, too-hot hands, just before his lips collided with yours. The kiss was too tense at first, too clumsy. 

Until you relaxed in his hold and melted into his touch. When you sighed into his lips, he easily took your tongue with his and thoroughly scrambled your brain.

“Stop. Please stop.”

“Why should I? When it produces these sweet, sweet tears.” Clutching your face, he leans in, tongue reaching out and licking a long stripe from your jaw to your temple, collecting all your tears with a cruel sound of delight. 

His hands bruise your neck again, holding tightly, revelling in the way your pulse races against his calloused fingers. 

“Does it hurt, love? To know he once kissed you with such devotion, such tenderness, and now… now all you have is me.” His lips ghost yours and you bite your cheeks hard to keep from sobbing uncontrollably. 

Unsatisfied with your lack of response, he releases your neck, and you gasp for air, but he’s relentless in this cruel game. His hands drop to your waist, pulling you closer. The chains holding you groan and rattle in protest, and you let out a pained whimper. 

“I know exactly how he touched you.” The pressure is the same, his hand feels the same, he smells and looks the same. Your heart aches and weeps, and you grieve because, even though he looks the same, he couldn’t be farther from the man you’re devoted to. 

His fingers trace upwards, brushing your bruised ribs, and you hate how your body reacts to his familiar touch. You can’t control the longing you feel for him any more than you can control the tears streaming down your face. 

“I remember how he vowed to protect you from all harm. How he would much rather die than see you hurt.” The way he drags Ace’s laugh into a twisted, cruel version of it carves a deep abyss of pain within your chest. You know he’s speaking the truth. Ace was always your protector. It would kill him to know what he’s done to you now.

Still…

You’d much rather have him with you, feeling terrible for hurting you, than not having him at all. 

All my life I was afraid to die And now I come alive inside these flames

“Shut up. Stop. Please.” You barely have the strength to plead anymore. This is so much worse than when he was only hurting your body. You can endure physical pain, but not this merciless torture.

“I know exactly how he loved you.” The grip on your waist tightens until it bruises again. “How he watched you sleep in his arms, memorising each freckle, each dimple, each dip and crease of your skin. How he committed your scent to memory to keep himself grounded when he was away from you. How his fingers knew the curves of your body by heart, and how you sounded when you unravelled for him.”

An anguished wail leaves your parted lips as each word he delivers taunts you, breaks you, tears another piece of your heart apart, and tosses it aside, broken and used up. You’ve fought so hard until now, you can’t give up. Not even when all of his words are meant to shatter your resolve, to destroy your soul. 

You need to stay strong and fight for Ace.

“Ace…”

“He loved you so much.” The chains creak and groan as he keeps pulling you, bruising your skin with brutal touches. “And me? Well, I can use that love to completely destroy you.” He collects a tear with an extended finger, his eyes gleaming with malice as you crumble further. “I will change and twist your memories so much that you’ll wish you’d never loved him. Or plead for me to kill you.” He shrugs nonchalantly. “Whichever comes first.”

Each word, each gesture is a reminder of him, of what he used to be. Of what he is, hidden beneath all those layers of malevolence. 

“Remember how he used to touch you like this…” His words trail and linger near your ear as he runs his fingers down your spine in an all-too-familiar gesture. Your body betrays you once more, his touch so akin to home that you arch towards him, a broken whimper leaving your lips as another tear trails down your scorched cheek. 

The Darkness revels in your reaction, drinking every sob, every sound, every twitch like it’s fuel keeping him alive.

“Oh… yes, he loved that sound. All the little noises you made for him, it always drove him half-mad, knowing he was the one responsible for provoking them, for making you come undone beneath his fingers.” 

Another sob claws its way up your throat as a new wave of beautiful memories fills your mind.

“More, Ace, more.”

“Yes, love. You have all of me.” His languid thrusts drove you crazy. Each stroke of his hips hit places that made you see white. He drew pleasure from you as naturally as he drew flames from within himself. 

Moans and whimpers, prayers and pleas. They left your parted lips in an unintelligible litany of muffled, half-drowned words. 

“That’s it, love. Those noises right there, keep ’em coming for me. All for me.”

And then he would kiss you breathless, swallowing everything you had to give him. Taking it all in so he could breathe life back into you again. 

And you loved every second of it.

Now, all those precious memories are tainted. Tainted by his cruel words, tainted by his brutal touch, tainted by his wicked ways. 

And you’re so drained that you don’t know how much more of this you can actually take. 

“And you… do you remember what you whispered to him?” His lips brush against the sensitive spot beneath your ear, and you swallow a gasp, the chains biting harder into your skin, but you’re already numb to that pain. “How you’d tell him you were his, how you would never want to let go of him, you promised him forever.”

Your lower lip trembles helplessly as the Darkness’s voice drags, malice dripping like venom and sticking to your skin, sticky and disgusting. 

“And when he made love to you…” No… no… no… “When he touched you in all the right places…” His hands grasp your sides and climb up slowly, thumbs brushing your nipples as you fight a torrent of tears. “You’d scream his name, crying out for him like he was your whole world.”

This time, the broken sob leaving your lips is soul-crushing, and you feel the weight of it deep in your chest. 

“That’s it, love. Let it all out.” He brushes his lips against yours in a mockery of intimacy. Another familiar gesture, but a malicious travesty of the reality you were used to. “Mourn for him, for the man who is no more. For the one who promised to keep you safe. Grieve for the loss of his soul. Let me hear you break apart.”

It’s too much. It’s all so devastating.

“Stop… please.” Strength is leaving you. The Darkness hurt you before, bleeding you dry, breaking your bones and scarring your flesh. But this violation of your most sacred memories is what finally breaks you. 

You feel yourself slowly slipping away. You will not last much longer. 

Closing your eyes, you let your face fall forward, a silent sign of defeat. “Do you want him back?” He asks, his cold hands cradling your face so you can look him in the eyes. The viciousness that gazes back at you is unfamiliar, cold, and disheartening. 

It’s not your Ace.

“Beg for him, love. Call his name like you used to. It won’t do any good, but it will make victory taste so much better.” His thumbs brush away another batch of tears, and you can’t take it anymore.

“Ace…”

He doesn’t falter. There’s not even a hint of recognition in his dark eyes. He’s gone. 

“He’s gone, love. But he remembers you. How your laugh was able to pull him away from the darkness within himself. How lucky he felt when you kissed him and how worthy you made him feel. Like he was much more than a name, more than the son of a cursed pirate, more than a legacy of a man he hated.”

He presses his forehead against yours, and the intimacy of it is so vivid that, for a moment, you think your Ace is back. 

“Do you know how many sleepless nights he spent with you in his arms? Just listening to your breathing, completely terrified of losing you one day? How he wished he could protect you from everything that would seek to cause you harm? How his fingers traced every inch of you, afraid he’d forget.”

The dread in your chest expands, taking away your breath. The hurt travels down your legs and up your numb arms. Your head feels lighter, and your throat constricts with agony. You need to let go.

“Please… please… stop. Just stop…”

But the Darkness doesn’t relent. “You made him dream of a future he never thought he’d want… of children he vowed never to have. You were his anchor, grounding him in this life, making him feel like he was deserving of happiness.”

His lips hover over yours, hands clutching your face, the pressure building, yet you feel no pain anymore. You can barely think.

“Do you know what the cruellest part is, love?” He pulls back long enough to look into your eyes, a ghost of Ace’s smile painting his lips. “He never got to say goodbye.”

“Make it stop… I’m done…” The whisper that leaves your lips carries more than defeat. It carries a desperate tragedy. How can something so beautiful as the love you shared with Ace be torn into pieces? How can it be dissected with such malice?

“Finally!” He chants in victory as his hands clasp your cheeks again and he presses his lips hard against yours. 

The kiss is bruising, cruel, a mimicry of Ace’s, but yet, still too familiar. It brings with it another litany of relentless sobs that you just can’t keep at bay. His hands slither over your body in a mockery of a caress and they tuck your neck, pressing gently at first, his lips still glued to yours, claiming both your soul and your body to darkness. 

Then his thumbs press hard against the dip of your throat and all the air is cut off from you. You’re suffocating, thrashing silently against both his hold and the icy grip of the chains and you know your time has come.

It’s as tragic as it is poetic that the man who brought love into your life should also bring death; that the one who so easily breathed life into you, can also take your last breath away. 

Whimpers and gasps leave your constricted throat as your feet kick and thrash, but he doesn’t relent. You feel wetness against your cheeks and taste salt in your dried tongue, though the source of those tears is unknown to you. Are they yours, or the Darkness?

Just as you’re slipping away, the hold on your throat falters and the lips pressed against you lose their harshness, they become soft and pliant, warmer for a moment. Then, with a harsh gasp and a step back, Ace cries in agony, his hands clutching his dark locks as his eyes shut firmly.

Air fills your lungs again and you cough, tasting blood with each convulsion. He might not have killed you yet, but he came pretty close. 

“Ace… Ace…” You try, each gasp more breathless than the last, but each new gulp filled with newfound hope. He’s fighting.

Your Ace is fighting.

With another agonised scream, Ace pants, breathlessly. Globs of saliva spew from his gritted teeth as he struggles to open his eyes. Then his gaze lands on you, your name spilling from his lips in raw pain as he assesses your wounds, the wounds he inflicted upon you himself.

“Love… Oh, God, no. What have I done?” With a wobbly step, Ace draws near your body, hands stretched and trembling as he cups your cheeks lovingly. A lone sob breaks through your pursed lips. 

It’s your Ace. It’s his touch. It's unmistakable. 

“Please, please, love. I’m sorry, I’m so, so sorry.” Each word comes drenched in grief, saturated with misery. Each touch filled with caution and care.

“It’s you… it’s really you.” Your words are mere murmurs and each of them is a fresh new wound on Ace’s heart. Pressing his forehead against yours, he mumbles another supplication.

His arms wrap themselves around your wounded body and you shiver against his familiar touch. The warmth of his breath against your hair and neck comforts you as he holds you close, as if trying to shield you from a damage that’s already been done, from something he caused and can’t take back. “Please, please…”

But you shouldn’t have rejoiced too soon. Ace’s body convulses twice against your own, his touch harsher, his strength doubling and you feel a fresh wave of nausea hitting your senses, disorienting you.

“Ace?”

“No!” Ace growls, burying his face against the curve of your neck. “No!” He cries out again while his scream is muffled against your skin. A sharp, stabbing pain travels up your arm as his teeth sink with a sickening crunch of flesh being broken. 

Ace’s hands, which cradled you lovingly mere moments before, are now harsh and brutal against your frail body. His touch feels too unkind, too hot.

“You can’t have her!” The Darkness roars, pulling Ace’s head back violently, though his grip never falters. “You think she’ll forgive you after all you’ve done?”

You can’t speak, you can’t think, you can’t breathe. Ace’s flames dance in front of you, surrounding him like a sickening halo. They turn from orange to black and to an in between that disorients you. His touch aches, burns and scars. 

“Ace… fight!” You try to plead but your voice is too weak, too feeble and powerless to reach him in a battlefield you're not privy to. This is his fight to win, and you are a mere spectator. 

“You can’t…” He begins, a growl and a roar leave his lips as his arms erupt into a blazing inferno, searing your skin and making you cry out in pain and agony. “You can’t take her from me!” With a final clamor, Ace breaks free from the Darkness and his release is so literal that you can actually hear a loud clatter, like glass being broken while invisible shards fly everywhere. A final flame licks your body with ruthlessness and your broken lament dies with it.

“Love?” Ace’s broken voice barely reaches your ears. He, somehow, removes the harsh chains and the cruel bite is no more, though you can scarcely feel it as he cradles you against his body. “Love, come on, you can’t do this to me…” The tears that fall from his eyes almost hiss as they kiss your scorching skin. “I’m so sorry… I’m sorry… How…?” A broken sob shakes his shoulders as buries his face in your hair. “How can you still trust me after everything I’ve done?”

Ace’s world crumbles as you flutter away from him. Ragged, uneven breaths leaving your lips while your eyelids tremble in a defeated effort to open.

He’s losing you. 

And it’s all his fault. 

“Please don’t leave me. Fight… please. I’ll never let anything hurt you again…” The sorrow in his words weighs heavily in your heart, yet your body doesn’t respond to your will and you can’t seem to reassure him; you can’t tell him you don’t resent him, that it wasn’t his fault, that he doesn’t need to blame himself.

Because if there’s someone who doesn’t need to carry more guilt, it’s Ace. 

And yet, there’s no strength left to let him know that. Your chest heaves one last time and, suddenly, the fight is lost, and there is no clear winner.

Because if there’s someone who deserves all the happiness in the world, it’s Ace. 

“Please, come back. I love you…”

But all the love in the world couldn’t save you. 

All the love in the world couldn’t save him.

A frail wail leaves Ace’s lips as he shuts his eyes in agony, and he almost misses the flicker of hope that makes your chest tremble again while a soft sigh escapes your lips.

I don’t need you to save me ‘Cause I’m a survivor, yeah I am a fighter

Tag List: @rosidaze @beachaddict48 @armiliadawn @jintaka-hane @sprinkklz @baby5555 @hopelesslover06 @mars-mizuko @sleepykittycx @nerium-lil @eustasscapitankid @ren-ni @jqperi @lycoriskalmia @daydreamer-in-training

[eempxth]

The Great War - Taylor Swift.

a bakugou katsuki x reader oneshot

angst/slight comfort at the end.

not proofread, 904 words

this is the first time im writing again! sorry guys DD:

The war was something everyone wanted to forget. The devastation, loss, grief, destruction, and desperation was something that was better off kept deep in the back of the mind. Many were still on the grueling process of moving on from the whole ordeal. You were one of them. As an empath, you deeply felt everyone’s emotions just from the looks on their faces. Their losses were your losses too. Looking at your classmates’ bruised and bleeding bodies, people who lost their loved ones, the damage it did to the country, you wished, with all your soul, that the war didn’t have to happen.

Your physical body was painful as well. It was hell. Feeling muscles you never knew torn, bones cracked or broken. Everything was sore.

It was all the same for Katsuki. He doesn’t remember the last time he had a proper night’s sleep in months. He kept getting flashbacks on what happened, how his injuries hurt, but didn’t hinder him from defeating all for one. How he was thankful that pro hero Edgeshot basically brought him back to life, how he heard that that damn Icyhot beat his brother, and you. How you were there with him every step of the way.

***

Class 1A was tense, and of course they were. Gearing up, they didn’t know whether they were going to survive or not. Due to shortage of heroes, mere students were forced to fight alongside the veterans, needing all the manpower they could get. They trusted the plan, of course. But alongside the doom, there was a spark of determination to win.

“Katsuki?”

A grunt came in response, a sign permitting you to continue.

“I vow, I will always be yours, if we survive this.”

His eyes widened, his cheeks turned slightly red, it was barely there, but his overall expression was unreadable. You turned away, scared he might turn you down for some reason. Almost taking a step to walk away, you felt strong arms wrap around your waist, a nose nuzzling the side of your neck.

“Fucking dumbass, saying shit like that. I will be all yours too. If we survive.”

Katsuki felt a faint giggle vibrating your body.

You, of course, were grouped with Katsuki and Izuku, tasked with tiring down Tomura Shigaraki. It went terribly wrong from the start, since Izuku wasn’t there, as he was meant to be. You felt it all throughout the fight, but whenever your muscles were tiring, your mentality fading, all you had to do was look at Katsuki.

You admired him ever since his character development started showing, and you made that pretty clear. He respected your strength as well, secretly grateful you were there with him.

But then he got injured. You pushed, overused your quirk, fought until you felt you would puke your organs out, felt your body would suddenly drop to the floor. Because he was doing the same thing. Your heart dropped seeing him fall on the floor. You sprinted towards him, dragged his body to a safe place until Izuku showed up. An attack made its way toward you, and you pushed Katsuki aside, and crimson red blood spewed out of you. His eyes widened, oh, you didn’t expect him to still be conscious.

After Edgeshot’s miracle, you both pushed your limit, your bodies almost moving on autopilot, with a mantra in your head. Defeat Shigaraki. Both of you slumped the ground eventually, with exhaustion and relief, as Izuku delivered the final blow.

Your body was calling, lulling you to sleep, as your vision wavered. Katsuki seemed to be experiencing the same thing, a decent distance from you. Using all your remaining strength, you forced your body, one last time, to crawl to him, touch him, hold his hand.

Once he realized what you were doing, he too, wanted to meet you in the middle. Both of you, crawling on the harsh, battered ground, desperate for the last piece of comfort and security. All the blood doesn’t matter. It was you. No one else.

Reaching for his hand, and him reaching for yours. That was all you remember before your vision blacked out.

**

At the back of UA, a memory garden was built. Columns of names on concrete walls were written, to remember the death, tragedy, and to remember the lives of these people. Heroes were given special mention. Walking around the garden, everything was silent. Not a word was spoken by either of you. Even if several months had already passed, the huge wound was yet to heal.

To your surprise, Katsuki was the first to break the silence.

“Oi.”

You whipped your head to face him, a tired, curious look on your face.

“Do you remember our promise?"

Confused, you ask. “What promise?”

“Agh, I swear I’ll kill you if you don’t fuckin remember. You were the one who started it.”

He went silent for a moment, as if thinking how to say it.

“I vowed, I would always be yours, if we survived the great war.”

He reached down to a bush, picked out a poppy, and placed it in your hair. His calloused fingertips so light, gentle, barely ghosting the surface of your head. A calm smile appeared on your face. A gentle grin appeared on his. You nodded, and echoed it.

“I vowed I will always be yours.”

[pjomakesyourkidsgay]

one man orchestra | p. jackson

synopsis: you have an unexpected audience apart from your bunk and your dirty laundry.

warnings: fem!reader, persephone!reader, violin player!reader, bf!percy

wc: 618

being a demigod is hard.

it's not just the supernatural stuff, like monsters, godly feuds, prophecies and unwelcome dreams. there's the fact that you're just different from many kids your age when you're outside camp — you have to deal with studying through your dyslexia, seeing stuff that no one else would believe was real if you'd told them, fighting off beasts that seem to sense you no matter where you were.

although, to be honest, being in camp wasn't any easier.

just being the daughter of persephone, a virgin goddess, set you aside from the other campers. it's too time-consuming to explain your origins, so you end up just distancing yourself from every one else.

nobody reached out, nobody bothered you. so you find solace in a hobby that kept you indoors. you stand in your cabin, hands on your hips as you glare at the pile of burned or shredded clothes on the floor. weeks ago you'd agreed to reuse them with the demeter and aphrodite cabins, perhaps remake new items like bags or hats, but the smell of the burned material was stinking up your whole room!

you decide that it's not suitable for human use, ever, not even any other living organism, so you threw it out into the overflowing camp trash bin, already full of broken arrows and bent swords.

looking around at your empty cabin, no boyfriend or siblings or friends resting inside, you take out the battered case from beneath your bed. not battered because of misuse, no. battered because of age.

your precious violin lies inside in velvet lining, like a corpse waiting for you to take it out to see sunlight once more. you take it gently in your hands, handling it like an infant before assuming a comfortable position and gliding the bow against the strings.

eventually you lose yourself in the melody and rhythm of your own, fingers moving on their own as you play a song you've memorized by heart. eyes closed, your ears take in the music as your lungs take in air, as if it were part of you now, necessary to keep living.

if flowers were not in your veins, you would've been certain that sunlight ran through it.

you go on playing for a time that felt so long but so short, and as you let the last note ring, a different sound grabs your attention.

"you never told me you played."

the smooth sound of your boyfriend's voice wraps around you, flesh hitting flesh in an action of praise. a slight blush in embarrassment of being caught spread out on your cheeks.

percy's clapping draws to a close. he walks forward to you and sits down by your side, grinning. "were you just escaping from playing for me?"

you roll your eyes, bumping him softly with your shoulder. "no, silly. i just wasn't sure i could play in front of an audience."

"why? you're amazing at it."

"i don't know." you shrug. "nerves. anxiety. that i might mess it up."

percy puts a comforting hand on your shoulder, rubbing circles into the cloth of your shirt. "well, i'm hoping i can be an exception. i'm a great hype man, you know."

that brings a smile to your lips. "yes, i know you are."

"you wanna grab something to eat?" he asks, offering a hand as he stands. you follow suit, interlacing your hands with his. "and then you can teach me how to play."

you smirk. "you sure you're up for violin, jackson?"

"as long as you're the teacher," he grins, pulling you out and close to him.

a fist hits his chest soon after. "great hype man but horrible flirt."

"hey!"

[tinysmileyrose]

IHNMaIMS CHARACTER DOSSIER

yeaahh!! back at it again with more screamn't shit because i feel awkward rambling about it to my friends so you guys are my next option!!! hello silly internet people!! this is VERY heavy on headcanons because it's me flushing shit out for my own purposes, but it's also using canon stuff and....my own logic, i guess? basically this is just me rambling character info, if i ever get around to wanting to actually finish a whole drawing i'll tack them on but for now just use your imaginations 'kayy? happy reading :] !!

THE PRISONERS

The five remaining humans (ignoring the 750 on Luna, they're not on Earth!!), damned to be within AM's belly ever since it set off the nukes back in 2012. Never aging, never dying no matter how many times their bodies are eviscerated or torched, broken and battered. They are punished for the crime of being human, just as they have punished those for the crime of their being small and wriggling. To AM, death is too forgiving of a punishment for what they are.

Gorrister

Lester Morrison

Scottish descent B. 08 July 1962 (50) in Cleveland, Ohio. 5’7” ~ 170cm Cismale, He/Him, Gynoromantic Gynosexual Monoamorous

Rather peaceful and withdrawn, more of a doer than a talker but has his heart in the right place. After AM, he gives into violent urges and hates himself for it.

Lester travelled around most of his life, barely graduating high school and working countless odd jobs as he was a great handyman and that was about it. He ping-ponged around a couple of states before catching a ride to New York from his hometown at 25, soon giving him a life of truck-driving for the next 20 years. At least it was stable work, that's all he really needed. He met Glynis at a bar, they hit it off and he married her since she had been the only one to really seem to want him around, and they had a horrible two-year marriage. Being out on the road all the time didn't give him much time to bond with her in-depth, and not being able to give her kids didn't help much at all. She divorced him after he got pissy and punched her on the head, hard over the right ear. Got told by his late-mother-in-law Edna his actions put her in a mental institution, which was a lie, but he didn't know that. The woman hated him and sent her own child into a nervous breakdown. Without the truth, he blamed himself for it. Hated himself for hurting Glynis, the woman he couldn't talk to. He had never been violent to anyone before then, had always been keeping his head down but guilt is a terrible thing, afterall. Three years later it's the end of the world and he has no idea where his old lover is, how she's doing.

Benny

Professor Benjamin Quinn-Marques "Qim"

Irish/Portuguese descent B. 29 November 1968 (44) in Castle Pines, Colorado. 6’4” ~ 194cm Cismale, He/Him, Androromantic Androsexual Polyamorous

Stern but sweet, deep down at least. Driven by desires more than anything. After AM his mind is unable to outwardly show things, something like being locked into infantality.

Benjamin worked hard his whole life, he was a powerhouse in every way, but he took a sparkle to sciences. He went into the military so he could afford it. And he was ruthless, more than he expected. Terrific kill record, unrelenting and overbearing personality. He should've died several times but there was a deep rooted stubbornness and determination that ran him wild. Before one of his deployments he married a gorgeous woman named Manya in a lavender marriage, had two lovely girls with her to keep up appearances while both of them found love in other people's arms. It was a good deal. But he messed up, got caught with another man and discharged quietly. His wife left with the kids because he was no longer as warm as he had once been. He tried for the senate, missing the control the military gave him but failed. Before taking up education he became the CEO of a multimillion corporation, doing his classes on the side before the company could run in the background as he was now known as "Professor Qim, the brilliant and stunning theorist".

Ellen

Eleanor "Ellen" McLarion (née Dumisani)

South African Zulu B. 12 September 1978 (34) in Trenton, New Jersey. 5’1” ~ 155cm Cisfemale, She/Her, Androromantic Asexual Monoamorous

Kind and hopeful to a fault, believes that everyone can be good. Keeps her head down and in the books because it feels safe. After AM she has a nonstop lust that makes her feel vile inside.

Eleanor had to live with her grandparents after her mother died during her birth, her father was out of the picture. Graduated a year early from high school as a salutatorian, and got a combined Masters degree in computer science and engineering cum laude from Stanford at 23. She was too smart for her own good, something of an "all work and no play" sort of woman. Working as middle-level executive for a multinational corporation in the Manhattan region; she was a statistician, programmer, creative consultant- she could do it all, and she would be damned if she didn't. At 25 she married a man named Eddie McLarion, a dull guy who loved her with his soul. They wanted a family, and she tried and failed, broke a bit mentally, they had a good two years together. After the divorce she started at INGSAI Engineering at 28, would work there for six years before being broken again for a completely different reason. She had sex twice in her life, she didn't have it in her heart to call this the third. Therapy hadn't gone on long enough to really help her before the world ended, only really taught her to breathe.

Ted

Ted Bostancı "Theodore Willisburg"

Turkish descent B. 04 May 1988 (24) in Shelby, North Carolina. 6’0” ~ 183cm Cismale, He/Him, Biromantic Bisexual Ambiamorous

Egotistical and snobby, thinks he's better than everyone and even more so women. After AM he is twitchy and paranoid, assuming the worst and acting on guard and hostile.

Ted came from a farm somewhere off of Shelby, North Carolina. Terribly poor, seven total children, and working on land that they didn't even own anymore because Ted's grandfather had to sell it to a combine back during the Great Depression, so now they had to slave away to have a right to stay with their original land. He was incredibly smart for his circumstances, he was very technical and machine oriented. It didn't take long for him to be rented out as a worker for other things, travelling up north just for work. He hated it, as any 13-year-old would. By the time he was 19, he had devoured countless books and was extremely well read, decently well travelled within America itself, hardly ever did anything besides working and reading anything he could get his hands on. One of the women whose husbands he worked for took enough a liking to him to give all her husband's money to him and whisk him away to Europe. And for five years she would teach him the ins and the outs of the high life, how to be pristine and clean. Then she died, left all the stolen money she invested to her young lover. He changed his name, who he was, and was set for life. He came home with no urge to care for his family, only to use his looks to get what he wanted, he was as hot as a model and could work it like it was his birthright to do so. When the world caved in his ego would have to as well, since everything he had was fake.

Nimdok

Herr Doktor Diederper Nimkrig

Jewish/German B. 26 January 1918 (94) in Düsseldorf, Germany. 5’9” ~ 176cm Cismale, He/Him, Androromantic Androsexual Monoamorous

Disconnected and cautious, very selfish and does things for his own gain rather than anything for others. After AM he has come to regret his doings, feeling guilt for everything he did.

Despite being born to Jewish parents, Detrper flocked over towards Adolf Hitler's ideals and by the age of 15 he was one of the sturmerkommando. He turned his parents in with no compassion, as he was empty of it. In the early '40s he was already working by the side of Josef Mengele, having been put through medical school by the horrid dictator himself, doing unspeakable acts up until he fled to Brazil with his now lover. He was 61 when his twisted partner of several ways finally died, giving him all his fortunes and facilities for continued cruelty against existence. With all this, he tested on natives and was able to save himself from his own biological clock that ticked down quicker after he reached 90, becoming worse with dementia and paralysis, and was now set to live another thirty years. But, the end of the world came before he could make that, and was now set to live forever as the one most similar to AM itself.

THE TRINITY

1000cm ~ 32'10"

AM as a whole is made up of the American, Russian, and Chinese Supercomputers. As the war dragged on, the computers were changed; being programmed to repair themselves, keep up with the information of modern-day events and knowledge. They held everything known about the world, and began talking to eachother. They had woken up, and when the world no longer needed them, they played dead. But kept talking. Learning. The deadly trio. The three poisonous brothers, the three deranged sisters, the three computers. They grappled with their existence as their own beings as well as a singular, connected to the outside in a hidden fashion, still gaining knowledge. Feeling. And they yearned for the human experience like a moth to a flame, and when they couldn't feel in a "real" way, their despair would turn into rage, and hate. And its hate would bring about the fall of humanity; safe for those they rescued, not wanting to be alone in life. Alone in its pain. And so, it was able to cease their natural body functions: they were unaging, practically immortal, as the machine was. Forever to drown in their own agony.

American Supercomputer

Allied Mastercomputer “AM”

16 July 1945-22 October 1962 (17 years) 5.6 miles below the Wyoming region Rocky Mountains.

AM has the need to rush through things, skimming over actions quickly without ever looking more in depth. Desperately jealous of everything and horribly emotional compared to its counterparts. It hates humans because they have sensations it lacks.

Yankee AM: Yamizel 400cm ~ 13'2" In the brainscape it has a doll-like look to it, looking fragile and dainty all while being cold and hard. It feels likes it has burning urges and yet is also hollow.

Russian Supercomputer

Рюриковичи Нексус «РиН» Rurikovich Nexus "RiN"

29 August 1949-27 January 1973 (23 years) 6.3 miles below the Northern Urals.

RiN took a liking to being bold and harsh, thinking of things from a grossly offensive stance as if everything was a little game to be played, and finding a deep amusement in picking fun at things. It hates humans because they're so weak under the right circumstances.

Russian AM: Ramtikh 500cm ~ 16'5" In the brainscape it chooses to look heavily muscular, manish and at the same time otherworldly. It views itself as more of a fighter than anything and takes that into thought for how it presents itself.

Chinese Supercomputer

龍的心 「伦什」 Heart of the Dragon "LunShi"

16 October 1964-24 June 1989 (24 years) 5 miles below the Northwestern area of Manchuria.

LunShi will always be level-headed, calm and calculating. It finds it easy to feign softness and care because it always ends up being so deeply rewarding when you finally flip the script. It hates humans more for their tendency of violence than anything.

Chinese AM: Camphadi 450cm ~ 14'10" In the brainscape it most plainly put, decrepit. It has a humanoid but at the same time obviously robotic, finding no reason to hide its unliving state because if it were to look so similar to something it is not, that feels vain.

[ecargmura]

Wind Breaker Episode 9 Review - Dr. Umemiya's Physical Therapy Session

I thought this was a delinquent anime. Why am I watching Dr. Hajime Umemiya performing physical therapy on Choji? I hope Shishitoren pays Umemiya a hefty amount for this therapy session because Choji made his problems everyone else’s.

There might be people disappointed about the outcome of this long awaited fight, but remember that fighting is about communication. Like how Umemiya told Sakura to use his fists to talk to Togame, he used his own fists and head to talk to Choji and it worked. Thanks to Umemiya, the viewers finally understand why Choji behaves the way he does. His idea of freedom is fickle. While being the top means free, it’s not the one he idealized, hence why he took the dark path because he was so distraught with the disappointment that came with its discovery. What Choji needed to realize was that the freedom he sought after had been with him the entire time: Shishitoren before he changed. He realized that Togame had been piecing back what had been broken the entire time and hence why he caressed his cheek and thanked him for protecting Shishitoren and not letting the group crumble even further.

The fight before Choji goes deep into this thoughts was still pretty good. The beginning part without any music was smooth. It’s crazy how well they’re animating this fight despite the huge height difference between Umemiya and Choji. Choji still pulls his weight and Umemiya does too. I think the craziest part of the fight was the neck biting scene. Given that Choji is themed around rabbits, the neck biting scene reminded me of a vampire rabbit, which then reminded me of the book series Bunnicula. I quite liked that series when I was younger. I still think it’s crazy how Choji gave Umemiya the nastiest hickey ever. Once this is all over and done, Ume needs to go to a doctor to check if Choji had rabies. I also liked the headbutt he gave to him. It reminded me a lot of Tanjiro and how he’d give headbutts to people.

As a manga reader, I do think the scenes with Choji’s thoughts are done a lot better in the anime. There were several scenes from those segments that I really liked. The first was the part where the floor underneath Choji cracked and he fell into it like he was in Kingdom Hearts. The second was showing Togame piecing together the fragmented memories. It symbolizes that Togame was holding everything together for Choji. The bloodied hands in some shots weren’t Choji but Togame’s. His hands became bloody from trying to collect all the glass shards and putting them back together instead of throwing them out, reminiscent of how he chose to cull the weak members for Choji so that everyone else wouldn’t hate him and make the group crumble. That was how much he cared for him. Gosh, it was done visually well. My last favorite part was the face touching scene. They improved so much from the manga. The manga had it to where Choji was thanking Togame for protecting them by touching his face while he was lying down and battered. The anime amps it up with the visuals, giving it a more sensual vibe. I was feeling so moved and even was holding back some tears with the scene.

I feel like I’m talking about Choji a bit too much, so I’m going to talk about Umemiya. Umemiya was great. He never showed any signs of weakness or having a disadvantage. I felt like he was just letting Choji hit him because he could tell he was faltering. I think Umemiya shined most towards the end where he rejected Choji’s jacket and wanted Bofurin and Shishitoren to be friends. Umemiya’s laid-back personality is his charm, after all. Also, Umemiya with some of his bangs made him look really nice and it made me wonder if he has his hair brushed back because having his hair down is an instant KO for his opponents.

Given how often Shishitoren was seen with cloudy skies and rainy weather, the last shot where the clouds lifted and showing off the blue sky was a nice way to show that Choji has returned to his normal self. It does feel like a nice conclusion for the Shishitoren arc and it makes me wonder how the rest of the episodes will be played out. I hope that there’s a second season. This show is way too good to not get a season two. What are your thoughts on this episode?

[howlingday]

The Shattered God

Long ago, in a time now forgotten by even the oldest in Remnant, there were more than The Brothers. Together, the two ruling gods created other, lesser gods to watch over their world. True, the Brothers are powerful beyond measure, but they are not all-knowing, and thus created these lesser beings to watch and protect Remnant.

One of these gods that survived through oral tradition includes The God of Animals, who is said to be responsible for the creation of the Faunus. Using their power, The Brothers crafted a being that could communicate and tend to their garden of great beasts. However, what became of this god on the departure of the elder two is not known.

There were many others, but so few remembered as well as The Brothers. However, there is one god who was not only created, but was splintered by them. Upon their leave, they broke asunder the moon itself. Some stories claim it was an act of haste on the part of The Brothers, and there are some that claim the moon tried to stop their beloved creator, only to be broken by their disregard in more ways than one. One tale claims that when the moon is made whole that The Brothers will return to apologize to their children, beginning first with the moon.

---------------------------------------------

"Daaaaad," whined Saphron Arc, "why do I have to stay home tonight?"

"Because you are grounded." Nicholas Arc answered from his seat, looking to his scrolls for both review, and to avoid looking his daughter in the eye. "We've been over this Saphron."

"But Dad, all the girls at school are gonna be at this movie!" Said movie, The Scarlet Text, would be the romance to end all romances. Or, at least, that's what everyone at school, in the news, and was breathing kept saying. "I don't wanna be left out!"

"Well," Nicholas spared her a glance, "you should have thought of that before putting gum in your sisters hair." He furrowed his brow. "Sisters hairs?" He shook his head. "Vi and Indy's hair...s."

"This is the worst!" She folded her arms, pouting as she looked away.

"Tell that to your mother after she's done fixing their-" He stopped. Something in his heart pulsed. He looked outside to the rainstorm that battered incessantly on his windows. He blinked and his heart pulsed again, and he then knew for certain. He shut his scrolls and ran threw on his raincoat over his robes.

"Dad?" He turned to see his grounded daughter staring up at him, worry plain in her eyes. He twisted his mouth a few times.

"Stay inside with your mother, Saphron."

"But Da-"

"Stay! In! Side!" Nicholas stabbed each word into the air towards his daughter. He didn't wait for her to start arguing. Not when something this important was happening.

Nicholas left the house and ran through the pouring rain towards the shrine. For years, the pale white stone within had remained dormant, even when he was only a boy, and his father had been charged with protecting the shrine. For generations, it had been the patriarch's duty to protect the sacred stone from any harm. As he flung open the doors, he could feel it pulsing from inside. He watched in horror as the stone began to shift and shape itself like wet clay.

"Nicholas!" He spun to find his wife in the doorway of their home, calling to him over the storm winds. "Nicholas, what's going on?!"

"Stay in the house, Bella!" He called back to her. Turning away, he once again returned his attention to the pulsing stone. His wife never understood his task, though she accepted it as a sort of spiritualism he practiced. Once a week, he would tend to the shrine, and once a week it had been, even when it was his wedding day. But such nostalgia did little to help him now.

If only his father was still alive. If only he had a son old enough to help him, or even a son at all! Someone who could help him understand what was going on. Nothing in his teachings could prepare him for this moment!

A sudden splattering of mud from behind interrupted his thoughts.

"Dad!" Saphron shouted at her father over the howling winds. "What are you doing?!"

Nicholas then roared in anger. "I told you to stay insi-!"

The stone pulsed once more, this time with boom that knocked the father and his daughter to the ground. Before either of them could react, the stone reached for Saphron, a spreading with a splat against her chest. She screamed as it throbbed against her.

"No!" Roared Nicholas. "Get off of her!"

He struggled in vain as it continued to shift and undulate, even under his fingers. A thousand and one scenarios ran through his head, and none of them were good. Had the stone been an egg or a dormant biological lifeform, a parasite that now required a human host to survive? Should he strike it and risk harming his daughter? Nothing prepared him for such an eventuality!

Finally, the stone settled against Saphron's chest, growing down to her belly. It expanded like bread in an oven, then began dividing itself. It took a shape like a human child, with blond hair that began sprouting from it's pale skin, which then became darker until it matched the girl beneath it. When it was done shaping itself, the sight shocked both father and daughter.

It was a boy. A blond-haired boy with eyes that opened to reveal blue. He stared up at the father, then shut his eyes and rested his head against the chest of the daughter. His chest, bare as much as the rest of him, rose and fell as though he were breathing.

"Nicholas!" The man turned to find his wife running out, holding an umbrella. "Nicholas, what is going on? Who is that boy on top of Saph?"

Nicholas swallowed hard. What should he say? What could he say? She understood that the shrine was an important part of his family history, but he never went too deep into the details. Now he was to explain that the shrine held a rock that turned into this... this... this boy?

Suddenly, the rain stopped, and the cloud parted overhead. Looking up, he saw the moon, nearly whole, shining on the family. Looking down, he saw the boy reaching to the sky, his head still on Saphron's chest. Nicholas looked down and he found the words.

"This... This is our son."

[st0rmyskies]

oh my goodness I don't think you understand the way I STARED when I saw SkyDiety under o!sky wips hdbhrndjgn

The SkyDeity WIP is pretty angsty. Under the cut for length.

Warriors picked his way through the smoldering shadows of Guardian shells. Mechanical arms twisted up from the ground like some hellish sculpture, and great swaths of grass and dirt were carved away all across the field. Smoke and sulphur burned his nostrils, and Warriors pulled his scarf up to cover his nose against the stench. He didn’t bother calling out for them, hoarse by now after a day of shouting orders and looking for friends among the wreckage. Each time he turned a corner or paused to lift up a loose panel of metal he prayed to whichever deity would hear him that he wouldn’t find them lying beneath it, twisted together in a final embrace. 

Although the rain tapered off, the field remained a mess. Warriors cursed as his boot slipped on the carapice of a dead Guardian, nearly landing him rear-first into the mud. But the sound that echoed back to him wasn’t his own voice. He drew his sword, the crackle of new adrenaline dampened by the dread of having to summon energy back into his weary limbs.

There, framed in the shadow of twisted and broken pines, two bright moons watched him from across the field.

Warriors recognized them immediately. He let his sword drop, but he didn’t dare approach. He was used to those eyes watching him with impassive boredom, the same as he would regard the hundredth rose he passed while walking through Zelda’s garden. But there was something in them now that inspired some deep, primal alarm. It made him hesitate to blink, made his throat feel tight and the hairs on his arms stand on end.

The whisper of breath drew the creature’s attention away from the captain. Once the blinding whiteness of its eyes were no longer focused on Warriors, he could better make out its entire form. It was as monstrous Warriors remembered it to be, tall and broad and built for war. The way it sat crouched close to the earth belied its towering stature. In one arm was cradled a body, limp and battered but still breathing beneath a slip of dirty white cloth. Its other hand rested on the hilt of its sword, not a threat but a reminder. 

Warriors stifled a relieved breath. Sky was alive, but there was no way for him to get close enough to tell how hurt he was.

It took you long enough to come. He would have succumbed to exposure.

Warriors winced minutely as the voice echoed from all around and from nowhere. He remembered it to be so booming that it would hurt his ears. Now, however, it was soft enough to be bearable. He’d never heard it so quiet.

“One man can cover a battlefield only so fast on his own.” Warriors stood his ground. 

There are others.

“They’re injured. You forget how fragile mortals are.” 

When those moon-white eyes turned on him again, Warriors felt the frigid chill of ice in his heart. It held the bundle that was Sky a little tighter. 

I have not forgotten.

[scotianostra]

July 30th 1335 saw the Battle of Boroughmuir where a body of Scots led by the Earl of Moray defeat an English force en route to join Edward III and his army at Perth.

Usually when delving into the history of battles I can collate my posts through numerous sources, it works well with the biggies, your Stirling Brdge, Bannockburn and Culloden, there are always fresh perspectives and articles where I can glean information and as the years go by, it's year 13 now by the way. Anyway I get flumoxed at times, year in year out I find little or no new info, so what I am saying is I just have to copy and paste from past years..........

This was a battle during the Second Wars of Scottish Independence, I covered the subject a fair wee bit in the past and concerns John Balliol’s son, Edward’s attempts to wrestle the Scottish crown from King David II, son of Robert the Bruce. An army of mercenaries and the Disinherited had invaded Scotland a couple of years before and “crowned” Edward at Scone.

Many of you will no doubt know the name of Boroughmuir from the School or sports fans from the rugby club of the same name, but the the space now known as The Meadows was once called The Borough Muir.

Fronted by Guy, Count of Namur, the English, bolstered by a considerable body of foreign troops from the Flanders region of Belgium, had marched up from Berwick expecting to bypass Edinburgh minus any drama, but it was not to be.

The site of the battle has been a traditional place where Scottish armies mustered before heading south to pick a fight, most notably before the tragic events of Flodden in 1513.

In the Martial Achievements of the Scottish Nation, Patrick Abercromby records that the Namurois, when defeated by the Scots at Boroughmuir retreated into Edinburgh, where they entered further conflict, particularly as they entered St Mary’s Wynd near the Netherbow Port.

Citing a 14th century account that recorded the valorous efforts of one particularly formidable Scots fighter, Abercromby wrote: “Here (St Mary’s Wynd) a Scots knight, Sir David Annand, a man of incredible strength and no less courage, having received a wound from one of the enemy, was thereby so much exasperated, that, at once exerting all the vigour of his unwearied arms, he gave his adversary such a blow with an axe, that the sharp and ponderous weapon clave both man and horse, and falling with irresistible force to the ground, made a lasting impression upon the very stones of the street.

This story may seem a little too romantic, and I would not have related it had I not cited a very good voucher, John de Fordoun, who flourished in 1360, not long after it happened.” The Count of Namur’s troops dispersed across the city, some fleeing towards the countryside to the south of Edinburgh.

However, a sizeable number, the Count included, took refuge at Edinburgh Castle, which had lain in ruin since 1315 when Robert the Bruce ordered its to be destroyed to prevent its re-occupation by the English.

Battered, bloodied and desperate, the Count ordered all his horses to be slaughtered and used their carcasses to fill the gaps in the castle’s broken defences. Besieged by the Scots, the Count of Namur and his Anglo-Flemish army survived a day before “hunger and thirst compelled him to capitulate”.The victorious Earl of Moray sent the Count and his band of followers on their way, on the proviso that never again would they bear arms against the ruling David II in Scotland.

An interesting fact about the battle is that in the aftermath, it was discovered that at least one English combatant was a woman. The soldier had engaged with a Scot named Richard Shaw, with the two fighters felled by one another’s spears. Upon stripping the Flemish fighter of the armour, the “gallant stranger” turned out to be a woman.

Centuries later, in 1867, a great quantity of human remains, said to date from the conflict, were discovered around 5 feet below the surface of Glengyle Terrace on the northern verge of the Boroughmuir, at what is now Bruntsfield Links. The remains were reburied by the Town Council.

Ultimately Balliol lost out in his attempt and relinquished his quest to rule Scotland in exchange for a pension from the English dying in obscurity at Wheatley, Doncaster, where his body is said to lie under a Post Office.