#crow writes things

[cannedcrow]

Arbitrary Darkness Part III: An Unorthodox Night Out

Part I, Part II,

Read on AO3

A/N: Hey all - it's been a while, I'm sorry! I don't know if anyone is still interested in my writing but if you are, enjoy!

~ Please reblog if you enjoy <3 ~

Grian wasn’t quite sure what he expected behind the heavy door. Vague, juvenile images of a shadowy stone room full of cloaked demons materialised in his head, contemptuously dismissed in the next heartbeat. As the door swung open, however, it seemed to sweep outwards with it a wave of chatter, laughter and music, somewhat jarring in comparison to the dimly lit and silent lobby.

The arch led onto a balcony which crowned the cavernous room below. Two flights of stairs led down to the main floor, flanking a gently curved bar of sleek, red-stained wood that dominated the far end, a wall of glittering bottles and glasses towering behind it. Music rose through the floor, insinuating that below them, in the shade of the balcony, a jazz band played.

Pillars of imperious black marble supported the balcony and provided intervals for other doorways or more secluded alcoves. Tables of varying sizes and shapes dotted the remaining space, at which sat a bizarre range of visitants, some of whom looked perfectly human at a first glance, until their jewel-toned eyes flicked upward, or a sip of their drinks showed mouths far too full of teeth. Some others were monsters with far more obvious features - backwards-bending legs ending in clawed feet, antlers and glinting scales, tails that swished relaxedly in pleasant conversation.

Without a word, Scar led the way down the stairs, navigating smoothly through the maze of tables and towards the bar, whilst Grian attempted to follow, adopting what he hoped was an expression of appropriately excited bewilderment. He was aware suddenly of how surrounded he was by faces that could turn unfriendly at the slightest moment, that he was following a monster - one who, for whatever reason, had decided to vouch for Grian’s entry to this peculiar place. But none of the occupants looked up for more than a moment, and some even nodded a friendly greeting. He forced his prickling feathers to flatten.

Relax. Nobody has any reason to look twice at you.

“Thank you, by the way,” he began to Scar as they reached the bar, “Is entry to this place usually difficult?” He thought better than to ask ‘why did you help me’. Better let Scar think that he simply thought him a sympathetic stranger with no unsavoury motives.

“You’re very welcome!” Scar returned pleasantly. “Who am I to deny a man company of his own kind at the end of the day?”

That wasn’t much of an answer. He was beginning to piece together an impression of Scar already, but didn’t press further.

“What’ll you have?” Turning towards the sudden voice, Grian met the playing-card gaze of the barkeep, whose pale silver hair spiked like shattered glass in spite of his headband and mask. It was damp, too, he noticed. Someone’s shift just started. Grian studied the bottles lining the shelves, and felt intermingled disgust and nausea well in his stomach upon spying several rows of bottles containing various dark fluids ranging from cherry red and rich plum to abyssal reds and blacks, all labelled simply by origin- Human - F - XX45, Hoglin - M - XX03. “Bourbon rust for me, and my friend will have …?” He turned an inquiring gaze to Grian.

Grian suppressed a shudder - he did not like the sensation of those iridescent eyes fixing on him, the way they flickered like peridots when the light caught just right, as though unable to maintain a human facade. “I- uh, just gin and bitters. Please.”

The barkeep nodded and moved to select the necessary elements, which included, to his distaste, one of the bottles of blood.

“That’s Etho, by the way,” Scar provided helpfully, watching with benign interest as Etho shook the bottle roughly and splashed some into the glass of amber whiskey, mixing until the drink reached a uniform, slightly cloudy red.

“He’s the best mixologist in the city with the worst PR,” Scar chuckled. Etho placed Scar’s concoction in front of him, remarking with amusement, “To be fair, it’s not like I had much competition working here …”

Scar sipped his drink with appreciation, and the tang of alcohol and iron reached Grian, making him think queasily of an operating theatre.

“It’s actually very difficult to keep blood from coagulating,” Scar expounded with the blithe air of a professor enthralled with his subject, “Especially considering it's for consumption. At the end of the day it’s a living thing, you know? So every moment it’s not in the body, you have to stop it dying, preferably without also poisoning your customers. Not sure how Etho does it; that’s his secret.” Etho winked and presented Grian with his drink.

Grian nodded dumbly. He picked up his own drink and took a deep draft, hoping to subdue his steadily mounting anxiety.

“Come on then,” Scar broke in, gesturing to an empty table in the shadow of the balcony.

They settled in their seats, and Grian found himself growing more comfortable, surrounded by the glow of lamplight and the cheerful sounds of chatter and clinking glass. It was, after all, a beautiful establishment, all shining dark wood set against elaborate wallpaper in shades of phthalo green. He turned his attention towards the jazz band, where a singer had joined the musicians for the next number.

Grian found himself staring in shock, for the man was utterly entrancing. He was fairly tall and willowy, with rather long, silky hair the colour of aquamarine and sharply defined eyes in an identical hue. With sharply pointed ears and pale, seashell skin, he struck Grian as some sort of elf. He was dressed with simple elegance in a loose, gossamer shirt of pale blue, and high-waisted corset pants. His voice was soft and sirenesque, with a Scottish lilt to it.

“Careful,” Scar chastised, a knowing smirk on his face, “that’s a good way to die horribly.”

Grian looked away in surprise. “What?”

“He’s a each-uisge.” (Scar pronounced this term with the great pride and concentration of one who has had to practice,) “The only one I’ve ever met.”

Grian couldn’t help the twinge of embarrassment at having no clue what a each-uisge (which sounded to him more like a sneeze than a word) was. Scar seemed to pick up on his confusion and seemed pleased at the chance to elucidate. “Kinda like an incubus, kinda like a kelpie. They’re a type of fairy that can turn into a water-horse. Not the nice kind though, the drag-you-to-the-bottom-of-a-lake-and-rip-you-to-shreds kind. Interesting guy, just not the best lover,” he laughed, and Grian had to keep himself from shuddering. He began to take mental notes, intent on building profiles.

“Charming,” he replied wryly, “I assume you’ve spoken then?”

“Oh, yes, a few times. His name is Scott. He told me the only way to recognise his kind is because they often have waterweeds caught in their hair, so he has to be careful to keep it clean.”

“Waterweeds, huh?” The largest body of water nearby was the Hermiton Canal, and he imagined one would be more likely to bring wet newspaper or slimy algae up with them. “Fancy that,”

Grian sipped his drink, then changed the subject: “Do you know who owns this place? I’m curious as to who might have the means for such an establishment.” The second part was added in a hurry to make his question less interrogative, but Scar didn’t appear to be bothered. Grian was starting to notice Scar’s uncanny ability to appear completely friendly and unperturbed no matter what, a demeanour he found unsettling.

“Of course! Couple of wonderful gentlemen, Doc and Ren. RenDoc. Or DocRen - which, fun fact, is a slant rhyme for coc-“

He did not get to finish his quip.

“Will you stop telling people that? It does not make a good first impression for either of us,” a new voice growled with playful annoyance, the heavy German accent surprising Grian until the sight of it’s owner usurped that concern.

The creature would’ve been easily defined as a creeper-hybrid, had it not been for the goat horns spiralling from his temples and parting his slick black hair. Half of its face was roughly human but for the characteristic jagged facial orifices of a creeper, while an uneven line drawn from one cheek to the forehead marked the edges of a metal reconstruction. One eye was emptily black, with only a pinprick of pale light suggesting a pupil, while the other glowed red under eyelids of black silicone. In stature, he was clearly broad and well muscled even under his tuxedo, while his face was prominent in jaw, nose, and brow. His skin was poisonously green, and his mouth stretched too far into each cheek, just above a short, well-kept black beard.

“Well, speak of the devil!” Scar looked up with a cheerful grin, evidently unconcerned that he was being addressed by a terrifying abomination of science who might very well have been the Devil, “Hello there, Doc!”

“Good to see you, my friend,” replied the newcomer warmly, drawing a chair for himself before holding a - cybernetic - hand out to Grian. Grian took it, prepared for cold metal and surprised by the warm silicone pads of the hand. He introduced himself (or rather, ‘Adrien’) again.

“Good to meet you, Adrien. How did word of the Eighth Circle find you?”

Grian assumed this was the name of the establishment. “Tango,” he answered, thinking quickly, “a friend of mine.” To his relief, Doc smiled with recognition.

“Oh, that so? Tango is a regular here. Spends half his time selling enderman bones and strider eggs to Joel.” He nodded in the direction of a man who sat alone, a hood drawn over his head, the dark hair that protruded split by a forelock of green, rain-soaked over wary eyes.

“He’s a human?” Grian probed, curious at the evident exception.

“Yeah, but he’s an alchemist. When you talk to criminals you’re bound to find non-humans too, and we’d all be strung up together if anyone found out, so…” Scar’s face fell into a lazy, lopsided grin and he shrugged, “The more the merrier.”

It wasn’t as though alchemy was strictly illegal, but it was heavily ostracised by residents of New Hermiton. For as long as the city had stood, it’s tangled streets had been riddled by monsters and nonhumans, and it’s residents had learnt to harbour virulent distrust of anything even faintly supernatural. Alchemy - the practice of crooked or occult experimentation - was, unsurprisingly, faced with the same anger and fear. It was most likely that to the outside world, Joel was an apothecary - a far more suitable profession that while tolerated by the public (though not welcomed gladly, which usually suited those involved perfectly well) that both funded his unsavoury and illegal under-the-table purchases and was based in similar learning. At that moment, Joel’s eyes met his with a challenging glare, and he contorted his face into an expression which bore a striking resemblance to an illustration Grian had once seen of a yawning green tree python. With a polite nod, he averted his gaze.

Doc stood rather suddenly. “I want to get a drink,” he announced, “Come.”

“I’m about ready for a second!” Scar acquiesced cheerfully. Having nothing better to do, Grian followed suit.

“What’s the deal with Etho?” He asked Scar, catching sight of the pale hair as they walked.

“The deal?”

“I mean … he looks … um, normal.”

Scar chuckled, and Grian glimpsed with intrigue that the inky-purple colour of his mouth. “Oh! Dunno, really. Some kind of shapeshifter. Which is really convenient for him. But he’s always white or grey and has his eyes, so it’s not perfect camouflage.” With great enthusiasm he added, “He makes the cutest cat, but he never lets me snuggle him - can you believe it? It’s the greatest miscarriage of justice.”

Grian snorted with laughter despite himself. They reached the bar and Grian leant his back against it as Doc waved for Etho’s attention.

Scar’s mention of a cat had jogged something in his mind, though. The image of the rain-soaked alley outside the cafe window came to his mind, and the pale grey cat he’d watched catch a pigeon. How long had that cat been there? Why that alley? Had it been watching him? And more importantly, had it been Etho or simply a stray cat? He hadn’t seen the cats eyes; he’d remember. He began to feel uneasiness drawing soft claws through his skin. Etho’s hair had been wet when he’d first seen him.

He looked over the room, determined to remain as nonchalant as any other visitor. It didn’t help, particularly, though there were plenty of peculiarities to focus on. Two fauns sat at a table, absorbed in the singer’s performance. One was a ram, with soft golden hair that gave him a youthfully windswept look, and a lab coat draped over the back of his chair. His ears, legs, tail were like that of a creamy-brown sheep. The other was a red deer, whose braid of copper hair was carefully parted around her small antlers and fell down her back past her tail. At a more secluded table sat a lone man who stared tragically into his old-fashioned glass, the bottle waiting patiently beside him like a consoling friend. He - like Grian - was at least part harpy, though he didn’t look pleased about it. His small, buttery yellow wings were ruffled with lack of care, his dirty-blonde hair equally unkempt.

“Adrien!” Scar waved a drink in front of his face, “Doc’s paying! It’s tasty.”

Grian suddenly regretted not watching whatever it was being made, because the cloudy red tint of the drink made him question the contents.

Scar sampled his own, uttering a gentle sigh of delight. “C’mon, now - it’s an Etho original. Don’t hurt his feelings!”

“I’m … good,” Grian replied lightly. I’m not drinking that filth; leave me alone!

“Come now,” Doc rumbled sweetly, “can’t drink on the job?”

[kierans-crow]

For Nathaniel, 🍋, 🍒, 🍰, 🥃 :)

First of all fuck you for picking my most difficult character to write. and Second: Fuck You for this first question. :)

🍋: What is your OC's most painful memory?

Nearly as bad as the day he was sent away to boarding school. This stranger who would in short order, beyond reason, somehow become to Nathaniel as a brother he never had. Who had intercepted the only life Nathaniel had wanted. The apprentice of Nicholas Price. And when Nathaniel asked after his mother, "Last I knew, she was ill," said Moriarty Gowan Kilmister. "Gravely ill, why? Did you know her?" Gravely ill and where was Nathaniel? Grief, guilt, regret fell into one another until they were indistinguishable. Gods. Damn. Him. He was supposed to return, having built himself into the man his parents could be proud of. Worthy of the Price name, establishing their legacy. And all this time mother had been dying. Gods, why did she not write? Why did she not tell him? How could him finding out later possibly be better? For either of them. Nathaniel nearly threw his pocket watch - his father's pocket watch - into the lake. Considered, very briefly, shattering it against the cobblestones.

🍒: Has Your OC had their first kiss yet? If so, with who?

Before he and Rosaline kissed in secret, and before Moriarty kissed him as a joke during Never Have I Ever, there was Thomas. They were teenagers together and then new adults and Nathaniel was adventurous then in a way that is different than he is now. Thomas dared him to pierce his ears and was surprised when Nathaniel actually did it. Thomas was the first person who noticed the mask - the would be ever present smile - Nathaniel built for himself. It was not entirely a surprise when he finally kissed Thomas behind the stairs one summer afternoon. Not a surprise either when, later, they found themselves walking hand in hand through the woods. And nothing came of it, in the end. Thomas moved away and Nathaniel did not.

🍰: What's something your OC counts as unforgivable?

In many ways himself. He regrets more than anything the feeling that he abandoned his mother. That Nicholas left him after all. And still Nathaniel can't seem to move on. He is a man of innovation. Stuck in the endless spiral of "if only," pulling himself backwards toward the past instead of blazing the trail ahead alongside Moriarty. And all the while phenomenal things happen around him.

🥃: If your OC was in this universe, what would be their favourite show/book/band/social media platform?

Part of my problem here is that. I do not consume Much media. I am mostly dragged around by my S/O tbh (affectionate) I may have to come to terms with the fact that he'd probably have "How It's Made" on in the background.

[crow-the-unknown]

random things i love writing

-scenes where a character is alone in the room, burdened with memories but finally accepting they have to move on

-or rather, scenes like that where a character is sad about everything and doesn't want to leave that situation, so another character comes in and oh so gently gets them to understand it's already over

-kiss scenes that just focus on emotion. i don't write sex scenes ever because 1) they make me uncomfortable and 2) i'm also ace, so writing kiss scenes usually reflects that. i like writing how it makes the characters feel not just about each other but also about themselves. writing characters being so dumbfoundedly in love with each other is hilarious.

-domestic comfort scenes, usually with lovers, but sometimes with friends or family as well. even in fantasy this works, in my book it's rare given what my characters go through, but when they do show up they make for a nice breather from all the angst and action.

-i. love. metaphors. idk why, but i do. i love being non literal and exploring feelings or scenes just by relating them to something that will make the reader and myself think.

-nature stuff. i often find this is a hard one to capsulate correctly, as i always have crystal clear visions of the scenery but i do my best. it's a challenge i like though, i've had to accept that people will probably see it differently than i will and that's okay. it's always fun to work in the landscape to my characters.

-emotion in general, they're so fickle. i adore writing human behavior that's caused by emotion. anxiety causing a bouncy leg or twiddling thumbs, the blank and tired stare of devastation, the giddy smile and bouncy energy a character gets from joy, all of it. some are hard to explain through words, but as i've written it's gotten easier. i find human emotion and behavior very interesting and, like with nature, i love the challenge of writing something so versatile.

*extra :3

-i actually come up with most of my scenes because of music! this all started around when i got really into animatics and music as a whole. this is the reason i love long car rides. i always just put in my ear buds and watch out the window the entire time as i come up with scenes. sound tracks are usually what i use most. most any of my biggest scenes in a fic/book that i write actually start as animations in my head to a certain song. i once spent probably close to an hour listening to one song on loop during a car ride just so i could imagine my book's climax as an animatic.

[hoperays-song]

I don’t think you’re getting it guys, there are two types of found family: the organized type, with “I chose you and I choose us’, healing together, and nurturing vibes, and the chaotic type, which mainly falls into the “good luck getting rid of me now” category like bringing home stray cats does.

Sometimes it’s just one, other times it’s both combined in some way. And both options are so fucking amazing.

[graysmiles-world]

forget therapy. ima go read about someone who has the same problems as me fall in love with someone who also has the same problems as me

[inkiedraws]

Very short little Christmas comic taking place a few years after the movie and the games kinda.

For my own enjoyment Oogie’s revenge is canon because that thing was 80% of my childhood and i don’t care

Jack remembers that cringe thing he did 5 years ago and suffers.

[shit-people-probably-didnt-say]

Like what even was the purpose in Jan sending those letters to Wylan.

He wanted Wylan gone and Wylan was gone

Like fair, he wanted him dead not in hiding so it would make sense, from his severely warped point of view, to have his men track Wylan down to finish the job

But whats with the letters? That gives Wylan time to move and escape. Are they only there to taunt and make him feel even more unsafe? Like whats the point? Why spend time on this?

Did he figure Wylan would be killed in the Barrel if he gave it a little time, so no need to sully his hands getting involved?

So he figured he may as well set up the “runaway” story whilst also terrorising his already traumatised son?

Like wtf man

[swampthingking]

i have this thought that andrew minyard would accidentally befriend a murder of crows if you even care

[maidenofcrows]

Traditional height differences. Sure, it’s cute that he could gently rest his chin on the top of her head. But she’s also at the perfect height to headbutt him in the throat.

[shootingstarrfish]

maybe im just really fruits basket brained right now but thinking about the obey me boys going to the human world and their associated animals being weirdly obsessed with them

everyone thinks it's hilarious when mammon gets hounded by a murder of crows and slightly less hilarious when it's flies or scorpions chasing them

[fistfuloflightning]

He had his father’s directions to Gusu, but the journey was longer than he thought. He had gotten lost again and again, guided back by the weasel spirits Wen Qing and Wen Ning, had been given spiritual gifts from the tree spirit Xiao Xingchen, had been given food by the eager wolf-dog Jin Ling.

But when he arrived in the mountains, Lan Sizhui realized all that meant nothing, as he did not know how to reach the city in the clouds. He did not have Lan Wangji’s ability to summon clouds nor would Bichen respond to him the way it had to his mother. Helpless, he found himself staring longingly into the sky.

A great gust of wings and Wei Wuxian landed beside him in a whirlwind of black and white and scarlet. “Uncle! You followed me,” Lan Sizhui said in surprise.

The crane bent his long neck to look into the boy’s eyes. “Did you think I would not? I hatched alongside your father’s river, have guarded it and him, and cherish him like a brother. Do not think I would not protect his son when he is unable to.”

Lan Sizhui felt like a little boy again, taking his first steps with his hand fisted in his uncle’s feathers, wobbly and uncertain, and felt that all over again. Relying on Wei Wuxian’s strength to keep himself moving forward.

Lan Sizhui returned his face to the billowing, gold-touched clouds high above. Somewhere hidden in them was the great city his mother had left to see the world below, and had returned to a captive. “I have been given aid to get here, and gifts, but all of it would be for nothing if I cannot sprout wings.”

Wei Wuxian clacked his beak in thought.

“I will take you,” he decided. “It was I who first urged your mother to leave the Cloud Recesses to visit the world below, despite her being forbidden from doing so. Never before have I cherished the consequences of my actions so dearly.” The crane touched his scarlet forehead against Lan Sizhui’s.

The boy gripped Bichen tightly, steeling himself. His mother was waiting. “Very well. I do not know what waits for me above, but at least I have a fierce protector in you, Uncle.”

“Always.”

Gripping his shoulders securely, Wei Wuxian carried him into the sky. And with every great wingbeat, Lan Sizhui could feel himself grow closer to his mother, her presence like a bright beacon.

[cannedcrow]

All that blood was never once beautiful (Double Life)

A/N: hey lads! Been a while since I wrote something. Double Life has inspired me … please enjoy this Cleo-centric piece! ＼＿ﾍ(´ω｀)

CW: blood, death.

~ Reblog if you enjoy! <3 ~

-

That point had come again, as it had twice before, though none of the little world’s inhabitants knew it. As expected as evening, and yet always too soon, always too suddenly.

Cleo was vaguely aware of blood pooled around her boots, just sticky enough to not let her forget it. The steady pulse of a heart clinging desperately to life had subsided into a lifeless trickle, every tributary adding to the steadily growing red pool that irrigated the arid mountain soil.

Joel’s body lay only a few feet away. He had tried to run in the wake of Cleo’s vicious sword stroke to the back of his knee, but hadn’t gotten far before his leg buckled and he collapsed in the rocky soil with a wailed curse, curling in on himself in the final frail defence of human instinct. Why hadn’t Etho been with him? That was unusually bad planning for him. She wondered vaguely what it felt like for Etho to die of blood loss, wherever he was now. Scary, probably. But she’d felt the terror of unexpected agony too. She was sorry for his death, but knew he’d understand better than anyone - the two of them had always been survivors.

Ragged panting and the scatter of rocks interrupted her thoughts and she glanced up to see Martyn, who’d evidently just crested the cliffside and was out of breath, sword in hand in preparation for a fight. Cleo saw shock and dismay cloud his expression before he could hide it. He chuckled, clearly forcing his usual flippant manner. “I came to see if you needed help - I see you’ve handled it!”

“Yeah,” Cleo agreed flatly. We both know you’re only here for your own sake.

She remembered what he’d done only too well. It was Martyn who was responsible for Scott’s death, when he’d been caught in the wildfire Martyn - alongside Etho and Joel - had started to kill Grian and Scar. She had watched the birch forest blaze across the ravine from her, spilling plumes of black smoke that dulled the clouds. She remembered the panic when she’d realised Scott had been to see them, the desperate hope that he’d saved himself. She had longed for a bond with him then, if only to know if he was hurt. She could still picture his body, soot smeared and singed, drowned in smoke he couldn’t expel from his lungs.

“Come on now,” Martyn said, a smile in his voice, “this means we win, right?”

Cleo blinked. Something about sharing a victory with the partner she’d never wanted tasted sour on her tongue. The partner whose life had been chained to hers, though he’d always disregarded the pain he’d subjected her to through his own mistakes. She still recalled the panic of their first day, when she’d suddenly felt flames consume her, unseen heat cauterising her open flesh as she’d screamed, Scott standing by with the knowledge he could only watch, green eyes agonised.

The anger had never left her. It had only built - rage that with each injustice had mutated, rage not only against Martyn but against fate itself. She’d had enough of following the rules of fate, a sentiment she’d only shared with Scott. Neither of them were cowards - if only Martyn and Pearl had made an effort to find them, to explore the dangerous world together. But they hadn’t cared to say a word, and the scorching flames had welded Scott and Cleo together in pain and betrayal. It would be a disservice to his memory now to abandon that.

She realised that Martyn wasn’t smiling anymore, that he knew what she was thinking.

His gaze was pained now, agony creasing his features and shining in his eyes. “I’m sorry!” He cried, voice cracking with grief, “Do you think it was on purpose? I killed Pearl, too! Don’t you think I wish I could’ve died instead? I never wanted to hurt you. I never wanted to hurt Scott, either! You know it was an accident, Cleo, you know what it’s like!-“

He broke off, and his tragic expression silently pleaded that she understand.

Cleo’s axe hung heavily at her side and her wrist grazed a lump in her pocket. Even seeing Martyn’s distress, she couldn’t summon any empathy for him. She felt drained of all kindness and only wanted now to drive the knife deeper.

“Do you think I care?” She hissed, “What you wanted means nothing to me. You’re an idiot if you think I have any intention of being loyal to an ally I was chained to from the start, rather than the one who actually cared for me; whom I chose.”

“I know,” Martyn agreed quietly. She heard the heartbreak in his voice and knew he was thinking of Pearl. “I know we chose our own soulmates, but they’re gone now. All we can do in their memory is accept victory.”

Cleo never lifted her cold gaze from Martyn as she took the golden apple from her pocket. His eyes widened in panic as the fruit glinted in the failing light of the evening.

“Don’t you dare!-“ he snarled, leaping towards her even as she bit into the glimmering flesh - too late. Pain ripped through Cleo like white-hot barbed wire, and Martyn staggered with a cry of pain, falling to his knees on the rocky ground. Refusing to react at all to the moment of agony, she wasted no time and swung her axe up with all the force she could muster, the immaculately cut diamond meeting with Martyn’s jaw and cleaving a terrible ravine in its wake.

He didn’t have a chance to cry out, but slumped on the rock as blood poured from his head. Cleo looked away in distaste, reflecting that she had made it quick, if not clean. She dropped her axe with a clang and sat on the edge of the cliff within arms reach of Martyn’s body, watching the black water churning far below. The sun was no more than a purple glow on the horizon now. She didn’t feel a sense of victory, nor any anger, now. She waited in the quiet, feeling tears trickle gently down her face, though she did not know why she was crying. In this world, there was no glory or riches for the victor - the only prize was death, ironically granted last of all to the winner.

The air was choking with the cloying scent of metal. She realised suddenly that she didn’t want to wait for fate again. What right did it have to hold this final thing over her? Cleo closed her eyes and leant forward until she fell from the cliffside, and the air that rushed by her clung to the fleeing warmth of day, comforting as an embrace.

We won, Scott, she thought, it was never really us versus them, but you and I against fate. And we won.

[inkblackorchid]

Idk what's funnier:

That Jack apparently convinced them all to go along with this

That they played rock-paper-scissors to decide who would get the dumbest roles (I hc that everyone played, including Jack and Yusei, so I want you to take a moment to imagine if Jack or Yusei had ended up as cup ramen man or Aki's role)

The fact that Aki has a party horn and blows it to make fun of Crow

The fact that this was their best idea to catch Yaeger/Lazar

The fact that it worked

[agathena]

Kaz didn't respond. Instead, he suddenly pulled Inej closer to him and placed a gentle kiss on her forehead. And when Inej, surprised, lifted her head to look him in the eyes, his lips, as if compelled by inertia, slid down her nose and hovered just above her mouth. They both froze, unable to move, waiting for the other's reaction.

[comfort-questing]

7. "can you hear me"

... can you hear me? we're home, we're going to be all right. we did get back safe, the others found us. it wasn't too bad, after we got clear of the woods. I'm safe and so is Kate. she's downstairs making her reports, I think. it's just you we're waiting for now, silly. wake up and say something, you're scaring me.

-

can you hear me? it's late and it's just me here, I'm sitting up with you because even healers need to sleep sometime. I'm sorry we had to hurt you so much changing the bandages. I don't think you knew it was us, I really... kind of hope not because I don't want you to think we were hurting you on purpose. outside the window the moon is like an old silver plate and the clouds have cleared since yesterday. you'd like the way it looks...

-

shhh, shh, can you hear me now? just... calm down. it's all right, I know it hurts, I'm so sorry. I'm here, I'm holding you, you know it's me, right? you need to drink this. I know it's nasty but it'll bring your fever down and you'll feel better then. please, please, I really mean it... there, yes, another sip now, shhh, not much more. then I'll let you rest again.

-

I don't know if you can hear me. I... I hope so. I'm staying here anyway, I'm not leaving, I don't want you to go anywhere either, understand? please. just stay with me. the others are here too, everyone's keeping an eye on you, you know we'd never leave you alone. don't leave us.

-

... can you... hear me? squeeze my hand. yes, there, that's good, I felt that. good job. I know you're tired, you don't have to move, just hold my hand while I clean you up a little. we're fine, everything's fine, it's four days since we got back and your fever's broken. I'm sure you still feel awful but you'll be better soon... Kate's crying out by the chicken coop and I can hear her out the window even if she thinks she's hiding, it's just that she's happy you're all right.

there, you can rest now. get some sleep, I'll be here when you wake up.

[lilisouless]

Maybe is my need for chaos but i kind of wish they hire a kind , innocent looking actor for Van Eck and a man that looks like is going to fight an army with a fork for Colm purely to enjoy the dissonance of the guy that looks like a huggable dad playing the most disgusting person you’ll ever seen and a discount Jack Bauer looking man making breakfast and going soft mother hen for a bunch of teens.