#mask maker musing

[unironicallycringe]

dying trying not to share wips but I'm excited to finally be tackling the Demise mural/manuscript thing again that I just like, Stopped doing last year

it's uh, for the whole origin mythos of Ikana Kingdom in a style similar to the opening scroll of WW, so I'll smack that on the TMM page when it's all done whee

[titanic-toa]

!! hii!! i was wondering where you went the other day!! good to see youre back o: hope youre doin better than when you had to take leave

((Ahhhhh thanks so much! <3 Yeah I took sometime off for medical and muse reasons lol and I've been doing a lot better since the crash and my hand is basically back to full strength now thanks for the concern <3))

[jamilelucato]

possibility - fred weasley

pairing: fred weasley x slytherin!reader

(it can be read as a one-shot) (part 02 here!)

summary: Amidst the boredom, an unexpected connection sparks between (Y/N) and the charismatic mischief-maker, Fred Weasley.

note: They are in their last year at Hogwarts, so, for purposes, they are 18; besides, the whole canon of the book (it would've been Order of the Phoenix) is mostly nonexistent here.

the reader: can be interpreted as someone with ADHD; she loves literature and she has no friends.

words: 7580

Enjoy!

The lesson trudged on, dripping with tedium.

In truth, (y/n) quite liked Professor Flitwick. She had, in fact, eagerly accepted his invitation to become his assistant whenever the First Years graced his class. Being an assistant delighted her to no end. Yet, being a student, well, that was a different cauldron of bubbling potion altogether.

Today, Flitwick's lecture on Spellcasting and its perils was dragging on and on. As a sixth-year student, the curriculum seemed more intent on delving into existing knowledge than offering exciting novelties. While these topics might hold allure for a future Auror or the like, they were a one-way ticket to Boredomville for her.

Ever since (y/n) had decided upon her career path – a decision that seemed to have been brewed in the deepest recesses of her being – most of her classes had metamorphosed into a soporific ordeal. Hogwarts wasn't particularly renowned for its prowess in teaching language and literature, but that was precisely where her ambitions lay. A writer, a wordsmith, perhaps even an editor or a high school pedagogue. Anything that would let her commune with the magic of words, not the sort that burst from wands.

Now, she wasn't a woeful spell caster by any means. Professor Flitwick wouldn't have sought her assistance if she weren't a smart witch. But, her heart preferred the dance of ink on parchment over the intricacies of wand-waving, often rendering her classroom hours relatively inconsequential.

Seeking refuge from this stifling monotony, (y/n) allowed her gaze to wander. And in this sea of faces, her eyes collided with Fred Weasley – the school's most notorious ginger-haired mischief-maker. He was already watching her, a mask of effortless nonchalance draped over his face. He raised his brows at her, noticing she was staring back, and he did not look away. And so, they locked eyes, neither relinquishing the connection. It was not a duel of gazes; it was more like a shared secret, a silent agreement over how tedious the class was.

A minute passed in this silent communion until Fred graced her with a faint smile. The spell was broken, and her attention returned to her empty parchment. A quiet sigh fluttered like a long-forgotten page being turned, but it vanished into the air, unheard by all but her.

With pen in hand, she felt an almost magical compulsion to transcribe Flitwick's words onto her parchment. His voice, though droning before, now seemed less boring. 

“To its nature, we shall survive it, but the opponent targetted... not so much,” the professor intoned, the words finally finding their mark within her consciousness. Cruel nature, indeed. “Well,” she mused, her back moulding into her chair as her quill danced across the parchment, “Every spell I remember does possess a hint of danger.”

At long last, her notes held substance, and her enthusiasm, while subdued, had been rekindled. Her gaze again drifted sideways to where Fred Weasley was, only to find he had shifted his focus – to his twin, George.  

They sat side by side, mirror images of naughtiness. (y/n) sometimes forgot that they were identical twins because she was so used to having them around that they started to look apart. George's height had a mere smidgen of variance, while Fred's nose was a tad more prominent. Freckles played a symphony across their faces, arranging themselves differently – Fred’s were more concentrated around his forehead. Yet, at that moment, as (y/n) blinked through her confusion, she wondered if she'd mixed up their features. Had she glimpsed George's grin instead?

But then, as if choreographed by fate, Fred resumed his original posture and caught her looking. His lips curled into an unmistakable smirk. “It's certainly Fred, then,” she thought, a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth, unwanted.  She redirected her attention back to the good Professor Flitwick and his lesson, and weirdly enough, after all that gazing, she had regained her focus and was more ready to be a satisfactory student.

Amidst her studies, (y/n) was ensconced within the library's embrace.

This day bestowed upon the library an uncommon hush, a tranquillity that seemed to defy the norm. The librarian always managed to get the kids quiet, but she couldn't stop them from coming all at once when frenzied by the looming spectre of approaching exams.

However, an anomaly unfolded on that Friday afternoon, bestowing upon (y/n) the most unexpected gift – the library, in all its boundless expanse, was hers to claim. A rarity that, peculiarly, she found herself not enjoying. Amidst the solitude, her focus waned like a candle in a draft, flickering and unstable. Concentration eluded her, much like the fleeting caress of a dream upon waking. Reading, that intimate act of solitary exploration, seemed to have metamorphosed into a daunting endeavour. It was one thing to lose oneself in tales of princesses or the adventures of chiselled, sun-kissed heroes, but an entirely different ordeal to grapple with the intricate world of potion brewing.

For (y/n), the allure of fantasy books or any literary work was nothing short of enchanting, capable of whisking her away on wings of imagination. These volumes, she devoured with unbridled speed. Yet, a profound disinterest surged within her when it came to the theoretical tomes packed with knowledge mirroring the lectures she endured. If she were to be entirely frank, she might even admit a smidgen of disdain for these volumes.

So she would never take them to the dorms with her — she would much rather read them in the library, filled with other students. The presence of others functioned as a gentle but firm tether, binding her to the task at hand – reading, absorbing, and taking notes. The collective energy of focused minds bolstered her resolve.

Alas, a rather desolate air hung over the library's expanse on this day.

Thrice (y/n) had shifted her position, seeking companionship in proximity, only for her hopes to be dashed within thirty minutes. A sigh, tinged with resignation, escaped her lips, and in that crestfallen moment, a shock of crimson manifested in her field of vision. A pair of vibrant red-headed twins strode in. Nestled at the tables near the corridor's entrance, she watched them meander, their steps unhurried, eyes wandering. “Searching," her inner voice concluded. Certainly, the twins held a more potent allure than the secrets of cauldron cleaning or its ilk, a fact her current book seemed intent on imparting.

Though (y/n) watched from her vantage point, removed yet intrigued, the twins' presence would've caught anyone's attention had there been any other student around. As their gaze swept the expanse, (y/n)'s musings dipped into the realm of speculation, imagining the myriad thoughts dancing behind those crimson veils.

In a place where solitude was typically her archenemy, she now sat pondering the enigma of the Weasley twins, the allure of their presence momentarily overshadowing the dusty tomes that lay before her.

Fred and George stood at a distance, too far for (y/n) to gain a comprehensive view. Instead, they ambulated the space with a purpose that eluded onlookers – a relentless quest for something unbeknownst to her. As they wandered, their forms flickered in and out of her view, now one visible, then none, then both, and once more only one boy.

Fixated on the one nearer her, she strained her vision to discern. Could it be Fred? A question played a merry dance in her mind, teasing but refusing to commit to a definitive answer. His profile was turned towards the shelves, a curtain of red hair obscuring details. Besides, distinguishing the twins remained a daunting task without a survey of their noses.

Abruptly, a voice infiltrated her thoughts, causing her to startle in her seat, “You know we saw you, right?”

She swivelled around, only to be met by the missing twin positioned just behind her. Leaning over her chair's backrest, he inclined his head inquisitively, a solitary auburn eyebrow arching with playful curiosity. Witnessing her wide-eyed astonishment, the Weasley released a soft, subdued chuckle, a mischievous symphony woven into the sound. “If you want my brother's number, you can just ask,” he added.

So the one talking to her was Fred. She quickly glanced at his nose bridge, trying to see the intricated details left by a Quidditch match gone wrong, yet his voice functioned as the telltale sign. He audacity to issue such a provocative remark to a girl with whom they held only the most tenuous of connections – that could only be Fred's doing. Moreover, his tone carried a specific timbre distinct from George's. It was, for lack of a better word, smoother to her auditory senses. Not that George's voice was anything less than agreeable, but his was a quieter, more reserved resonance. She mused that her lack of familiarity with George's vocal cadence stemmed from his status as the quieter half of the duo, while Fred's unending stream of chatter had made his vocal imprint indelible in her ears.

A manufactured laugh escaped her lips, a tinkling facade, "Haha, Weasley. I don't want no one's number."

Fred inclined his head, a bemused glint in his eyes as if coaxing her to reveal more.

Nestled more comfortably in her chair, she raised her chin a fraction, a silent assertion that she was unreservedly facing the boy. This small shift seemed to foster a sense of openness between them.

"Studying is boring, so you guys looked like a distraction," she declared with a nonchalant shrug.

His voice dripped with theatrical incredulity, “We? A distraction?” Fred's lips curled into a playful smile, his head tilting as he leaned slightly away. He stood tall, towering over most, a fact he seemingly embraced with ease. Though his height wasn't sufficient to overshadow Ron (a surprise, really), it cast a considerable shadow over (y/n), particularly in her seated state. The disparity in stature unfolded in a tableau that her neck found almost physically taxing to endure.

With the book held closer to her chest, (y/n) drew a deep breath, her response tinged with a touch of exasperation, “Honestly, anything is a preferable pursuit than deciphering 'how to brew... a potion.'” Her fingers clutched the book, the page title a weighty secret she held close, refusing to vocalise it aloud.

An unexpected shift occurred as Fred commandeered the neighbouring chair, situating it with a proximity that nudged their personal space. “And weirdly enough," he said. Lowering himself into the seat, he offered a sly grin, his gaze steady upon her, “You always get good grades at Snape's classes.” A movement almost imperceptible – a twitch of the head, a hint of satisfaction – played upon his features.

(y/n) registered the proximity with an awareness that tickled her senses. The book, her veiled treasure, lay nestled in her grasp, poised for closure to deter prying eyes.

She shrugged, expecting him to forget what she held close, “I'm Slytherin, after all.”

“Ah,” Fred snapped his tongue in the roof of his mouth, a sound almost as if he had drunk something and was now satisfied. 

Shifting her gaze quickly at George, she hoped he would come to her rescue and take his twin away.

“Not so fast,” Fred interjected, his large hand sweeping down to rest atop the book's cover. “What secrets are you hiding there?”

Her gaze flitted from his eyes to his hand, a growing wariness churning within her. Her fingers tensed around the book, futilely attempting to shield its contents. But deftly, the book was relinquished from her hold and into his.

His melodious voice breathed life into the words etched on the page, “Let's unravel this mystery... 'How to Brew a Love Potion,'” he read aloud, his playful and teasing tone. Amusement twinkled in his eyes as they danced up to meet hers. “Wow, (y/n), I'd never take you for one who needed a love potion.”

To match his wit, (y/n) maintained her playful gaze, a smirk curving her lips as her retort unfurled, “Oh, I don't know, Fred. Perhaps that's my secret to acing Snape's classes.”

Not even the weight of dark humour could ruffle Fred Weasley's composure. His smirk swelled, infused with a brew of mischief that danced in his eyes. “If that's the case, you're terrible at it. I distinctly recall a certain incident involving Snape's homework, and if memory serves, it nearly rendered you floundering.”

She averted her gaze, her attention shifting to the captured book still cradled within his hands, the prospect of regaining it receding into the distance.

“Thanks for the recall, top-tier student,” she quipped, a playful glint in her eyes. “Now, are you willing to tell me your secrets? What are you doing here, in the library?”

Fred's laughter danced like a secret melody, an intimate note that lingered in the air, his eyes shimmering with a clandestine glimmer. “What's life without a little mystery?” he joked, his voice a velvety caress.

She mirrored his stance, a symmetrical lean that brought them closer, the gap between their faces now an invitation. Their proximity wove a delicate tapestry between their banter and a realm of deeper connection. “Is that so?” she inquired, her words drawn out in a languid purr, the air heavy with a mingling of intrigue and allure.

He matched her pace without the need to ask. The dance of their words had woven a tapestry of amusement, their shared enjoyment eclipsing the pursuit of concrete answers. After all, Fred barely had learned a secret. He was smart enough to know (y/n)'s book had been opened on a random page.

“If I tell you why I'm here,” he mused; his gaze, which had been steadfastly locked onto her eyes, dared trace a path to her lips, “what will you give me in return?”

(y/n) thought herself very wicked when her answer came quickly, “A love potion?” she playfully suggested.

His smile faltered, his breathing taking on a deeper rhythm, a transformation she couldn't help but notice.

“I don't need that,” he purred, voice dipping lower, “however, you...”

An eye-roll framed her response, though she didn't retreat from his proximity.

“Weasley...” her voice began, her tone laden with a mix of exasperation and uncertainty, an attempt to convey a sentiment she was grappling to articulate.

“Fred,” he interjected, the word a soft murmur, his eyes holding hers earnestly. Noticing her bemusement, he continued with a gentle lilt, “Call me Fred.”

She processed his words, pondering the significance of calling him by his name instead of his surname – a departure from the collective label that often accompanied the Weasley clan around Hogwarts.

A nervous throat clearing preceded her tentative utterance, “Fred." She tested the name as if savouring the syllables as if she did not know it before.

Flirting was an uncharted territory for (y/n), a realm she now tiptoed into, fueled by trepidation and exhilaration.

“Lucian Flewchief's book.”

The words hung suspended, (y/n)'s brow furrowing as she sought to decipher their meaning. Was that Fred’s way of flirting back? Suggesting a book? (y/n) was puzzled. That was a new way of flirting she never knew of, but she hoped the book was some young adult fae fantasy.

Fred's perception of her confusion prompted him to lean back slightly, dissipating the cosy bubble they'd woven. He clarified, “That's our objective here – locating Lucian Flewchief's book."

Her understanding unfurled with an "oh" of realisation, the pieces clicking into place.

“We're also the reason behind the library's current solitude,” he continued, an impish glint in his eyes. “George and I orchestrated a bit of a distraction to ensure we could slip away without drawing any undue attention, Godric forbid, with a book in tow!”

So that explained why she was the only one lingering at the library. Though it made sense, it stirred a tinge of melancholy within her.

Curiosity nudged her to question further, her tone now coloured with intrigue. “Who is this guy? Flewchief? And why the necessity for secrecy around his book?” Her queries were genuine and earnest, though sadness crept into her voice as their playful exchange segued into a more sober dialogue.

Fred swayed his head before replying, “He's a master at pranks.”

An eyebrow arched in response, (y/n)'s curiosity unabated. While she may not have been an expert in the art of pranking, one would expect to have heard of such a renowned figure, right?

Observing her perplexity, Fred inhaled deeply before disclosing, his voice lowered almost to a whisper, “He's a muggle author.”

Recognition flashed across (y/n)'s face, though she remained silent. Yet, subtle shifts in her posture – a subtle sag of her shoulders, a slight tightening of her lips – betrayed a sentiment that did not escape Fred's notice. He understood the Slytherin disposition all too well; prejudices were not uncommon.

She unravelled a piece of herself with an unexpected candour, her words confounding Fred's expectations. Instead of disparaging comments or dismissing glances, she offered something else entirely. 

“I want to be a writer for muggles,” she confessed, her voice tinged with vulnerability. “I like to write fantasy, you know. But that's not a genre for wizards; our reality often rivals the most fantastical of fiction. So, my focus turns toward the muggle readers.”

Though caught off guard by the revelation, Fred remained silent, feeling a surge of admiration for her. He hadn't anticipated such a response.

“I can help you find Flewchief's book,” she offered, swiftly transitioning past the exposure of her own secret, determined not to let her cheeks flush with embarrassment. “I know this library well, particularly the section reserved for muggle authors. I presume you and George have little familiarity with the place.”

A crooked smile curled upon his lips in response. “Indeed,” he admitted with a chuckle, “you could even say 'no familiarity'; it's quite fitting.”

While (y/n) couldn't quite fathom how any student or individual could navigate life without venturing into the depths of a library, she empathized with their unfamiliarity. The muggle literature section was cloaked in segregation as if Hogwarts itself was disconcerted by such volumes.

Rising from her seat, she gathered her assortment of potion books. Truth be told, she harboured no illusions about accomplishing any meaningful research that afternoon. She left only one book behind – the one currently cradled in Fred's grasp.

“Are you coming or…?" Her voice hung in the air, a hint of playful theatricality accompanying her question.

Promptly, Fred sprang from his chair, the solitary book still in his possession. With (y/n) as his guide, they embarked on a journey through the library's labyrinthine aisles. Initially, they returned her stack of books to Madam Irma Pince, whose sole acknowledgement was a fleeting glance, her eyes flitting over the pile as it landed on her counter. Her gaze flickered momentarily as if recognition finally settled in at the sight of the redheaded companion beside (y/n).

“A Weasley," Madam Irma Pince declared, her observation stating the obvious. Fred, however, found himself grappling with an appropriate response. Ultimately, he opted for a shrug, his head tilting in acquiescence.

“I’m Fred,” he offered, his voice laced with a touch of formality. “But, you are absolutely correct, I am a Weasley."

It was abundantly clear that the librarian was well aware of which Weasley he was. 

“Don’t tear my books apart,” she cautioned, her voice edged with warning. “And don’t you dare burn this place down.”

Fred's lips pressed into a tight line, his nostrils flaring ever so slightly. He responded with a curt, “Noted."

(y/n) glanced up at Fred and then to the side, studying his expression. His tone left her somewhat perplexed – she couldn't discern if he was indulging in sarcastic provocation or if he held genuine offence at Madam Irma Pince's admonitions. She reflected that the torrent of criticisms from every adult figure must have been tiring. Yet, the twins hadn't acquired their notoriety by chance; their reputation as school pranksters was well-earned.

The three exchanged furtive glances before Madam Irma Pince averted her gaze to her counter. Her intentions, on the other side, remained veiled to (y/n). Fred possessed the capability to peek, but (y/n) held doubts about him exercising that prerogative.

Clearing her throat, (y/n) eased away from the librarian, and Fred followed suit.

“Take me to George,” she requested. Detecting Fred's immediate confusion, she elaborated, “So both of you can scour the shelves for the books. I can assist, but I'm not quite tall enough to reach all of the shelves.”

“Again," Fred inclined his head toward her, and at that moment, a subtle shift occurred, the playful dance of flirtation vanishing as swiftly as it had emerged, “Thank you for the assistance”. His expression was appreciative, genuine, a quiet acknowledgement of her assistance.

With a soft smile, she replied, “Don't mention it," her voice bearing a hushed quality, her gaze evading direct eye contact. “You’ll just own me one.”

He chuckled, “Uh, the unspoken possibilities.”

Indeed, Fred. Indeed.

It was a rather cold day. 

But it was Saturday and Hogsmeade trip day, so (y/n) put on her thickest coat and decided to face the snow.

Her fellow housemates buzzed with excitement, eagerly anticipating the visit. Yet, for (y/n), this outing held a more sombre purpose – a pilgrimage to Honeydukes. While her friends were pursuing quills and ingredients, (y/n) sought only solace in candy. These past few days had been trying, and the kitchen house elves had quietly declared her persona non grata, etching “no longer welcomed" onto their secret walls. So she’d have to buy her own sweets from now on.

“Feeling hot today?” a voice chimed from behind (y/n).

She clutched herself, attempting to stave off the relentless cold. Hogsmeade always exuded a chill, but it seemed that nature was intent on pushing the mercury even lower today. Not even her trusty coat could entirely repel the biting wind.

The voice was familiar; she recognised it as belonging to Fred Weasley.

“Where’s your other half?” she asked, noticing George wasn’t around.

“At the school,” Fred replied, bridging the distance with a few long strides. Given the frigid weather, (y/n) moved slowly, rivalling the old ladies of Diagon Alley. “He's caught the flu.”

A chuckle escaped (y/n), though her amusement was laced with empathy. “After today, I might end up just as sick.”

Fred mirrored her laughter, his eyes gleaming with a twinkle. Then, shifting his gaze towards their right, his expression became more earnest. “Come on, let’s get you something warm. Tea?”

True to his suggestion, Madam Puddifoot’s Tea Shop loomed just a few steps away.

(y/n) scanned her surroundings, from Fred to the inviting facade of the shop, and for a fleeting moment, the idea appealed to her. But then, a mental alarm sounded – this place was renowned for romantic trysts, a haven for couples from their year. For a time, (y/n) had considered herself above such traditions. But as her sixteenth birthday came and went, and she remained unattached, she longed for the experience of a boy inviting her to tea. Now, at eighteen, it seemed more a fanciful dream than a tangible possibility.

So Fred was definitely not suggesting it as a date.

“I actually have to head to Honeydukes,” she replied, her features arranged in a grimace, and she gestured with her body towards the store at the far end of the bustling Hogsmeade street. “That's the only reason I'm still here.”

Fred bit his lip in thought. “How about we grab a tea to go, then?” he proposed, his determination unwavering. He peered down at her, shivering in the cold, taking in her petite frame. “In less than fifteen minutes, you'll be on your way back to Hogwarts.”

The notion of sipping on something piping hot was increasingly appealing.

“Promise?” she asked, her tone a touch childlike.

Fred extended his pinky finger, encased in a slightly faded red glove – likely a Weasley hand-me-down. Not that (y/n) considered herself entitled or wealthy, but it was common knowledge that the Weasleys weren't the richest in monetary terms. Yet, they were undeniably wealthy in children.

Her own pinky fingers remained nestled deep within her pockets, safe from the cold. Fred glanced down and chuckled.

“Come on.”

She sighed, “Fine, Weasley. But you're footing the bill,” and when she noticed he was about to playfully protest, she added, “You were the one who insisted, after all.”

They walked together, resembling a pair of penguins navigating the icy terrain. (y/n)’s hands, nestled within her coat pockets, were shielded from the biting cold, yet their elbows still grazed one another now and then as they strolled leisurely.

Fred gallantly held the door open, allowing her to enter the cosy shop, and she expressed her gratitude in a soft murmur. While he proceeded to the counter to place their order (when queried, (y/n) simply requested, “Any tea will do, as long as it's the hottest available"), she contemplated the peculiar friendship that had taken root between them.

She'd never been an opponent of Fred, or the Weasleys, or anyone within Gryffindor, as one might have assumed. However, their closeness was a relatively recent development. When confronted with one of the twins' pranks, (y/n) was often the first to laugh, captivated by the sheer audacity of their exploits. She believed magic should be harnessed for amusement, not as a weapon; consequently, she found their approach to their magical talents endearing.

Because of her laughter, Fred and George had never targeted her with their pranks. Their mischief was generally directed at Malfoy and his ilk. Occasionally, she'd return to her common room and find something amiss, but she understood it was their way of rebelling against the entirety of Slytherin and its values rather than a personal affront.

By her fifth year, (y/n) considered Fred and George her acquaintances. They exchanged nods in the classrooms and other shared spaces. Being in the same year, she had grown accustomed to their voices and learned to differentiate between them.

Moreover, the Weasley twins had a certain charisma that she couldn't deny. She had met Fred’s older brothers before, so their good looks were no surprise. She realised this charm extended to Fred as he approached with two cups of steaming tea.

His freckles had always been a distinctive feature she admired. Yet now, she also noticed the appeal of his height, his shoulders broad and strong, typical of a Beater. His hair appeared soft and straight, inviting her fingers to run through its fiery strands, although she knew better than to entertain such notions.

Strangely, it was his nose that intrigued her the most. It was the distinguishing feature that allowed her to differentiate between Fred and George. She found it more masculine and captivating than the rest of his features. Not to mention his chest, which had once tantalisingly revealed his abs through a sweaty Quidditch shirt during a match. The sport certainly worked wonders on bodies.

“Thank you,” she said before taking a sip. She freed her hands from her pockets only with the prospect of holding something scolding hot.

Fred observed her closely as she tasted the tea, noticing how her eyes momentarily closed in bliss and how her body seemed to uncoil, the tension in her shoulders dissipating.

“All right, off to Honeydukes I go," she declared, pivoting towards the Tea Shop's exit.

Fred followed her, hastening to hold the door open once more. A subtle blush dusted her cheeks, and she was relieved that the shop was still relatively empty. A couple occupied a dimly lit corner but seemed too concentrated on each other to notice Fred Weasley being nice to a Slytherin girl. So that’s saying a lot about how entertained that random teenage couple was.

As they stepped back into the brisk Hogsmeade air, (y/n) noticed that Fred was still at her side. She didn't voice any complaint, though. Ever since the day he had sought her help at the library, she had resigned herself to the idea that she might never get the opportunity to converse with Fred alone again. George was always around, and if not him, then someone else. And even though, if she tried, (y/n) could engage in conversation with the other twin or with a Gryffindor student, she would rather not. 

In fact, it was rare to find someone she would like to engage in conversation with.

Fred was a… welcoming surprise.

“Uh," Fred's voice cut through the silence, which had settled between them as they enjoyed their tea, “can we make a quick stop here?"

They were passing by Zonko's Joke Shop, renowned for its extensive collection of prankster essentials. Of course, the shop would undoubtedly be on Fred's daily checklist. However, his request to pause at the store intrigued (y/n), given that she had never envisioned walking with him that day. Sure, he had treated her to tea, but that hardly counted as an expense, and she had mentioned her eagerness to return to Hogwarts promptly.

“It won't take long, I promise," he assured her, taking note of her delayed response. “Just add five more minutes to your wait. I'll escort you back, no worries."

(y/n) hesitated for a moment. “You really don't have to do that," she replied, taken aback by his gentlemanly offer.

“As if I'd let you make the journey alone."

She gazed at him in the wake of his response. “I'm a witch," she pointed out the obvious. “It's not like I can't handle a few dangers."

Fred cocked his head, a teasing remark on the tip of his tongue. “Can you defend yourself against the cold?"

She didn't respond; her answer would have been a resounding ‘no.'

“That's what I thought," he declared, a knowing smile dancing on his lips.

She arched an eyebrow, her free hand resting on her hip, her other still cradling her tea. “And what can you do to protect me from the cold?" she challenged Fred.

His smile grew, and he knew he had the perfect response. “Keep you from slipping on the icy ground."

Annoyed by his accuracy, she sighed loudly as they entered the joke shop.

The shop was bubbling with people: it was a living organism. (y/n) struggled to recall the last time she had set foot in this place. She had certainly visited the joke shop before, back in her third year when students were first allowed to venture into the village. Like her peers, she had eagerly explored every store without exception. However, as time passed, most of the shops had become familiar and somewhat ordinary to her. She only made the trip to Hogsmeade with a purpose now. Coming just for butterbeer seemed pointless, especially when she lacked the company of friends to sit with and share laughter.

So, following Fred Weasley as he browsed around the shop put her in a silent trance of observation and gaping. He moved confidently, searching for items and locating them quickly, with the same precision she'd demonstrated when she'd guided him through the library the other day. (y/n) followed at his heels, like a child following its guardian. In less than three minutes, they were already in line to pay.

“How do you know where everything is?" she asked, enjoying the moment of calm the checkout line offered. “I don't think gathering all that took you more than five minutes."

And it was indeed quite a haul. Fred's two hands cradled dozens of boxes and items like precious cargo in his lap. The teacup he had been carrying was now held securely by (y/n), ensuring that her hands were occupied with warm objects to fend off the cold.

Fred responded with a casual shrug to her question. “How do you know where all the books are in the library?" he countered.

“I don't know," she replied, her response unfiltered. “I guess I've just memorised it over time."

“Me too," he said, his eyes fixed on the shop as if watching his beloved. “Not to give reason to my fame at Hogwarts, but of course, my favourite shop has to be Zonko’s."

The line at the checkout stretched long, leaving (y/n) and Fred standing in contemplative silence, pondering the curious connection that seemed to be budding between them. Amid it all, (y/n)'s thoughts swelled like a bubbling potion. Were they friends now? Could she consider adding him to her list of friends for Christmas shopping? These questions lingered, but she found herself without a clear answer. It felt odd to directly ask such a thing; friends didn’t ask if they were friends. They either were or weren’t, organically becoming over time.

But despite the comfort she felt around Fred, she couldn't quite label it friendship. The issue, she concluded, was her own. She had a deficit of friends and now understood why: she wasn't wired for it. Friendship wasn't part of her programming. Fred, on the other hand, was a different breed. Friendship was his natural state, woven into his very essence. He exuded a friendly aura, even if many Slytherins would vehemently disagree.

She didn't need to wonder whether he considered her a friend. He most likely did. He never targeted her with pranks; he exchanged glances with her in class often and was currently offering to escort her back to school. Fred saw her as a friend.

But did she want that?

“What are you thinking?” he inquired, pulling her out of her contemplative reverie.

“Nothing.”

“That’s a lie,” he said, relaxing his shoulders. “I can see the smoke coming out of your ears like a cauldron.”

She had no clever reply, so she was content with wrinkling her forehead and lying. “I’m thinking about how quickly I will be able to get all the candy I want. Definitely not as quick as you, here.”

He frowned, puzzled. “Why?”

“I love candy and definitely know where everything is at the shop,” she explained, tilting her head unconsciously as she spoke. She explained, unconsciously tilting her head while talking. “But I have to gather enough to last until our next trip to Hogsmeade, and I'm not certain I can calculate that. I love chocolate, so one would assume I'd need to buy a lot to make it last. However, if I get too much, I'll eat more than I should. And trust me, I will eat everything I buy," she concluded with a hint of warning in her tone, as if she were issuing a threat rather than sharing a piece of information.

Fred swallowed hard, trying to wrap his head around her unique thought process. “Are you stockpiling sweets?"

She nodded, feeling a twinge of embarrassment.

“Well, if you do end up eating it all, I'll show you where to get more, you know, from the kitchen with the house elves," he said, the corner of his mouth quirking up as if he were secretly pleased with himself for sharing this tidbit.

“Oh, Weasley," she shook her head, dramatically feigning pitifulness. “I already know the secret passage to the kitchen. That's precisely why I have to stockpile chocolate in the first place. I've been painted as a criminal there for how many sweets I've pilfered."

He couldn't help but chuckle, though he kept it discreet.

“I can't believe it," Fred said with mock disbelief, then paused as if pondering again. “Well, actually, I can."

With the two cups of tea-to-go in her hands, she raised her shoulders in a half-shrug while raising her hands in tandem.

“So yeah," she concluded, “I have to stock up until the Professors allow us to come here again."

Staring at him, (y/n) couldn't help but think that Fred was on the verge of saying something. However, something must have caused him to change his mind, and he remained uncharacteristically silent. A few seconds later, he was called to the cashier to settle the bill for his items. (y/n) patiently waited behind him, casually sipping her tea.

When Fred returned to her side, the numerous small boxes he'd been clutching had been consolidated into just two cardboard bags, which he effortlessly carried in one hand. The two of them exited the joke shop, savouring the last remnants of their teas. By the time they reached Honeydukes, the cups had already been discreetly disposed of in the nearest bin.

“Have fun," he wished her warmly, courteously holding the door of the candy shop open for her to enter. (y/n) returned his friendly sentiment with a smile—precisely the sort of well-wishing one would expect before embarking on a shopping spree in a candy store.

Fred lingered in a quiet corner of the shop, surreptitiously observing as she gleefully navigated the aisles, carefully selecting her candies and placing them into a plastic basket a diligent store employee offered. She appeared far more animated here than he had ever seen her before—back in the library, she had come across as somewhat bored, and the same was true in their shared classes. While she undeniably held the status of a top student with excellent grades, Fred couldn't help but wonder why she seemed to lack the enthusiasm and focus he might have expected from someone of her academic calibre.

However, gathering her desired assortment of sweets took considerably longer than the five minutes Fred had initially anticipated. When he finally met up with her at the cashier, the man behind the counter handed over not one, not two, but three full bags of assorted candies and confections.

Fred couldn't help but jest, “Wow, someone's clearly outdone me."

“Mine's supposed to last longer," she retorted with a wry smile, determined to maintain her composure. 

Fred's grin only broadened. "Will it, though?"

There was no malice behind his teasing; his natural inclination was to engage in playful banter, a habit he would have indulged with George, Ginny, or anyone else. If anything, he found himself enjoying the camaraderie that was forming between them, appreciating the quick-witted exchanges that characterised their interactions. And (y/n)'s response was predictable by now—a blend of half-anger and half-challenge that had come to define her expressions.

They left the candy store, their playful back-and-forth continuing as they walked, with Fred progressively leaning in closer with each exchange.

Fred's next question unintentionally left (y/n) feeling mortified as they approached the Three Broomsticks. 

“Are you sure you don’t want a good, old butterbeer?” he asked. “It’s alright if you do. I won’t linger at your friends’ table; I’ll just drop you there and find Oliver Wood or someone else.” He said, using Oliver as an example, for he was the one name he remembered to have seen around the village.

It was weird, now that Fred had come to think of it, how he did not recall seeing one person from Hogwarts around Hogsmeade, even though he knew it was a crowded day there.

She had no friends to meet there or anywhere else. She cleared her throat, avoiding eye contact, “I don't have friends in there."

The proximity to the inn allowed them a clear view through the frosty windows, revealing the familiar faces of fellow students enjoying butterbeer.

“Why? Haven't they come to Hogsmeade?" Fred asked in surprise, momentarily distracted by the scene inside. “I swear that's Carmen Highland if my eyes aren't deceiving me," he remarked, gazing at the occupants within.

Lost in the sight of her former friends, Fred hadn't noticed that (y/n) was gradually distancing herself from him. She knew Carmen and recognised the other kids at her table — Andrea, Miniu, and Shenny. But they weren't friends anymore. 

At least, not anymore.

“It is Carmen,” she reassured him, in case Fred would start considering he was indeed blind. “We’re just not friends, though.”

Fred finally snapped out of gazing through the cold glass window and returned his gaze to her.

“I distinctly remember all of you being quite lively at dinners and walking around classes," he said, furrowing his brows. “Unless Carmen has look-alikes I'm unaware of, I'm certain it's her. I've seen her during my Quidditch practices, competing for the pitch." 

A smile tinged with embarrassment danced on (y/n)'s lips. She smiled not because she was pleased with the memories but because she was trying to conceal her inner gloom.  “I used to walk with Carmen, and Miniu, and Andrea and Shenny. But that was way before.”

“No, I…”

“It was, Freddie,” she interrupted before he made her remember another memory. It was only because of her use of his nickname that he understood she wasn’t alright. “We were friends in the first year. Us and a bunch of other kids, so tight together because we were Slytherin, and we had to stick together because then we’d be victims of bullying from other houses.” Fred opened his mouth, but she continued, “Don’t deny it.”

Fred sighed and nodded.

“In our second year, the group started to shrink, and it ended up being just me and that table," she explained, her gaze distant, as if the memories were playing out before her eyes. "But I began to feel like I was there because I forced myself to be. I was being pushy. So when I stopped going, they didn't chase after me. That's when it became clear to me what our relationship was."

“What was it?" Fred inquired, genuinely perplexed, prompting (y/n) to wonder if he had ever experienced the abrupt end of a friendship.

“They weren't my friends," (y/n) stated matter-of-factly. “We didn't have a falling out or anything. I still greet them, and occasionally, we help each other with homework in the common room. But that's about it."

Fred pursed his lips thoughtfully, pondering the right words to respond with.

“Alright," he finally conceded. “I won't pry further," he said, his expression more serious now. “I can't quite fathom how a friendship could simply unravel like that, but it's clear it's not a cheerful matter. However, that doesn't mean you can't be with your other friends."

She rolled her eyes with exasperation and turned away from Fred and the entrance of the Three Broomsticks, her boots crunching softly in the freshly fallen snow.

“I don't have friends," she sighed, her breath visible in the crisp, wintry air. She could hear his footsteps, somehow always close behind.

Fred waited until he was walking right alongside her before he replied; his tone was soft and comforting. “You have me," he said, then hastily cleared his throat. “I mean, you have us. Me and George. I still owe you one from our library escapade."

“Consider it settled," she responded, her voice edged with a hint of exhaustion and her gaze averted. “You gave me a cup of tea, after all."

“That was just courtesy," Fred explained, his lips curving into a friendly smile, thinking their usual playful banter had resumed.

But (y/n) was weary, and it showed in her demeanour.

“Well, you're accompanying me back to the school," she tried again, her tone tinged with finality. “So consider that debt paid."

“Nah," he waved his free hand dismissively. “That's just me being a proper gentleman."

She rolled her eyes once more, a flicker of irritation crossing her features. “Fred..."

“We're friends, alright," he insisted, his tone gentle yet resolute, raising his voice slightly. “You have a friend... in me."

Without warning, (y/n) halted in her tracks, pivoting to face him fully, her expression a mixture of astonishment, incredulity, and a hint of amusement.

“Did you just quote a Muggle movie at me?" she asked, her voice showing disbelief.

“I’m sorry?”

“‘You have a friend in me’,” she repeated his words, this time adding a melody to her tone. “Did you quote the Toy Story song?”

“A toy story? Where is it?” he was genuinely confused, which led (y/n) to drop the subject since it was evident he had no idea what she was talking about.

“Never mind," she sighed, resuming her pace. “It's from a Muggle movie."

“And you've seen it?" Fred's stride matched hers again, his curiosity piqued.

“Unfortunately," she replied, her lips twisting in mild distaste. “I didn't quite enjoy it."

“Oh, why not?" Fred inquired with interest.

“It was... about friendship," she said, taking a moment to complete her sentence.

“I see," Fred mused, nodding thoughtfully as they walked towards the school, the snow beneath their feet offering a soft, comforting crunch with every step. “Perhaps I should watch it.”

“Yeah, why not,” she replied, not really wanting to participate in the conversation.

Fred knew when to shut up when he should, so they remained silent until the school entrance was visible.

“Uh, thank you,” (y/n) told him as they stopped in the middle of Hogwarts’ entrance corridor. It was a relatively empty hallway.

“See you around,” he nodded, and she bit her lip, turning her heels towards her House. “Friend,” Fred added a second later, only to see her turn her gaze over her shoulder.

“Bye, Weasley,” she said with a heavy breath out of resignation.

[ultrakill-confessions]

Homestuck Ultrakill classpects go!!!

Gabriel - Maid of Rage, Prospit dreamer

Minos - Sylph of Blood, Derse dreamer

Sisyphus - LORD of Time, Prospit dreamer

(These are my short-ish explanations loosely based on optimisticDuelist and @/ homestuckexamination's classpects analysis + the official homestuck personality test btw, I haven't studied classpect stuff in years tho so I might be very off lmao I'd love to hear opinions)

Gabriel: Maids tend to have a character arc where they realize they aren't meant to serve someone else, but themselves (Like how Gabriel freed himself from the Council), Rage because one of it's main traits is hating a system built on lies and willing to tear it all down preferring anarchy over such lies (Literally Gabriel), Prospit dreamer is uhh mostly just a hunch, it jus feels right, for reference Prospit dreamers tend to live more in the moment and just be themselves and also tend to tidy up their bedroom, while Derse dreamers tend to live in the past, putting up a mask to hide their true self, and having a messy bedroom. So yeah idk Gabriel has Prospit vibes

Minos: Sylphs are selfless creators/makers. Blood is the aspect for someone who is an inspirational leader, whose strength comes from close friends and allies. Derse dreamer... is also a hunch lmao, he'd just look better in the Derse's purple clothes don't you think? He also seems like the type that constantly thinks about the past.

Sisyphus: Lords are Commanders, and it's also one of the most powerful classes (along with it's selfless counterpart, the Muse), the Time aspect is for people who constantly fight agaisnt what fate has in store for them. Prospit dreamer because he lives in the moment being himself, no need to think too much about past failures. Also he'd look terrible in purple clothes lmao.

This probably sounds like a bunch of nonsense to non-homestucks but I hope those who read everything enjoyed it lol, I'd also love to hear other classpects headcanons, I'll try to make more if I can think of it, I tried thinking of one for V1 but I don't think his personality and story arc is all that clear to make one for him.

-

[jmdbjk]

The Drama. It's Jimin.

We don't know yet how Jimin will tie together that sheet of music La Lettra (The Letter), containing the music of The Truth Untold and the Legend of the Smeraldo flower in this album but he's named the album MUSE.

The Truth Untold lyrics

You know that I can’t Show you ME Give you ME I can’t show you my miserable self, so, yet again, I wear a mask and go to meet you But I still want you

A flower that looks like you bloomed in the garden of loneliness I wanted to give it to you after taking off this silly mask But I know that I can’t never ever do so

And the story it is based on, The legend of 'Smeraldo' about a flower created just for the girl the man couldn't reveal himself to.

Here is an excerpt from this link:

The man wanted to help the girl. He wanted to teach her every method of growing flowers he knew, he wanted to teach her how to grow beautiful flowers. But he couldn’t come forward to the girl. She would be scared of him, she wouldn’t love his grotesque appearance. In the end, the only thing he could do was to grow and take care of the flowers so she could keep coming to his garden.

The vibe of The Truth Untold is yearning, desperation, unfulfilled and unrequited love due to one's own inner turmoil holding them back.

The gist of the Legend of the Smeraldo is that you cannot remain withdrawn if you are to achieve the thing you desire most. If you wait too long it will be too late. You must overcome the negative perceptions of yourself in order to reach for the thing you desire.

"Muse" can mean what Jimin is to others and what Army is to Jimin, but Jimin's muse is most likely an element of his inner persona that he keeps to himself, that he draws on for his creativity.

It could also be the stage, the desire to visually express his creativity. I have heard music artists claim their muse or mistress is the stage, they cannot stay away from it, their passion, their obsession, their life's blood and breath to the point everything else is secondary.

The definition for the word muse is:

a person or personified force who is the source of inspiration for a creative artist.

Muse is also related to Greek mythology. From wikipedia:

The Muses are the inspirational goddesses of literature, science, and the arts. They were considered the source of the knowledge embodied in the poetry, lyric songs, and myths that were related orally for centuries in ancient Greek culture.

Where have we seen this inspiration before in Jimin's creativity? I wrote about his Artemis/Apollo concept for his photo folio here.

I know too often Jimin is reduced down to his visuals and his singing...he is a walking melody-maker after all. But he's much deeper than that. He is well-read, he excels at math and science, he understands the human condition better than anyone else around him.

Perhaps in this project, he will explore something that expresses these concepts more deeply.

Motifs he's using in the album's concepts:

Blooming: ME

Serenade: US

A field of flowers, not just any flower, a simple small white flower. Thousands of them. Do the flowers represent us?

I wonder what the blurred out center image of the album covers will reveal.

In his Sept. 1 live last year, among the things he spoke about (besides his Jungkookie's birthday) Jimin told us he was doing things differently, like starting from scratch.

During this live, commenters kept asking about his beat up knuckles and he said just wait and we will find out. He also showed us his workout room in his house.

He also showed us his solar system mood light casting images across the ceiling of his bedroom. He says he falls asleep with it on.

Yet he's an expert at talking to us for a great length of time without really telling us anything. Masterful in fact. He rarely reveals anything personal. We were astonished when he walked through his own home and showed us various rooms in it.

But he wasn't always like this. Whatever circumstances, whether it be outside forces or his own inner growth and maturity, he's changed over the years. He's an expert at hiding parts of himself and his life from us.

How difficult is it for any of us to be our REAL selves in front of anyone? How many of us hide the fact we are Army from our friends, family and co-workers? How many of us behave a certain way in certain situations in order to hide what we perceive are our weaknesses? How many of us are reluctant to speak out, even about frivolous things or dress a certain way or avoid wearing certain colors because what people might think or perceive about us?

Now imagine that you make your living by putting yourself on stage and in front of cameras for millions of prying eyes.

I do think Jimin loves the drama of it all, the mystique. I believe Jimin loves sensuality and provocation. And I think he loves creating visual expressions of all of it.

Many of us share the same inner muse but few of us possess the tools like Jimin does to express these inner musings outwardly. But if we did too, could we? Do we have the fortitude to put ourselves out there? Sure, it's easy to say "if I had a body like Jimin's I would walk around naked all the time." Would you really? Would you really invite the eyes to look and pry and critique? Would you welcome the amount of judgement that would take place? Because it never stops at just one thing. Offering yourself up invites judgement about everything, even things you don't have any control over, from the shape of your fingers to the tone of your voice.

Over the years, Jimin has shown how self-critical he is, constantly wanting to improve himself, always seeming determined to take it to the next level. Determined to show us another side of himself. Brave enough to keep revealing what he draws from his own muse.

MusE... blooming... ME

mUSe... serenade... US

Jimin's blooming and in this record, he will serenade us with his love. He really didn't want to leave us. Perhaps he felt he was just hitting his stride. I felt it.

[randomwriteronline]

"Hey," Lamush called out to the brick maker. The stranger turned to him, listening intently. "Are you a reincarnation of Mata Nui?"

Droopy eyes blinked, and the strange face tilted lightly.

"No, I do not think so," he replied to the Koniri.

"Alright, sorry to have bothered you."

"It was no trouble at all."

He watched, amused, as the Agori walked back to the small group of sheepish Matoran masons huddled just around the corner to relay the news, smiling to himself when they mumbled embarrassedly to one another; then he went back to the bricks, and discovered his hands were completely limp from the wrist downwards and flaring up something terrifying.

"Oh dear," he murmured, a little concerned but mostly somewhat peeved, and went to look for help.

-

"Excuse me," Kavne managed to whisper after almost five minutes of jittering in place completely overwhelmed by wrecking anxiety. He tried not to crumble into dust the second kind eyes turned to him, waiting for him to go on, and somehow mustered the strength to ask with the quietest breath he could: "Are you... The Great Spirit?"

The strange being helping him keep watch on the herd smiled sweetly: "I am afraid not," he said, sounding as though he was honestly sorry about that.

Kavne immediately tried to melt into the ground.

"Please, do not feel embarrassed," his companion reassured him with a gentle laugh in his voice, "It was a fair question."

The Fa-Matoran whined something incomprehensible in response, hands still covering his mask to hide away from the whole world - especially from the owner of the gentle, worn, warm palm caressing his back in a comforting manner.

-

Ixoma furrowed his expression hard as he stared.

The object of his attention sat down heavily, exhaling a shuddering breath as a painful sensation not too dissimilar from frostbite corroded the exact spots in which his legs met his hips.

"You're awfully weak for a being your size," the Ba-Matoran commented as he took up a few of the scrolls and tablets that the other definitely was not going to be able to put back in their rightful place for a while.

The stranger hummed: "Perhaps my size is the problem in and of itself," he mused, words still a bit pained: "My body has a history of fighting me, either way."

The shorter being tapped his foot against the ground.

"Are you Mata Nui?" he asked. Bluntness had always got him pretty far, so he saw no reason to run circles around the matter.

His interlocutor looked into his eyes: "As in, the Great Spirit?"

"Of course."

"No, I do not believe I am."

Oh well. It had been worth a try.

-

"You know, ever since I've heard of all that stuff you do around the city, the odd jobs and all - I've been wondering, are you an emissary of the Great Spirit?"

The stranger tilted his head in surprise: "I never considered such a thing," he admitted, seeming just as intrigued by the possibility.

Eykivik turned away from him to gently tap the left side of the rolling stairs she was perched on, and the other gently pushed it in that direction to let the Av-Matoran check on the large constellation slates other astrologers had just installed.

"Perhaps I have indeed been assigned a mission by the Great Spirit - although I do not know what that might be."

"Helping us, maybe," the Matoran proposed.

"I would rather believe I do that out of my own will."

"What's the difference?"

"I suppose there is none, in the grand scheme of things. But I hope I am the one who compels myself to be of help to those in need, and that I do not have to be compelled by Destiny in my stead."

She made a long, curious sound. Her sand green mask turned back to him, regarding him with curiosity.

"You're pretty well versed in Matoric theology," she noted.

He smiled, droopy eyes seeming proud: "Thank you," he replied, "It is a rather intriguing subject to study."

-

Kongu barely held himself back from sinking his hands into the dusty shoulders: "You can NOT keep doing this," he forced himself to say with at least the vaguest air of calm about himself, like he was not about to blow roughly three brain circuits all at once.

Mata Nui, laying down in his bed in the spitting image of politeness, smiled innocently.

"Stop that."

"I am only resting."

"You slygrin. Slygrinners plotscheme secretpranking surprises and leave crackbranched bogwalkers in their wake."

Mata Nui smiled a little wider.

"STOP that."

"Even ignoring the constant strain you're putting your very frail body through which in turn makes it break down all the time," Jaller began.

"Which we should not ignore," Nuparu interrupted him.

"-Which we should't ignore, that's true, but for the purposes of remaining focused on just one topic we will have to - do you remember why we agreed not to yell out for the whole planet to hear that you are, in fact, the actual living breathing Mata Nui, in the flesh and pistons?"

"And sand." his interlocutor added.

"And sand?"

"I do. I have been acting accordingly."

"You just told us you've had four separate occasions in which someone asked you if you're the Great Spirit," Hahli reminded him. "I don't think that's a good sign on how hidden you're keeping your actual identity."

"I can assure you I am not being recognized," he replied: "The only advantage to come of my lack of interaction with you is that my appearance, voice, and general quirks by which I could be recognized are not common knowledge."

"How come this keeps happening, then?"

He leaned his head back, with a tired motion: "I enjoy making myself useful... Perhaps this brings them to make educated guesses."

Jaller rubbed his temples to keep his composure, feeling a very unpleasant deja-vù sort of sensation that threatened to make him break out into a headache in much the same way Potori skin broke out in hives when exposed too long to the sun without any fleece to cover it: "The problem remains that if they keep making educated guesses, they will find out eventually."

"They will not."

"How are you so sure?" Nuparu glared.

"I know how to answer discreetly."

"So your master plan is to lie to their faces and hope you can keep it going as long as possible?"

"I do not lie."

Nuparu squinted, doubtful. Kongu crouched on his knees with a loud groan. Hahli banged her head against a wall a few times. Jaller gave up and simply laid on the ground.

Mata Nui seemed to be having fun.

Noticing he was more or less the only one not currently thinking of strangling their god at least a little bit, Hewkii clicked his tongue: "What do you mean by that, exactly?"

"I answer truthfully, if at times in a somewhat misleading manner."

That sounds familiar, they all thought.

In a very annoying way.

"Any examples?" the Stone Toa encouraged him.

"Firstly, of course, I am not a reincarnation of myself - not in the metempsichotic sense of the word, at least, nor do I think it quite applies in the physical sense, either." and he gestured vaguely at himself, as if to indicate the entirety of his latest, essentially hand-made form: "I would not call any of my previous bodies 'mine' as in 'intriscally intertwined with my self'."

Kongu grunted a short hum: "Fair enough."

"In a similar manner, I do not believe I am the Great Spirit."

"That's just a lie," Hahli interrupted him.

"It is not."

"Yes it is."

"I assure you otherwise."

"You are the Great Spirit," Jaller argued, voice muffled as he did not raise his head from the ground. "Your name literally translates to Great Spirit. What you're doing is called lying."

"My name literally translates to Big Face," Mata Nui cheerfully corrected him: "It comes from an insular language spoken in a region more or less on the other side of the planet, and depending on the placement of the accents and the length of the vowels it can also be translated with many other words such as Big Flint, Big Screen, Big Sedge or Big Spell."

All five looked at him befuddled.

"Wait, seriously?" asked Nuparu at last.

"Yes!"

"Why is it Great Spirit for us, then?"

"The Matoran language derived from what words were available to you in the coding," the other mused: "I suppose my name must have been amongst them, and it was assigned meaning according to the culture that was developing alongside your conscience."

That made enough sense, considering what they'd learned of themselves. It still didn't help much on the matter at hand, which was that, according to Matoran custom, Mata Nui was still inequivocably the Great Spirit, and claiming not to be was a bold faced lie - especially considering that there wasn't exactly an alternative option, neither in deity (the Great Beings were on thin fucking ice at best) nor in alternative candidate.

That very thought struck Kongu, who tilted his head and began, very slowly: "Alright. Answer me this, then. If you're not the Great Spirit... Then who in Karzhani do you suppose it would be?"

"The actual Great Spirit."

Jaller groaned very loudly and massaged his temples, still laying flat on the ground.

His aerial deputy pointed at him: "Seconded."

"Thirded." Hahli added in a similarly disgruntled tone.

Hewkii, last deputy still standing, once again figured it was up to him to make sure the possibility of one of his siblings caving in and calling their former god a bitch directly to his face - which he was rather sure said former god wouldn't have even objected to - was anything other than extremely likely, and defused the situation by asking: "Is it a religion thing?"

Mata Nui nodded: "More or less. I assume there is an ineffable Great Spirit which houses the universe within itself, much vaster than I ever was; I would not dare to compare myself to it."

The Mahri had to admit that it made perfect sense, and it made his statement not exactly a lie; so, they silently agreed to let it slide.

Nuparu actually turned thoughtful for a moment: "Would that imply that, much like our previous cosmos, this universe is also contained in some kind of robot so big that we don't even think it could exist, and that we are its cogs?"

"That is perfectly plausible, yes," Mata Nui considered. "Though considering the size it should be according to my journeys, we would be much smaller from its perspective than you were compared to my former body - somewhere closer to grains of sand in a perfume bottle, lost somewhere in a castle with a large number of rooms."

"Oh, that'd be fun," the Onu-Toa commented casually.

"Alright, but what are you going to do if someone asks if you're Mata Nui?" Hahli interrupted them. "You can't lie about that."

"In truth it has already happened once, and I did inquire if it was meant as a synonym for the Great Spirit, which it was; ergo, I could reply that I do not believe I am."

"What if they asked for your name, specifically?" she insisted.

"There are quite a few ways to swivel out of an answer in such a case."

"And if they were just really blunt about it? Asking directly, is your name Mata Nui?"

"Then I would say yes," he answered simply. "No necessary relation."

Jaller groaned even louder.

Mata Nui leaned back, very amused: "I am but a strange traveler from a foreign land, with a strange name in a foreign language, not alike to any other being either biomechanical or organic, with an ancient air about my person and the sort of frail body that often denotes an advanced age. Is it so unlikely, that I would happen to be named in such an unusual way?"

The leader of the Toa Mahri rolled over and treated him to an angry, begrudgingly impressed glare.

"You're far too good at this," he grumbled.

The other beamed with pride: "Thank you! I like this sort of riddles."

A sudden silly idea blinked to life in Hewkii's head as he watched them - something that made great sense and also threatened to drive him slightly insane: "Quick question, did you choose the Turaga because they're really good at zigzagging around the truth?" he asked. "You know... Like you?"

At that Mata Nui's face fell into a neutral expression.

He blinked slowly, appearing surprised; he then tilted his head, gazed blankly into the wall, pondered the question, and at last regaled the Po-Toa with a sweet, gentle, wide smile.

"That is something between me and them," he replied enygmatically: "Perhaps you might find denial or confirmation in their words."

"We're never going to know."

"Probably."

[murfpersonalblog]

IWTV S2 Ep3 Musings - Armand & Lesmand & Nickistat (Spoilers)

We got the Armand backstory! 😭 The first half of this ep had me screaming at my screen, cuz Armand's a effing LIAR; I was rolling! 🤣

We were already told 1000 times by Assad & Sam that Armand's trying to make himself seem as sympathetic as possible. That is SUPER important, cuz although he's my favorite book character, Armand is a effing MENACE in IWTV, TVL, QotD, and TVA.

Ok, they've clarified my confusion about the weird 1556 date, cuz it implied that Armand MET Lestat in 1556, which is entirely wrong.

So I'm glad my suspicion/hope was correct, that the date was out of context. 1556+239=1795, which tracks with what Les said in S1.

So Lestat met Armand ONE year after becoming a vampire. (No wonder AMC!Armand dish-ragged him, LOL!)

No duh, if you've only been a vamp for a EFFING YEAR. (I looooove the Time-stopping Gift! So happy to see it used again--the horses are especially impressive.)

This seems like Armand's taking Marius' place as Lestat's mentor (Armand WISHES, lol). And it's kinda smacking of narcissist!Lestat using him then dumping him once he'd learned what he wanted, like Daniel & Louis implied later in the ep. (He even grabs Armand's hand & drinks w/out asking; mighty bold! Ok sure, he kissed it first, but still!?) But their dynamic is SO different in the books.

I have a looooot of issues with AMC!Magnus.

Excuse you!? Language! 😤

Armand wanna be called "Daddy" so bad. 😂

BULL.

EFFING.

CRAP.

AMC/Armand officially butchered how awesome Magnus was--he was never a Child of Satan/Darkness, or in a coven--he was a human alchemist who STOLE the Dark Gift from Rhosh's fledgling Benedict!

That means nothing, if you don't explain that Lestat is Rhoshamandes' great-grandson, and that Magnus was a WIZARD. 😒 And Armand said Les' turning was "MAYBE" a horror show? 🤨 How does he not know, if they were so close? 🙄 And how would he have even known Magnus was his Maker?

Oh no. "Come to me" was ARMAND'S theme the whole time!? 😱 Thanks, I hate it. 😭😂

LESTAT SAID KISS MY ARSE!!! 🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣

I mean, I would, too-the CoD/S lived like bums! The reason Magnus was so friggin rich and had all that money he gave to Lestat was strictly cuz he WASN'T a penniless bum like the other coven vampires--he hid himself away in his TOWER. (If we don't get the Lesmand tower scene Imma be so mad.) He had no Maitre/Master.

NGL, I expected the Children of Darkness/Satan to be WAY filthier. :P

So Armand really IS Indian then? As in Roma/Ukranian/Russian?

Sadly, they didn't speak on Lestat's Harlequin mask being Blackface. But woah. "Dervish" as in Muslim ascetics & mystic dancers? So was 1700s!Armand Catholic or Muslim? Is that what he thought of Lestat back then? Or what 2022!Armand thinks of him now? If the latter, Armand converted to Islam....WHEN???

Armand glossed over EVERYTHING that went down with Nicki. He seems to imply that Les got with Nicki AFTER they met, which is beyond untrue. (And not a word about Gabrielle being there for all of this mess--MIGHTY SUS.)

We know Lestat loves his gay panicking needy alcoholic bottoms.

THE FRENCH GIRLS ARE FIGHTING.

Oh lovely. More racists--I'm not even surprised; I never liked Nicki in the book anyway; bye Felicia. 🙄

Iiiinteresting way AMC/Armand gave Nicki's abduction. (Again, no Gabrielle--MIGHTY SUS!)

And LAWWWWD, lemme find out Armand was telling the truth abt him & Les knocking boots in their theatre box on some exhibitionist kink while vamp!Nicki mean-mugged from the orchestra. 😭

So Armand's still to blame for Nicki's death, but not cuz of the darkness of "self-loathing," but jealousy cuz Lesmand were an item? BISH PLEASE! 🤣

(TBF, Loumand still blames Lestat, saying he "abandoned" Armand & Nicki & the coven. Which...is not entirely true. Lestat gave Nicki the Theatre, but didn't want to be part of it or Armand's coven, so he left with Gabrielle, but still kept tabs on everyone via Eleni. So whatchu mean??????)

LOUIS SUICIDE WATCH, stop playing with me, AMC! I want to see these vamps greet the sun and "taste the fire"! (And they had the NERVE to put the commercial break there; I see you, AMC.)

They were SHOWING OFF Armand's Fire Gift in this episode--oh yeah, Louis DEFINITELY got it from him; I'm convinced now. (I'm still waiting to see if Santiago has it, too; I hope to god not though.)

Lestat was a MENACE! XD "It's a fallen tree." What a brat!

The Lesmand eye-f**kery was INTENSE--Samothy was serving~!

Don't you DARE tease me like that, AMC! YES! I want 2022!Lestat in that Dubai penthouse by the end of this season, PLEASE. 🙏🙏🙏

What does all that say? Looks Latin or French? And WTF is Armand doing biting himself? (Reminds me of Louis with Jonah.)

This is why I'm convinced that the whole "Rashid" ruse in S1 was strictly for Armand & Dan's benefit, cuz in QotD Armand specifically said Daniel was the only mortal who knew his name & lived.

Chile, this episode was A LOT, and that was just the first 20 frikkin minutes, wtf.

[theseshipsshallsail]

Summary:

The minutes soon blur in such blissful suspension, and as the unshuttered windows turn an inky black, Oliver immerses himself in the whens, wheres and inestimable hows of their blossoming reality. What he and Elio share defies definition, yet the idea of losing it is truly abhorrent. He needs this. Needs them. Everything they’re capable of being together. The promise and potential contained therein. There’s no turning back even if he wanted to, and drawing a hand up Elio’s flank he rests his chin upon his sweat-damp crown. Wonders when the hummingbird-flutter at his core became love, before deciding maybe it always has been, and he was just too afraid to acknowledge it.

The Difference Between Possible And Impossible (Lies Mainly In Determination)

He’d been dreaming, Oliver realises, as a drunken holler from the Piazza Navona interrupts the doze he had zero warning of slipping into. His mind’s eye transporting him to the villa’s orle of paradise. Elio swimming lazy laps in a set of borrowed bathers. The next day’s pages for Signora Milani all but forgotten as he apricated from head to toe; donning his tinted Persols in deference to the azure sky above. 

In all honesty, the scene mirrors memory more so than imagination, and the sluggish warmth it leaves in Oliver’s veins feels pleasantly reminiscent of the vintage scotch he’d savoured his final night in B. At Annella’s insistence, dinner was a family affair in light of his imminent departure, but with the feast devoured and dishes cleared, the professor ushered him to the study for a well-earned digestif. The pair of them discussing his varied plans for Rome, even as a sombre rendition of Debussy’s Clair de Lune drifted from the living room opposite; tearing at Oliver’s heartstrings with every mournful chord.

“Ice, born of fire, that in turn holds fire,” his mentor mused at length, swirling the mahogany liquid in his lead-crystal tumbler. “È notevole… is it not? How under the right circumstances, something so obstinate as sand itself can be transformed entirely. Reborn, one might say, to the inverse of its maker.”

In terms of subtlety it left a lot to be desired, and Oliver’d masked his quiet desperation behind a measured sip, unable to quash the hard knot of regret that threatened to choke him. Regret, that fails to exist in the liminal twilight of their Corso del Rinascimento hotel room. Banished, as it was, the second they’d watched the plastic wall clock outstrip the hour of his flight’s departure. 

He’s been damn-near euphoric ever since. 

Giddy as a ninth-grader playing truant. 

For the first time in years, he’s chosen the road less travelled, but with Elio in his corner - and sheer determination to guide him - Oliver’s certain that together they’ll move mountains if necessary, to forge a path that’s theirs and theirs alone. 

Again, a commotion starts up in the streets outside. Several joyful voices raised in concert. Oliver doesn’t recognise the song - though it’s somewhat harmonious compared to his own rendition of Fenesta Ca Lucive with the German tourist - and a helpless smile graces his lips when Elio grumbles in response; letting loose a snuffling snore alongside his collarbone.

The gossamer gleam from the balcony gilds his features in a diffuse palette: covetous swaths of rosé and gold that chase the encroaching shadows from his sleeping form. It’s grounding, Oliver finds. The steady exhalations that tickle his Adam’s apple. The rhythmic rise and fall of his shoulders; perfectly in sync with his newly unshackled lungs. They’re two halves of a whole - cut from the same cloth - and rubbing the grit from his scratchy eyelids he moulds a palm to Elio’s slender waist, sighing in contentment when the other man burrows closer, one leg inveigling itself between the snug harbour of his thighs.

The minutes soon blur in such blissful suspension, and as the unshuttered windows turn an inky black, Oliver immerses himself in the whens, wheres and inestimable hows of their blossoming reality. What he and Elio share defies definition, yet the idea of losing it is truly abhorrent. He needs this. Needs them. Everything they’re capable of being together. The promise and potential contained therein. There’s no turning back even if he wanted to, and drawing a hand up Elio’s flank he rests his chin upon his sweat-damp crown. 

Wonders when the hummingbird-flutter at his core became love, before deciding maybe it always has been, and he was just too afraid to acknowledge it.  

In due course, blunt-nailed fingertips splay across his sternum; crafting a subconscious chord above his too-full ribs. Elio’s lashes are a charcoal smudge against his cheek, and the rumbling purr that escapes his throat invokes a mental slideshow of their wanton activities earlier. Unsurprisingly, the earthy scent of passion hangs thick in the muggy air; overpowering the honeysuckle sweetness adorning the trellis outside. The salty ghosts of tears, also, shed by two star-crossed lovers who’d feared being reduced to a cautionary tale: a Grecian tragedy for the modern age.

Schmaltzy, perhaps, but their truth is inescapable, and at the first sign of Elio stirring beside him, Oliver can’t help but press a lingering kiss to the riotous curls at his temple.

No more speeches, he thinks, as Elio arches like a pampered tomcat.

“I swear I’ll make you happy,” he whispers instead, and the thousand-watt grin that follows settles deep and thrilling and forever in his soul. 

[thenextchapterbegins]

umbrals musing on his bestest friend.

@estarion {mentiond}

"you know...i think one of the hardest things doing is being astarions friend. not like in a normal sense that I can barely handle being around him. or anything mean like that. Is being his friend and I mean truly his friend. knowing each and every dark corner of his life."

"Thats what makes it so hard, because I see it day to day. people dog on him for being too laid back, or a trouble maker, or annoying and you wanna strangle his head off. because when your truly his friend you know why he acts the way he does. You just know, and the knowing. is horrible, heart aching, tears at the very being."

He sighs softly.

"but its secret, kept in its own corner. you may know the surface gritty details but to know more to really delve..its like my thing, you may know my thing, know the spooky whispers, a dark urge. but only few know how absolutely horrifying it is. but you cant tell just everyone. how will you know how people look and act around you after you tell them. will they be afraid, or worried, taking every step cautiously as if afraid you'll break at a single step. When you get a second chance you want to be silly, drink shitty wine, eat rich meats, you want to fuck around, cause issues, say worrying things all the time. because before you DIDNT HAVE THAT CHANCE. to do any of those things."

"i just wish...people knew the man behind the mask or..was willing to step into that darkness to see it. because there is a great man under that mask. Caring, funny, sweet. the caring needs to be emphasized. because sure he puts on a good front that the only people he cares about is himself end of day but I have seen his face and eyes when I compliment or do something nice for him. an alien encounter but immensely grateful. immensely happy. immensely comforted. Hes relatable too, knows good taste and never has failed me once when it comes to how I want to present myself on any given situation, he'll make you feel good if you need to vent and will offer a shoulder if you don't need to talk you just need to let it out. he's...amazing."

"under everything that astarion is or shows to be. there is an immensely good man down there and I can only hope that one day other people see it..but more importantly. he does too."

[thecatchat]

The Creation of Quarry

In the beginning, there was nothing. A nothingness so complete that there was no light or darkness. Only nothing.

Then there were two somethings.

Two gods, a dragon and a mask, came into existence. They did not know of each other at first as there was nothing else. Not until the dragon took their first breath, creating sound.

The mask was curious about what made that sound and created light to illuminate the nothing. The dragon, overwhelmed by the sudden brightness, created shadows so they could shield their eyes of it and dim the light.

The two gods finally saw each other and introduced themselves.

"I am The Maker," said the dragon.

"I am The Muse," said the mask.

The Muse quickly got bored with the nothing surrounding them, and lamented to their companion about it.

"Let us make something to fill it." The Maker replied. "I will fill it below us and you can fill it above us. Then we will have something."

And so The Muse put the source of all light directly above the two, to allow them to see when they worked. They created the first color, blue, and put it everywhere above, creating the sky. To fill in the space, they added clouds.

The Maker created the ground, made of black stone called obsidian. Deciding the ground was much too hard for them to rest on, they created white dirt to rest on.

They came back together and talked. For seven days and seven nights, the two shared ideas for their new world: colors, day and night, plants, animals, and more.

They created it all.

After some time, The Maker decided to add a touch of purple to their scales. They added it easily to the underside of their body but found they could not reach their back or wings. Feeling foolish, they created a cave and hid from The Muse. For thirty days and thirty nights, they hid away from their companion, who searched tirelessly with increasing worry.

Finally, The Muse found the entrance to the cave.

"Do not come in," warned The Maker, "or I shall hurt you."

"Okay." Replied The Muse, who reached up into the night sky and created the moon. The moons light shined into the cave, revealing The Makers half colored form.

The Muse almost made fun of The Maker for their predicament, but they realized that was exactly the reason why The Maker had hid away from them.

"Would you like help finishing your scales?" They asked instead.

The Maker accepted.

The Muse added purple in beautiful patterns all along The Makers back and wings. In full, the complete art was so beautiful and soul touching that just seeing the edges of it on their wings had The Maker cry from the overwhelming beauty of it. They cried so hard and for so long, it created the oceans.

In thanks, The Maker decided to create a body for The Muse, as The Muse was only a mask. They created a headless humanoid body as the base. They added countless arms so that The Muse may have an easier time creating their ideas. The final touch was a long flowing white cloak, a blank slate to be added to by The Muse, so they may note down or sketch their ideas before creating them.

The Muse was touched and inspired in equal measure by the gift. They created life called Actors in the image of the body they had been gifted. They became the favorite creation of both the gods. The Maker enjoyed watching the plays that The Muse would have the Actors put on, sometimes going on for centuries. They would lay just inside a cave at the top of the tallest point in the world and watch the stories play out.

One day, The Muse had one of their Actors go up to speak directly to The Maker. It was a long and dangerous climb, but the Actor eventually made it to the top. As they looked upon The Maker, they glimpsed the patterns in the glimmer of the scales. Instantly, the Actor gained free will and went off script by dying from fright.

The gods were confused and intrigued in equal measure by this. The Maker leaned in close and gently breathed upon the body. It revived the Actor and created the first soul.

The Actor, frightened and filled with knowledge that it could not understand, pleaded with the gods for its life.

The Muse was initially upset at this change in script. Until they realized that the Actors could create their own plays and inventions. Maybe even things that The Muse would have never imagined.

So The Muse declared that all should look upon The Maker and receive a soul, so that all Actors could think and create. The Maker asked them if that was a wise thing to do. The Muse reassured them that it was a great idea.

This Actor, first given soul and thought, became the first worshiper of the two gods. They spent the rest of their life spreading word of them, bringing people to them, and worshiping them. They created paintings of the gods image, wrote plays about the stories that the gods shared with them, and prayed to them both every night and day.

As free will and souls spread, The Maker and The Muse noticed changes in themselves. They could feel the power given to them by worship. Hear the prayers whispered by all those that prayed. It fed them and in turn made them grow in power.

This went on for a long, long time.

The area around The Makers cave became a sprawling metropolis, filled with all that would worship the gods. Plays would be put on in front of the cave every day for The Maker to witness. In turn, The Maker would give them knowledge on how to make things better as more and more Actors were born.

The Muse, on the other hand, would go out and see their creations everywhere that they went. Answering prayers that caught their eye or amused them. Sometimes taking the form of an Actor and experiencing life among them. Spreading tales of their own life and of their fellow god, The Maker.

The two slowly spent less time together. First a week. Then a month. Then a year. On and on it went, until the two had not seen each other in many centuries.

The amount of power given by worship was unfathomable in its levels. The Muse used this power to move around and grant prayers. The Maker sat and watched and gathered power without ever stepping out of their cave, causing them to grow with it. They had grown so much, they they could not leave the cave through the entrance, only able to stick out their head and watch the plays being put on for them.

The power, running out of room to grow the god, started to grow a new one.

The Maker suddenly felt hungry and requested that they be given fruit. The Actors brought carts upon carts of fruit to be eaten. The line is said to have stretched to the edge of the city miles away. The Makers teeth were said to become stained in bright colors from the amount of fruit eaten.

But they were still hungry.

The Maker requested that they be given meat. The Actors brought as many animals as they could to be eaten. Some say the line of Actors with animals was so long that even The Maker had trouble seeing its end. Entire species of animals were given to them, causing them to go extinct.

But they were still hungry.

The Maker was stumped as to what they were missing, and confessed their troubles to some of their closest and most dedicated worshipers. An Actor nearing the end of their life, volunteered themselves to be eaten, in an attempt to help their god be sated.

Initially, The Maker refused, not wanting to eat one of their favored creations. But as the days went by, the hunger continued to grow, little by little. An ever present feeling that could not be ignored. Until they finally relented and agreed to eat the Actor.

And they felt a little less hungry.

The Maker was torn. How they loved the Actors, who had done nothing but worship them for countless centuries. Who they had helped to develop technology and inventions to better all their lives. They felt the prayers of every Actor giving them so much. Could they really ask for them to give their bodies as well?

But they were still hungry.

The Maker asked to be given a dead Actor to eat.

It did nothing.

Reluctantly yet desperately, The Maker asked that they be given a living Actor to devour. Then another. And another.

Actors devoted to The Maker gladly gave themselves to their god. As word spread, people traveled from other cities and towns to allow themselves to be eaten by The Maker.

One by one, the souls gathered in The Makers body, mixing with the prayers and power from worship. Something started to develop.

They became hungrier.

They ate Actors, faster and faster, until the amount of willing Actors could not keep up with their hunger. Those condemned to die for the highest of crimes were fed to them. The stories of The Maker had changed. No longer were stories of a quiet god who shared knowledge and instructions told among the masses. The worship started to wane. Instead, there was fear.

They were given a new name. The Dragon. The Beast That Will Consume All.

It made them hungrier.

The Muse, who had been gone from the city for so long as to be considered a myth, began to hear whispers of prayers to them. At first they payed no mind, for they could hear countless prayers from countless other places that had other prayers to be heard.

But soon, they took notice of the desire to kill a beast. A beast that lived in a cave in the tallest mountain. A beast so large that people whispered that the mountain itself was hollow to hold the beasts size. A beast that ate nothing but living Actors. A beast with a dazzling purple sheen in its scales said to have once given knowledge, but now only inspires fear.

The Muse decided to start heading back to their fellow god, stopping along the way to spread good word about The Maker and inspire worship.

As worship for The Maker slowly started to rise, an egg grew inside them. Not in a womb, but inside their gut. As the shell formed, a pain began to grow in The Makers body. It grew steadily. With every newly inspired wave of worship, the egg grew faster. As the egg grew, the pain grew with it.

The Maker already half mad from the ever persistent hunger that had haunted them for several centuries by now, reached a tipping point.

The Muse became alarmed when they received prayers for them to save the Actors from The Dragon, who had broken from the mountain and was now devouring all that it could reach. They stopped inspiring others and rushed straight for the city. Even with all their power, it took them seven days and seven nights to reach the city. Or more accurately, what remained.

If any one witnessed the two meet, they did not survive to tell any one what was said. When The Muse is asked today what happened, they will not reply. The only thing they say on the matter is "I defeated The Dragon." Nothing more, nothing less.

What is known is that the two battled. So violent and for so long that they destroyed the rest of the world around the place where the city used to rest. It shaped the world into a sphere and made the world from an infinite plane to a finite globe. A single landmass surrounded by an ocean.

It is said that by the end of the fight, both gods spoke to each other, exhausted and with only a few tiny prayers of worship to keep them going. It is known that The Muse asked The Dragon, "Why?"

The popular version is that The Dragon snarled and insulted The Muse in some manner and that it was so terrible, The Muse gutted them for it.

The version that was only written once and lost to time, the true version of events, goes like this:

The Muse asked The Maker, "Why?"

"It hurts." The Maker whimpered in reply. "I was only hungry for so long and then it started to hurt. I needed to eat the souls. I would have starved otherwise. I finally don't feel mad with hunger. But it still hurts."

"What hurts?"

"My guts. I couldn't think for so long. I was so hungry. I was in so much pain. But I know what's inside me now."

The Maker wavered and laid down around the last remaining land, part of the base of their mountain and a small part of the city that had been reduced to rubble.

"There is an egg inside me. It grows with every prayer and worship sent to me. It hurts. We can not exist together. We both feed on the same prayers."

The Muse thought for a few moments.

"Do you want me to help you kill the egg?"

The Maker laughed a sad, sorrowful laugh.

"I will not survive, egg or no egg. I have been in indescribable pain for so long. In so much hunger for so long. I have destroyed nearly everything. I would go mad with hunger again eventually."

They laid their head down and rolled onto their side. Pining one of their wings below themselves and resting the other on their side.

"Take out the egg and hide it. For no surviving Actor will have any love for the beast they believe they will become. I will die, yes, but at least my child will have a chance at life. Let my body give this land resources so that the Actors that remain will survive the following years. I have been dying for a long time, my friend. I wish for the peace that death may bring."

The screaming roars of pain drowned out the sobs of mourning as The Muse dug into The Makers gut.

The Egg was small compared to the sheer size of The Maker. Only as big as an Actor was tall. It was a dark black color, with the barest hint of a purple sheen covering it.

"They'll live." The Maker gasped through the pain. "Make sure they fly, once they can. Make sure they move, once they can. Make sure they live through this, unlike me. Can you do that?"

"I can." The Muse whispered quietly. "I promise you that I will."

"Good," gargled The Maker through the blood in their lungs, "and name them this for me."

The Makers voice at this point grew so weak, that only The Muse would ever had heard it.

"That's a beautiful name."

The Muse watched as The Maker took their final dying breath. Leaving them with an egg, an island, and a civilization to rebuild.

--------

okay, I actually wanted to write more, like where The Muse rests and wakes up and realizes that everything has changed because of the magic of the dead god. but also I've been writing this for 5 hours straight and I need to stop for my mental health.

I have not reread this at all when I post this. I do not have the brain power to do so. Enjoy.

[ruexvn]

*gnawing on the bars of my cage* bloody painter headcannons PLEASE

!Bloody Painter Headcannons!

Ok sooo ive actually never dived into bloody painter so after a bit of web diving here’s a few things I kinda thought out.

————————————————————————

He has a separate joy/hobby which is mask painting on dolls.

Learned to stitch and sew to attach his painted masks to random dolls/ figures, etc

Gives them to judge angels or Jason the toy maker

Him and Jason have a small friendship, Jason sometimes requests masks and sometimes he does them sometimes he doesn’t

Him and judge angels have a good relationship, although sometimes his selfishness does make things rocky

When he dries his victims he has a little habit of going “heh” when he’s done because now he gets to sit back and paint

HATES when people watch him, even angels. Prefers you get the beauty of the FINISHED painting than the process

When’s he’s out of blood and missing small details he does use his own blood but never to an extent because he prefers to keep himself ‘clean’

Broke up with judge angels once because he thought he fell out just to have painted 15 murals of her not even a month into the breakup

Doodles on his mask sometimes but always ends up hating it because he’s not the muse and would rather create than be the created

Never does self portraits despite how egoistical he is, did it one and it sent him in a spiral because he couldn’t distinguish if he looked like a girl or boy

Sometimes has an identity crisis and often paints what he thinks he’d look like in that opposite gender

Called judge angels a lesbian ONCE during his crisis for being with him and never again(she found it funny)

Whenever something happens to his mask when killing his victims he will just be pissed off and skin the body until he sees bone

Ends up discarding the body for ‘ruining’ his painting mood

Doesn’t have a muse, not even angels. He sees everything as a nothing but a new passion. Hates sticking to the same idea

[unironicallycringe]

trying to take advantage of the creative energy bestowed upon me by my SkSw replay!

since Ikana is the "ancient version" of canon Termina, I wanted to make a Zora that hadn't fully evolved from the Parella. Especially since these in the Great Bay would be geographically separated from the Floria Parella, they'd be genetically distinct and could be "further along", so to speak. something something allopatric speciation. so I'm just calling them Zorella.

their legs aren't developed enough to get them onto land, so they don't interact much with the demons of Ikana except for the ones closest to their territory. those would be the Massu of Great Bay Island and Cragmaw Highlands.

[theirishwolfhound]

AHoGiSoG- Chapter 3: The Ural Mountains Pt. 1

Mission Start: Locate Unknown Target Word Count: 5,671

Content Warnings: Gays Flirting, Dad Jokes, Really Bad Flirting Happy Pride month! Enjoy these four gays hiking chatting. Not too much action (violence mostly) takes place in these few chapters, take it as a slice of life type content. Just to see the vibes and how I imagine everyone interacts with one another. :) Banners are from: @Firefly Graphics

5:45 July 31st, 2022

The same faint, annoying blare of an alarm clock that woke him up every morning began to buzz in the empty room. He slapped his hand over the clock, turning it off before sitting up to get ready for the morning. Running a rough hand over his face and through his messy hair, he swung his legs over the side of the bed to stand up and stretch his sore muscles. A low groan pooled from his lips as he headed to his bathroom to clean up and get ready for the day. He would get dressed into his fatigues— they’d have time to put their gear on and check it later— tucking his shirt into his pants to look somewhat put together, and exit his room to walk towards the common room. 

The walk was quiet, his boots hitting the floor just right to avoid making any sound, nor did any of the soldiers that were up that early pay him any mind, it was way too early for a conversation after all— at least that was the idea.

“Ghost! Good mornin’...” The familiar Irish accent got his attention and he was quick to look up towards the sergeant that stood in front of the coffee maker, his fatigues covering up the pale canvas of skin underneath. Curly hair pulled back into, what he could only guess was supposed to be, a bun while a small smile splayed across his lips. For once he looked well rested, and it looked good on him. “I, uh, made ye’ tae.”

“Sergeant.” Ghost greeted, giving the younger man a nod as he made his way over to the Irishman so that he could take the cup of tea from him when it was offered out. He looked down to the cup and hummed softly to himself. “Thanks, lad, didn’t ‘ave to make me a cuppa…” He mumbled, pushing his mask up slightly to take a sip when Wolfhound turned to continue pouring himself some coffee. Johnny had come by after he had left Crow’s bunk, telling him that the Irishman might have a sneaking suspicion on their more intimate affairs— but Simon was surprised the man didn’t figure it out sooner, considering how clingy Soap was. But at least he knew now what the two had been teasing one another about. “How did you sleep?” 

“Like a feckin’ babe.” Crow laughed softly as he set the pot back under the dispenser and picked his mug up to turn towards Simon. He hummed a little, lightly reaching over to slug the taller man in the shoulder. “T’anks t’ya. Now, uh, I’ve gotta go finish up m’paperwork so it won’ pile up ta’much..” 

“Hm… yer welcome, red.” The lieutenant mused, rolling his eyes at the other’s words. He took a sip of the tea, sighing in faint delight before watching the ginger take his mug and exit the common room. “Have fun.”

~~~~

Hours would pass before any of the sergeants or the lieutenant would see one another. Between training separately or tying up loose work before they had to leave, but once they were given the word to finally group up at the tarmac they would. Price was waiting for them near the helicopter, watching as they approached with gloved hands tightening loose gear to their proper fittings. He stepped over to Gaz when Ghost stepped in front of Soap, the two commanding officers tugging and inspecting their gear while Wolfhound adjusted his a little bit more. The smaller man occasionally glanced up to watch the four men fret over one another. With a few pats to the older sergeant’s chest the captain moved on to the younger’s, checking over his gear. 

“I know you’ll take care of the lads out there,” Price started, his voice soft enough for the other three to not hear— not like they were listening anyways, they were bickering with one another while trying to check Ghost’s gear as the tall man grumbled in annoyance. Crow stumbled a little when John gripped the sides of his vest, pulling on it to make sure it was strapped perfectly. “...just make sure you let them do the same for you, y’hear?” 

“Aye, cap…” The Irishman chuckled softly, lightly patting the captain’s hands a little to reassure the man, he knew that he could be stubborn on missions with how he put others before himself. Though ever after he lost his fiancé he couldn’t help but make sure his team got out safely, even if he had to fight tooth and nail to do so. “We’ll come back safe n’ sound, yeah?” 

Price didn't need the reassurance, trusting his men enough to go in and get the job done so that they could come back to him and the others— but he needed at least one, preferably two at most, to come back without an injury. “Right well… I’ll hold you lads to that.” He chuckled, lightly letting the smaller man go, patting his chest like he had done for Kyle, before walking back to the other three. Sure the simple gesture was given before almost every mission, but it still felt nice— reassuring even, leaving the younger man wanting more for the simple comfort. Crow looked to the spot that had been patted and smiled softly, placing his hand over it before quickly rejoining the group. 

Wolfhound stood at Gaz’s side and gave the taller a faint smile as Price spoke about the mission details once again, the four men listening intently before they loaded onto the helicopter. 

~~~~

After a long and rather boring flight, with the occasional smartass roast sesh between Johnny and Kyle— specifically when the Scot fumbled over his words when he was talking about a dream he had the night prior— they would land and clamber off the helicopter. Waving the pilot off with a quick signal before they began their trek. 

The unadulterated beauty of the landscape was like a breath of fresh air, literally, compared to the scenery around the base. Their more desert-like home was nothing in beauty when put against a lush green valley with a healthy mixed forest of coniferous and deciduous trees before them. Crow stared out from the flat summit they had been dropped on, turning in a circle to look south at the distant steppes and nearly full deciduous woods. His eyes wide with appreciation, only for him to smile widely and hop lightly on his feet. He couldn’t help but feel giddy at the naturalistic view that he had before him. 

“Cac naofa... Tá sé chomh hálainn…” He breathed out and then turned to look at his teammates as they watched him. There was something so ethereal about seeing the normally unamused man seem so… smiley and excited. Johnny couldn’t help but smirk and raise one of his brows. 

“Cannae keep yerself contained, eh, ya wee cuilean?” The Scot teased before laughing as the Irishman glared playfully at him. 

Wolfhound gave a gesture with his hand and scoffed slightly. “Wud ya get outta t’at garden, big fella!” He hissed back with a laugh while the Scot joined in.

“Oi, would y’two muppets stop arguin’?” Gaz quipped teasingly as he moved to gesture  the ginger man over, wrapping an arm around his shoulders to pull him north. He slid his hand up into Crow’s hair, ruffling the already tangled curls enough to earn a soft growl from him. “C’mon, we can admire the view while we walk rather than faffing around.” 

~~~~

August 1st, 2022

After walking as far as they could before the sun set, and a restful night in tents, the four would wake back up and begin to dismantle their tents— Wolfhound and Gaz working together with little argument, though a lot of snickering as Ghost purposefully messed with Soap by toying with the tent as the Scot worked on unhooking the stakes. Once they were packed up and ready to travel they would begin to head north once again, after having a quick breakfast of course. They hiked through the valley and up the incline of a steep mountain path that Johnny took one look at and called the degree of the incline. 16° according to him, and no one had the right to argue because the bastard was right. 

The man was fucking brilliant. It was one of the many features about Soap that Wolfhound loved, his intelligence, simply because it made everything so much easier— and it was lowkey attractive, even when it pissed the Irishman off. But he couldn’t deny that he loved giving him problems to solve just to see him happy about planning or solving a puzzle that he himself was having trouble with. Though when it came to something that Crow was supposed to be good at, he couldn’t tell if he was supposed to be impressed or angry that he was right.

It was a hard climb—not overly difficult, just annoying— but they managed to get to the peak and out of the valley so that they could continue along the way. It felt more casual than other missions, like a hike between friends despite the lingering caution in the air since they knew that they would eventually find some sort of resistance. Yet that did not stop them all from lightly joking around especially whenever it came time to take a quick break a little bit after noon.

“What is red and bad for yer teeth?” Ghost asked gruffly while opening his canteen to take a sip, watching as Soap struggled to open up his rations. 

“What’s it?” Gaz asked, chuckling slightly as Wolfhound snatched the rations from the Scot to open it for him.

“A brick.”

A soft snort came from the Irishman’s nose, only for him to bring a hand up to his brow and pinch it slightly. “Oh my God.” He breathed softly, stifling the rest of his laugh while the other two shared one. “T’at was terrible.”  

“Y’laughed.” The lieutenant teased with a gruff chuckle. 

“An’ I regret it immensely.” 

“Oh I’ve one fer ya’.” Soap said with a mouthful of his ration, a sly smile on his face. “Jus’ git back from a magic holiday in France, great hospitality in te’ hotel. Every time I ordered twa pints, they brought me three!” 

Gaz snorted at the joke, rolling his eyes before watching as the Scot beamed proudly with his joke, his eyes sparkling faintly. The other two had to take a moment to understand, but they also wound up chuckling— at least Ghost did, considering Wolfhound was still trying to mask his giggles. Garrick seemed to take a few seconds then crossed his arms over his chest. “Where do y’ take someone who was injured inna peekaboo accident, eh?” 

He paused for a few seconds making sure to hold eye contact with the first one that looked to him— and unfortunately the ginger-haired man was the first to glance over. He held a straight face then smirked when he noticed Crow’s attempt to stifle the little smile that was trying to form. “...the ICU.” 

The younger’s breathing stuttered softly at the silly joke— though when a certain someone to his right let out a hearty laugh he couldn't help but laugh as well. He hid his face in his hands and shook his head as he giggled, the sound more genuine than any of his other laughs. “Eejits! Te’ lot of ya’.” He chortled, which only caused Johnny to laugh even more. 

“Yet y’laughed. Again.” Ghost chuckled, watching as the redhead looked at him through his fingers. 

He hid the goofy smile behind his palms then shook his head slightly. “An’ I regret it immensely.” It was a lie, they could all tell from the way he hid his lip— hid his tell, but they didn't call him on it. Not yet anyways. 

~~~~

The day would go by fairly quickly, and soon— after another half day of hiking— the night would come and the four men would settle down. Though as they ate, Crow set to work after grabbing a flattish rock to start digging a hole… much to the confusion of the other three. It was odd. Wolfhound had his…. quirks sure, but they never included digging holes like an actual dog. 

“Oi, heathen,” Kyle laughed softly, lightly flinging a bit of soil in Crow's direction to get his attention. “What in t'bloody Hell are you doing, wolf?” 

“Dakota fire hole. Keep who'ver's on watch warm while bein’ sneaky still.” The shorter man replied as he continued to dig out the main hole with practiced fervent motions. “G'get some nice dry wood and kindlin’ fer me.” 

At the wave of his hand, and to humor his request, the three went to find the items near the campsite they had set up— which they managed to do rather smoothly, no thanks to the bitching that happened during the setting up of tents. Finding the dry pieces of wood was rather tedious as when Soap brought back some sticks, Wolfhound would feel their bark before looking to the Scot with a disapproving frown… only for it to turn into a playful grin when he noticed the pout on his friend's lips. 

“A'said dry, MacTavish, nae fresh out th’ river!” The Irish sergeant teased as he jammed the sticks down into the hole to hollow out the tunnel that would feed air into the fire. “...jus’ kiddin’, mate. T'ese will do jus’ fine.” He chuckled when he noticed the frowning pout on the Scotsman's face. 

With the help of the other three the Irishman was able to get a small, nearly smokeless, and completely out of sight fire going. He breathed out happily and then turned to look at the others. “I’ll take th’first watch, eh?” Crow offered, smiling gently to the others. “Get some rest, lads— I’ll wake th’lot of ya if somethin’ happens.”

13:04 August 2nd, 2022

“‘Ave you lads ever heard of th’ Dyatlov Pass incident? Took place further up in the Urals.” Crow’s voice called back to the three men as they walked down a particularly smooth grassy hill. The previous night had gone by relatively easily, and breakfast was just nice, seeing as they were able to actually heat it up since they fed the fire throughout the night— up until the Irishman buried it to leave no trace except loose dirt. “Happened back in 1959, nine people died from a few differn’ causes. Mostly hypothermia, some had blunt force trauma t’ough.” 

“I think I’ve heard of it,” Kyle hummed as he trailed behind the ginger man. “Can’t say I know much onnit.”

“If it makes y’feel better, no one knew what caused it fer a while.” Crow mused, turning to walk backwards so he could look at Kyle. “Back t’en no one knew what could’ve killed them. Whether it be th’ Soviet military, fall winds, animals… hell some people even t’ought it was a supernatural force or t’ey all panicked due to a low-frequency sound.” He paused then smiled faintly. “Back in 2020 t’ough, th’ Russian government said it was an avalanche after openin’ up another investigation.”

“Why the hell d’ya know about this?” Simon asked with a faint chuff of a laugh. 

“Looked it up when Cap’in first told us about t’is mission.” 

“Did ya’ always look up things like this before a recon?” 

“Nah, sometimes I jus’ know t’ings.” He boasted playfully. “Mostly about flora and fauna… but I keep m’eyes on some true crime stories… runnin’ inta cannibals is a fear o’mine.” 

“Cannibals?” Ghost asked with a faint chuckle

“Aye, t’ey’re… uh kinda scary.” 

“Well, go on then, puppy, give us a few facts about th’other things y’know.” 

Wolfhound had to pause his backwards stride at Gaz’s voice, his eyes narrowing in faint disbelief— only to shoot an annoyed glare at Soap, who smiled proudly. ‘He’s put others up to this game now?’ It had been a common thing to hear from Soap, especially when Wolfhound started to come around a few months back, but he never would have thought he’d get the others in on it. “Is fuath liom tú.” He muttered out to the older man before shaking his head. ‘Smug bastard.’ But he could never deny liking the teasing, though before it had only been Soap calling him that— as far as he knew. 

“Why in the bleedin’ hells ‘ave you lads started t’at, eh?” He asked with a scoff, turning on his heels to face forward and start walking down the hill once again when he felt a rush of warmth rise to his face. 

“Ye like it,” Soap teased with a laugh. “...an’ it’s a play on yer nickname… truer than jus’ ‘Wolf’. An’ besides… we’re friends we gotta tease one anotha’.” 

‘Yeah, friends..’ The Irishman pursed his lips slightly then threw his hands up slightly, almost in defeat before he let them drop down to his sides once again. He needed to change the subject not wanting to dwell on the ‘friendly’ teasing— even though he knew it wasn’t just a friend thing to call one another names like that, freckles sure but not puppy. “I…” He huffed and shook his head. “Yeah, I d’mind it.” ‘More than you’ll ever know.’

He was quiet for a few seconds feeling the wind against his face before he heard Gaz’s voice speak to him once again. “Whatta ‘bout those facts?” Which got him to think much more intently, specifically about what he knew about their general area.

“Th’ eurasian brown bear is Russia’s national animal… t’ey live in t’ese parts too.” Crow said, looking over his shoulder to the three men with an annoyed look to give them a sharp playful glare. “T’ere’s like… ova’ a hundred thousand of ‘em in this country. T’ey're unpredictable, an’ ye’ gotta be big an’ loud to scare ‘em off.” He chuckled, turning back around once he was sure that his blush had died down. “Like t’is.” Crow said, raising his arms over his head before letting out a short yell— to which it would have been longer if he didn’t stumble into a small divot in the soft grass. 

The yell turned into a series of grunts and laughs as he toppled backwards, due to the extra weight of his backpack, and down the remainder of the hill. At first the three men were worried— well Soap and Gaz seemed worried, Ghost had to clench his jaw shut to not laugh at the sight— but hearing the man laugh as he tumbled down the hill eased their concerns. 

“Oh you dumbass!” Kyle grumbled as he hurried down the hill followed by John, who was now laughing teasingly. The oldest of the sergeants made it to Crow’s position, watching the younger hold his sides as he laughed, while John managed to slip on the grass and join the other at the bottom of the hill. It was more like a series of giggles, but burrs and twigs, among many other small plant debris, had gotten tangled into his curly hair and some even stuck to his gear. Soap was no better, laughing and lightly pulling little bits of nature from his mohawk. 

 “Oi get up, y'knobheads.” Kyle laughed as he moved to gently nudge both men with the side of his boot, only to grab Crow’s hands when the younger man stuck them up in the air for assistance— lifting him off the ground, unlike Simon who playfully slapped John’s hands when he asked for help off the ground. The Irishman laughed as he was yanked off the ground and into the oldest sergeant’s arms, lightly clinging to him as he continued to giggle. 

“Dinnae see th’ hole t’ere.” Wolfhound said as he lightly held onto one of Gaz’s arms to keep himself steady. “’aven’t rolled downa hill inna while… I t’ink I needed t’at.” 

~~~~

That night Crow spent most of his time around the hidden fire pulling twigs and leaves from his hair, cursing playfully as he tossed the items into the fire pit while he listened to the others speak. 

“I jus’ hope th’cap lets us head to the pubs after this mission,” Kyle groaned as he opened his MRE. “O’Neil said th’first round’s on him after all.”

“Yeah, jus’ th’ first, one rule t’ough.” The younger man chuckled as he continued his light grooming. “Has t’be a pub I choose.” 

“Oh easy deal,'' came the other man’s reply. “You probably know better places t’go anyways, eh?” 

Wolfhound shook his head lightly. “Nah, mate. Malakai did t’ough. He scouted out th’places we wen’ to.” He chuckled and tossed the last (hopefully) burr from his hair then reached to his vest to open one of the pockets. The Irishman would pull out a rubber band then slide it onto his wrist as he began to braid his hair back. “I’m… not a super heavy drinker really. Got scared outta it when I was a lil’ lamb. But communion wine is fine, I guess, heh..” 

“Eugh, altar wine.” Soap groaned and shook his head as he took a bite from his meal. “That’s boakin’. I’d rather be a roaster than eva’ drink t’at shite again.” 

“It ain’t too bad, now t’at I’m grown.” Crow admitted with a shrug and then smiled faintly, only to clear his throat slightly. “Bu’ yeah, Kai had a list of pubs t’at were top tier— I’m sure he wouldnae mind if I shared ‘em wit ya lads, hmhm.” 

“Figured he’d come t’haunt us if he dinnae like sharing his bonnie lad wit us, few pubs won’t hurt.”

Simon shot a silent glare at John, while Kyle looked at him with a bit of warning— though Crow blinked and glanced over to the Scotsman as he finally tied his braid off with a faint hum. His smile had slowly faded to a faint frown, though he did not seem too upset and was rather in thought. He then nodded slightly before their lieutenant swatted the Scotsman upside the head. 

“You troglodyte.” The older man hissed. 

“Nah… Johnny-boy issa bit right… I jus’ never t’ought of it t’at way.” The Irishman replied slowly, then chuckled a little. While not expecting the conversation to go this way, it did remind him of what his therapist had brought up before. Malakai loved him, he would want him to be happy. “...he’d be happy t’share.” 

His words seemed to surprise the other two sergeants, though the lieutenant seemed to just be relieved that the other did not get upset over John’s teasing and took it with some sort of stride. 

“Yeah? Well… we’ll keep it in mind, red.” John chuckled softly and then nodded a little as Crow glanced to him, an unsure smile on his face. 

“Save it fer t’ride back, yeah?”

11:53 August 3rd, 2022

“Alright, so, uh, what’s everyone’s favorite food? One that you’d kill for at th’ moment?” Gaz asked as the group made their way through a particularly rocky pass through the mountains they had to head through. A chill had begun to settle in the air as they continued their trek north. “I personally I’d murder for some bangin’ curry right now.”

“I’m cravin’ somethin’ sweet,” Soap chimed as he wet his lips with his tongue. “It’s t’ start of raspberry season… could go fer a cranachan bu’ some shortbread would do me ova’.”

“Shepherd's pie, ‘specially if it’s made wit venison or boar meat.” Wolfhound replied from the lead, stopping for a second to let the other three men catch up to him. He leaned against the rocky wall behind him then turned back to look at them. 

It took Ghost a few moments to respond, though it seemed like he was really mulling over the question. “Hmm… might kill for a taste of human—”

“Absolutely not, ye shitehawk.” The Irishman squawked. “Yer fecked up.”

“Ah yer crabbit,” A boisterous laugh sounded from the Scotsman at the other Celt’s reaction, noticing the faint look of disgust— but in a fearful way almost. He clapped the shorter man on the back and gently grabbed at his sides as if he were mocking an eating motion. The light pinching seemingly tickled Crow with the way he jumped and tried to pull away. “Dinnae worry, Wolfhound, yer too sweet fer Ghost’s tastes.” 

“He drinks too much coffee for my tastes.” Ghost corrected before moving to lightly swat John away from Crow. “Too bitter— ‘e’s more of Price’s taste, heh.” 

“Yer not funny! Neither ov’ya.” The shorter man grumbled softly. “Least Kyle loves me ‘nough t’be nice t’me.” 

“Aye,” The oldest sergeant mused, moving to wrap an arm around the smaller’s shoulders— sticking his tongue out at the other two while playfully shielding him. “I’ll keep these plonkers from nipping at yer bones, eh?” 

“Yeah yeah,” The lieutenant chuckled before waving his hand dismissively. “...I’d actually like sushi… something with eel sauce. Or some sorta stew.”

“See… now that’s better than a bite outta our freckled friend— who may ‘er may na’ taste bitter or sweet.” The youngest of the four mused.

“Ye two are terrible,” Crow replied, feigning annoyance. “I hate ye both.” He shot a mock glare at John and Simon, only getting a few chuckles from both of them and a faint squeeze from Kyle. 

“Hehe, ye know ye love us, pup.” Soap teased, reaching over to ruffle Wolfound’s messy braid— further messing it up. He could not help but chuckle at the way the smaller man’s nose scrunching up when he gave his half-attempted glare. Though when he put a bit of thought into it, it looked more like a pout. “Ye feckin cute, ye ken?”

“Oh, dún do bhéal!” The Irishman hissed, rolling his eyes as he ducked out from under Gaz’s arm so that he could continue heading north. “Told ye ta save it fer te’ ride back, when tis is all ova.”

It did not help the man's case when he seemed to blush at the faint teasing, having dealt with this sort of attitude for the past few days it really started to break down the walls he had put up after the death of his previous lover. Though, deep down, Crow did relish in the attention— truth be told he really needed it deep down but couldn't let it show, for as far as he knew Ghost and Soap were in a relationship while Gaz and Price were in their own.

"Oh come on, we've got ta' 'ave fun out here somehow, yeah?" Soap teased gently as he headed after Crow, followed by Ghost and Gaz who shook their heads in light amusement. 

“Nah, yer just a collective group of dicks,” Crow barked back, only to huff quietly and grip the armstraps of his heavy travel pack. He stepped up onto a larger rock to start leading the group out of the rocky terrain as best he could. “...compliment obviously… I wouldn’ travel out ‘ere wit just anyone.”

“An’ ye feckin’ know ‘at.” John chuckled, grinning to himself as he watched the Irishman take the lead once again. The smaller man was agile, kept his balance rather well though at the faintest wobble, the younger sergeant moved forward. He did not hesitate to reach out, wrapping his hands around Crow’s waist in a simple attempt to keep him from falling backwards as he stepped up the rocks. “Yer lucky te’ rest a’ us are soo ‘elpful and handsome, eh?”

Kyle watched with a faint chuckle while Ghost shook his head slightly, though Crow seemed rather surprised at the sudden touch. He knew that even with his gear he weighed a little over one-hundred kilos— though he had to remind himself that he once saw the Scotsman lift more than his weight before in the gym. 

Wolfhound turned slightly while looking to Soap for a few moments, only to roll his eyes and continue to lead the way. “Aye, I ‘spose it is always good ta’ ‘ave eye candy along side yer trail mix.”

Soap nearly choked on a quiet laugh at the sight of Crow’s eye-roll and ability to keep marching forward— though he could practically hear the flustered tone in the man’s voice. The thought alone would send him into hysterics, though he held back as he knew Crow would take any chance to shove him off a cliff if he stepped on his toes too much. He turned back to look at the other two men, raising his brows with a smile. 

“Eye candy,” He snickered, then shook his head to follow after the older man. 

"Shut up, ya git." Crow huffed back with a little pout, but he couldn't help but let out a little scoff that sounded a bit like a chuckle before continuing on. He knew it was all in good fun— but that did not mean that he could not have some fun himself. He gave Soap a small sideward glance before grinning to himself. 

"Not my fault ye lads keep tryin' ta' get a rise out a me," he teased.

Soap could not help but snicker at the pout— not to say that it wasn't the most adorable thing, it just seemed so out of character for the smaller sergeant, though he was happy to see the man’s walls start to crumble. But the scoff followed by a light chuckle was the icing on the cake, making Soap almost wish he could have seen the expression that went along with it. He chuckled lightly himself, following closer beside Crow on their trek.

Crow continued to lead the other three men out of the rocks then turned to look at them slightly. Making sure they caught up before continuing on the way. Ghost was the last to pull himself out of the rocky terrain, but he was quick to catch up to the group and rejoin the circle, falling into a sort of rhythm with their pace. The only sounds were their own footsteps and the quiet shuffling of gear being pulled here and there. It was relatively quiet save for the natural sounds of the region, and it was obvious that John was starting to get a little fidgety. 

~~~~~

"Ye ken," Soap started, falling into step beside the shorter man. The sun had begun her descent into the horizon— though it would be a few hours before she began to set when his voice broke the long, albeit comfortable, silence.  "I've been thinkin’…”

“Dangerous game yer playin’ t’ere.” Wolfhound quipped, beating Ghost’s attempt 

"Oi, quit it," Soap huffed in response, rolling his eyes at the typical cheeky response. "This is a serious question."

"When is anythin' you ask serious?" Ghost chimed in with a low chuckle, knowing full well where Soap was likely going with the question.

Gaz laughed softly and then gave a faint shrug. "They're right, suds." 

The Scotsman shot a glare at the both of them, mostly for being right. But before he could come up with a smartass response, he felt a sharp pinch on the back of his arm— courtesy of Ghost, who gave him a smirk before gesturing for him to go on.   

With a roll of his eyes and an annoyed huff, Soap turned back to Crow. "Right... I've been meanin' to ask... how long's it been fer ye... since the whole thing wit' your fiancé… yeh mentioned it, but neva said how long..”

"... he died last November? So it'll be 'round eight months given August just started?" He replied softly then shrugged faintly. "Some days it still feels like it happened yesterday." The Irishman then paused for a moment turning his head slightly to look up to the sky, then towards the horizon. He was quiet, though his faintly saddened expression turned to one of sheer focus. He was silent for a few seconds then he held his hand up to silence the other men. 

"...shh...listen."

The men perked up at the sudden signal to be silent, and they almost spoke up but stopped just at the last minute, looking between each other with concentration. It took a few moments, but soon the faint sound of a helicopter came into range. The four of them exchanged looks with each other then ducked behind a large rock— huddling close together. Ghost and Soap crouched together while Gaz pulled Crow over to where they had ducked down, holding the man by his shoulder almost as if it was a subtle show of protection. The faint sound grew closer to their direction.

"Military?" Ghost mouthed to the group, his voice barely above a whisper when the helicopter began to fly overhead. 

With precise movements Crow pulled his sniper from his back, though did not load it. Rather he aimed it towards the helicopter to look through his scope curiously. He eyed the soldiers' uniforms that were in the craft as it began to pass by, his brows furrowing slightly as he adjusted his scope to zoom in. As he watched the helicopter fly over he began to take a mental note of everything that he saw. The make and model, the size and style for how many passengers it could hold, and then finally, how heavily armed it was.

"Unmarked." He responded just as quietly. "It's not Russian… seems like an espionage..?”

“Whatever they are… means we’re heading in the right direction.” Gaz said quietly, lightly peeking over Crow’s shoulder while keeping his arm around Wolfhound’s shoulders. “Good catch, Wolf…”

Soap opened his mouth, as if to say something else, but just as quickly closed it when Ghost shot him a glare that said 'shut the hell up'. The group was silent for a few moments, but Ghost was the next to speak.

"We need to find somewhere to camp for the night. Re-check our gear... rest." Ghost said with a quiet tone. "If we keep pushing, then we risk running into them.”

“Rog, Lt.”

[buccaneeering]

Hello!! For the OC ask game: 🦀🦋🐱🕊️

Hello friend!! Thank you for asking 😊💛 I am SO sorry for the wait 🥲

Very long ramble under the cut.

--

🦀 How did they handle realizing they were in love? - It took Julien a very long time to realize he was in love because he gets attatched quite easily(I don't know how exactly to describe it) he gets like... This overwhelming need/excitement to be somebody's friend(cough cough he may or may not get that from me)

BUT when he processes that he IS, in fact, in love, it causes him to panic. He tries so hard to act normal and move on, but it just sort of.. Sticks..? He begins to make Erik gifts and tries to play it off while simultaneously longing for him to notice. "I.. Made you this.. I just, I appreciate you being there and couldn't quite figure out how to say it."

🦋 How long does it take them to get out of the awkward relationship phase? ‐ I like to think it wouldn't take very long, because in the same regard of his nervousness, Julien is a very open and polite person who wants to be everyone's person to rely on.

I don't think Erik will ever really get used to asking for things. He'll probably always struggle with self-deprecation... So that'll be a thing to work out?

Maybe a week? Julien sort of treats this kind of thing as an extra loving friendship, and I think Erik would be more tentative about it.

🐱 Do they have any pet names for each other? How do they feel about them? -

Julien for Erik: Songbird, Muse-maker, Sweet Erik, Dear Erik, Dearest Erik, Sweetheart

How Erik feels: Mmmmm... I think he'd like everything but songbird? 🤷‍♂️😅 I haven't really dwelled on this thought.

Erik for Julien: Painter boy, Smiles, Mon cher, Darling, Darling boy, Love

How Julien feels: Gushy. He enjoys nicknames, and oftentimes, they make him laugh.

🕊 Domestic tidbits - Julien likes to sleep with his head on Erik's chest, but they spoon too(Julien is usually the big spoon)

Julien regularly wakes Erik up with kisses peppered around his face in the morning(Julien is terrible about sleeping right and often jolts awake throughout the night and into early morning), probably murmuring something along the lines of "You're a blessing." Before he gets up to get ready.

Erik puts a great deal of care into making sure Julien remembers to eat. He'll be waiting in Julien's room, propped up against his desk, "You've ignored your needs again. It's a wonder you're no deader than I."

The obligatory Erik singing to him/composing songs. I think that Julien would pay close attention so he could join in next time.

Julien tributing paintings to Erik.

Love letters, uhhh.. Just general reminders that they love each other just the way they are.

Erik making Julien more mustaches...?

Julien painting Erik masks.

Erik trying to spook Julien with his ventriloquism and 'failing' because Julien's fight or flight is freeze, and it takes everyone a very long time to notice this.

--

I hope this long ramble was worth it. 🥲😅💛

[furhelden]

no one asked but here’s the worst traits i think my (original) muses have.

prosperina is untrusting to the point of self-sabotage and destruction. they refuse to let new people in, and put up fake masks and layers to make herself seem more dislikable than she really is in an effort to keep people from spending time with her. she’d rather suffer alone than ask for help which leaves her vulnerable, physically and emotionally.

margo is too single minded. too devoted to the idea of a single end goal that they will make the means justify the end. whatever it takes to get there, she doesn’t care. they won’t lose sleep about forcing something to happen so they can make their goals happen. she’s not above getting from a to b with slaughter and carnage, anything can be shaped to justify the needed narrative.

garrett can’t take anything seriously until it’s too late. he’s too quick to joke, always wants to try and laugh his way through issues that should be talked out. prefers to bury down his emotions under layers of laughter until it’s become too late and the issue is now a giant problem.

marya will always find a way to blame herself. everything that goes wrong needs to be her fault because she can’t tell people they’ve hurt her or done something wrong. she’s self-victimising but also refuses to acknowledge herself as a victim of actual parental neglect. she worries too much about everything to make up for her siblings not worry about anything.

anastasie lives in shades of regret. she’s forever in the “what if i had done…”, “maybe i should have…”, and struggles with the concept of being a leader because she’s always been a follower. her inability to make choices without excessively consulting and considering every single choice leads time to run out, and constantly avoid tasks that are important. it makes her a poor leader and a worse decision maker when she insists upon having every scrap of information to make even the simplest choice.

[red-hemlock]

What Kind Of Love Are You?

Love as Religion

Devotion, that is the name of your love. Your love is an act of worship. Your love is like witnessing the birth of Venus, like seeing the sun come alive, or the stars fall. When you love, it is because you have found God in a lover. You have found the meaning of life itself in the heart of the one you adore. They are everything to you; they are your Maker, and you are their lamb, their flock, their first and holiest worshipper. When you fall in love, it is as a baptism. You are born anew, made a believer in the divinity of the one you love most. Being loved by you is an ascension; it is holy and golden. It is all-consuming, and all-faithful, loyal as the dog. You will never, ever bite back.

Tagged by: @masquenoire Tagging: @foolish-pleasure, @the-rorschach-mask, @sanguine-salvation, @mute-call, @onopoeia (your muse choice!), @nightmarefuele (your muse choice!), @bcnamighdall, (And anyone else who wants to do the thing. =D)