#this has sat in my drafts for a while

[phosphorus-noodles]

thinking about fallen angel bards in beautiful hawaiian shirts again btw. if you even care

[mattpearson]

PARKS AND RECREATION 4.04 — PAWNEE RANGERS | DELETED SCENE

[copia]

THIRTY-ONE DAYS OF GHOST ⛧ DAY FOUR

favourite song from Infestissumam — Year Zero

Hell—an archaic Swedish translation of hail. Archangelo, the Italian name for an Archangel, for whom we will bow in praise; hail Satan, and welcome, with the birth of the Antichrist, an age with which humanity's calendar will begin again.

[kingkestrel]

Lando: I like my gaming like i like my sex

Oscar: Casual?

Lando: Oi, I was thinking sweaty!

[yeehawitsjakee]

Bethan had been to Baldur's Gate once before. It hadn't even been an intentional visit honestly.

Six months before the Nautiloid she'd found herself wandering the bustling streets of the Lower City, assaulted by the sharp sea air and crowds. She'd actually been on route back to Amn, fresh from a job up in Phandalin, when word came of someone in Baldur's Gate needing a healer. Bethan may not have been a cleric but she was in the area with some healing to spare. A quick and fairly easy job all things considered.

Until some idiot thugs decided to try and mug her.

Their mistake, taking on a seasoned paladin with a few daggers. One lay at her feet, not dead but unlikely to be moving for a while. She made a mental note to heal him before she left. The others had scattered, leaving her bruised and bloodied to lick her wounds.

Bethan all but collapsed onto the nearest bench. She was beneath some sort of bar or pub (The Singing Lute?) just opposite the Counting House. She let herself breath. It was a much quieter area of the city than the maze of streets she'd been navigating moments prior. Just the lapping waves and distant hum of voices from the docks. Peaceful. Almost a lullaby. Bethan hadn't realised how tired she was. Her eyelids felt heavy all of a sudden.

"Good job, kiddo." a deep, rough voice murmured from behind her. She recognised it instantly. Her eyes shot open as she spun around, face to face with a ghost. Or at least someone who should have been one. Davyd Colwyvv. Her brother. He's just stood there, across the picnic table, almost awkwardly so. Like he doesn't really know how he should be standing.

Gods, was this real?

It had been, what, a decade since she last saw him? Just some scrappy farmer boy from Nashkel, fifteen summers old. He looked older now, obviously, with tired bags beneath his eyes and the ragged growth of stubble poking out of his jaw. He stared just past her ear, seemingly unable to make direct eye contact.

Her mouth felt dry but she forced out a croaky, "Davyd?"

He still wouldn't meet her gaze. But his previously neutral expression softened ever so slightly. "Hey."

If Bethan hadn't been focusing on him so intently she may have missed the slight wobble in his voice. Almost like a choked back sob. Davyd strode towards her, stopping just a meter away. Ever so slightly shaking.

He didn't move for a moment, like he was waiting for her to say something. Maybe he wanted her to make the first move, maybe he thought she wasn't happy to see him alive after all these years.

But Bethan didn't have time for hypotheticals. She held out her arms and was immediately almost swept off her feet into a tight embrace. And it suddenly hit her: this was real. He was real. His heart beating against her cheek, each warm shaky breath into her hair. He was alive.

Davyd held her for a while as she sobbed and then directed her back to the bench so they could sit and talk. Not for long, not for long enough. And he refused to tell her what he'd been doing all those years. He explained he had been on his way out of the city on important business when he saw her. Didn't know when he would be back. A small gut punch. But he'd promised that when he was back he'd tell her everything. And she'd believed him.

Obviously neither of them had getting abducted by mind flayers on their bingo cards. Or Davyd losing most of his memories for that matter. The complete lack of recognition in his eyes when they met again on the nautiloid still haunted her. It had only been six months since The Singing Lute but he looked so much older than before. His scraps of stubble had grown out into what could almost be considered a beard, the bags under his eyes seemed somehow even more dark and pronounced. Bethan figured, in hindsight, that having a lobotomy would probably do that to you. And the whole being-a-Bhaalspawn thing explained his lack of explaining.

They ended up at The Singing Lute again on the search for Minsc. He was in the counting house, apparently. For not the first time since she'd been forced to traipse through the maze of sewers, Bethan wondered if Jaheira had only dragged them to Guildhall under the guise of looking for Minsc purely so she could speak with Nine-Fingers. Not that their conversation seemed to have gone particularly well. Jaheira didn't want to talk about it, just sent the party to question guildmembers for some kind of lead.

(She quietly wondered if figuring out the relationship status between a certain Guildmaster and High Harper was a possible/valuable use of channeling her oath. Surely Sune would understand.)

She hadn't even realised where they were at first. It was only when Davyd stopped dead in his tracks she even took note of their surroundings. The rest of the party had wandered off ahead into the Counting House leaving the siblings alone. First time they'd been properly alone since Last Light Inn. Since Isobel.

Bethan had already bore witness to his new Slayer skin. The form itself didn't scare her. She was, after all, a loyal Sunite. There was beauty in even the most horrifying places. It was the cost that got to her. Isobel. And, in turn, every life in Last Light. Davyd wasn't stupid, he knew what would happen. And he did it anyway. His insistence on it being "the best course of action" and "for the greater good" faltered when she remembered the price. Sure Bethan wasn't exactly thrilled about potentially becoming a mind flayer, but not enough that a sacrifice of that kind could ever be justifiable to her.

"This is where we met before, right?" Davyd's voice cuts through her train of thought. He's stood leaning slightly on the handrail, eyes glued to a picnic table. Recognition.

"Oh. Yeah."

He doesn't move.

Bethan clears her throat, "Uh.. Are you good?" Well obviously not, the man looks like he's seen a ghost. Small talk really isn't her strong suit. She tries again, "Davyd? What's going on."

"Sorry it's... It's nothing." he trails off. He still doesn't move.

Bethan sighs. She walks over to him and leans back on the handrail beside him. Neither of them speak. It's almost peaceful, in a way. That same melody of dockside sounds, ones Bethan was far more accustomed to hearing now they were staying in the city properly.

Davyd turns slowly, not to face her but to face the sea. Watching the waves crash into rock below them.

"I've missed this," he murmers, "I uh don't remember it, obviously, but I think I always loved Grey Harbour. I feel more at home here than anywhere else in the city."

Bethan stares down at the waves. "I get that. The docks were my favourite part of Athkatla. Can't bloody stand sailing but there is something very comforting about the sea."

Davyd cocks his head at her slightly.

Bethan rolls her eyes, "What?"

"You get seasick?"

"Shut your face!"

[emily-mooon]

Jonathan in my Itakiss AU:

[arsenicflame]

Not for something you'd have to say out loud, just you see them on your dash/think of them, this is what your brain offers.

(if prev's name is in their username, vote with WHY you call them that. is it because its part of their username, or because its their name)

[nanami-is-nanamean]

I like playing hsr-- as my irls say, im a bit of a grind/build player. I can attest to that, because no joke-- i spent an entire year just grinding and farming for materials for my characters. So you could say that im a bit well versed in how these characters work and run and tick. Of course, when you have two obsessions, its kind of inevitable that youd smash them together like dolls so--

Here's JJK characters typecasted as HSR characters

Please note that im more well versed in the characters as units so im gonna typecast them as such— i know jack about their plot and stories so i may or may not make a part two or more lmao

Lets go-- everything is under the cut

OH-- quick note!! Ill be doing the 06 class first because im more familiar with them, and most of my info comes from my own experience playing, and Prydwen my beloved lmao

- - -

Gojo Satoru:

For Gojo—as a unit, i wanna say that hes either the strongest unit currently or some kind of nuts shielder. Its an either or because duh. Bruv is Quite Literally The Strongest and Quite Literally Untouchable.

If were going with the former, aka the strongest—id say that he would be what is currently considered the meta, which is Acheron. I dont have an Acheron, but my friend does and she lent me her account so i can build her Acheron and other units and LET ME TELL YOU. HOLY SHIT. Even unbuilt, Acheron hits like a motherfucker dawg. Its genuinely crazy. Her Technique as well (heh) also lets her oneshot almost anything which is also inline with how he works. Jeez, i should probably go back to building her account...

If were going with the latter, aka nuts shielder ala Infinity, i was thinking either Fu Xuan or Aventurine—but settled on Fu Xuan as it filled out more of what Gojo could do. While she does actually take damage, as she directs damage to herself, she heals it all back which honestly?? Amazing symbolism for Gojo tbh—considering the fact that hes the most important figure in Jujutsu society, everyone would be fucking gunning for him man. And he'd just as easily bounce back and brush it all off with a quick smile and Purple. And speaking of purple—esteemed colleague, that is Just Her Ultimate.

But yeah—Gojo would be either Acheron or Fu Xuan, depending on what aspect of him were focusing on.

Geto Suguru:

I'm gonna admit—this one was a little hard for me because who tf uses summons. And then it hit me.

Dear lord, my boy is just Topaz. Or Jing Yuan. LMAO—

Makes sense tho mechanically—Geto's technique is all about summoning curses to fight. Either for him or with him. Its just that the choice between Topaz and Jing Yuan capitalizes on what sort of fighting styles Geto wants to use. Topaz is more reliant on Numby doing damage, while Jing Yuan can do damage on his own without the help of Lightning Lord. This means then that Topaz is if Geto wants his curses to fight for him, and Jing Yuan is if he wants to fight with his curses.

Also the fact that I considered Sushang for him just because she summons a giant fucking chicken for her ult is. W o w .

Shoko Ieiri:

Dawg. To be honest with you. I think this is gonna be the hardest one for me to typecast unit wise. Because like—Shoko is a heal bot fr fr. And like—thats literally all the Abundance characters man. I CANT JUST SAY "shes every Abundance character" AND CALL IT A DAY. I mean I CAN but I WONT because I have STANDARDS. So I suppose I'll knock off the ones she can't possibly be unit wise.

Bailu is an Instant No. If she can bring people back from the dead Bailu style, JJK would be a WHOLE DIFFERENT STORY. and YEAH YEAH the Gojo/Yuuta thing is different—Gojo was already super dead, she just transferred Yuuta to Gojos body my guy. Not Gallagher, since w've never seen her in a combat situation and we have no idea what pure RCE can do to a curse—and before you say im wrong, nuh uh dawg—youre thinking about Reverse Cursed TECHNIQUE. I'm talking energy. The two are very different. Thats like saying putting the car in reverse is the same as using diesel instead of gas. Luocha is also a no go since, if she can just cast a Simple Domain that heals everyone in range, JJK would be a completely different story. And, as much as this pains me to say it—she cant be Huohuo either, because if her healing people would also replenish their CE, JJK would be a different story—at the very least with more people alive in it lmao

And so. This leaves us with our F2P basic units. Lynx and Natasha. Which... honestly? Its weirdly fitting and cathartic in a strange sort of way. Its guaranteed they'd be there to help because you receive them as units early on in the game—just as guaranteed that Shoko would be there to help and heal any and all sorcerers who come to her. All units need healing, in any way shape and form—without em making sure our teams our alive, we quite literally cannot get thru half the content of the game. I would know, that friend DID NOT build any of their sustains. Constantly fighting for my life until I built Gallagher lmao.

But yeah—unit wise, it does fit. They both mainly are there to give healing and basic support to the units, without drastically buffing them or debuffing their opponents. Theyre just there to make sure the team is alive, and honestly? 🫡 you go babe. heres a free cigarette, on me.

Nanami Kento:

Immediately I knew what the fuck I wanted him to be. Break effect character. Aka, current meta. So, obviously he'd be Boothill and Robin right?? Well—not exactly...

He'd deffo be Boothill thats for sure, but not so much Robin. Nanami's powerset is pretty simple—he focuses on a target and then, depending on his goal and/or amount of cursed energy, proceeds to put a weak point on them of which to hit. He can't be Robin because of how she works—she needs to transform via Ult to deal that optimal break damage and strike weak points despite whatever shes facing not having a fire element weakness. Whereas Nanami can just hit, without needing to transform into something else or needing a cursed tool or something.

For a little bit there, I considered Xueyi but ulimately said no because of her follow up and her being able to attack multiple enemies at once. While yes, I can flavor the follow up as a black flash or something (even though i really shouldn't since black flashes are based off luck and "being in the zone"), the multiple targets thing I really couldn't ignore because we've never seen him attack multiple targets at once—the closest thing we have is him being fast enough and strong enough to one shot curses back to back.

I was left with Sushang and Luka at this point, and ended up with Sushang. I was already settled with Sushang, when I remembered that Luka existed lmao—but decided to give him a shot anyways. I shouldn't have given him that shot because he doesn't fit Nanami as a unit. He's a Nihility "charge" unit—charge in the sense of, he needs to build up a certain stack to properly break and deal damage. When you relate that to Nanami, it doesn't work. Like I said, Nanami is simple and straight-forward, no muss and no fuss. There's a lot of mussing and fussing around with Luka that doesn't mesh well, along with the whole debuff thing Nihility has going—Nanami doesn't do that kind of DOT damage in the series, and doesn't deal too much of a handicap that I could consider it.

Nanami being Boothill and Sushang makes sense to me too. Nanami is a relatively fast person, being able to kind of run on water, fend off dozens of curses at the same time whilst taking minimal damage, and keep up with a Mahito that transformed himself into being really fast, and hits hard—both with the boost and assistance of his technique and without it. Like—he canonically killed Haruta 6 times. Were it not for his Luck Technique, his skull would've been pulverized by the first punch.

Boothill and Sushang's entire deal is to hit hard and hit fast—or at the very least, stay ahead of their opponents in the turn order via Break—Weakness, Super, or otherwise. Boothill's mechanics are a little more complicated than Sushang's but they're relatively simple and tracks with how Nanami works—he can force element weakness (Nanami's CT), hits really good and really hard to those he's focused on/appiled weakness on (nanami's CT again), and is able to clear out multiple enemies at once/inquick succession despite being a single target focus due to how strong and fast he is (nanami's CT and fighting style in general). Sushang's mechanics are much more barebones—she hits hard and she hits fast, which is basically the essence of Nanami in battle.

Haibara Yuu:

Motherfucker dude, this one is EASY—my boy is OBVIOUSLY Pompom. BUT NO WAIT IM BEING FR THO—we barely see him in both the manga and the anime, and I even looked up whether or not he's a playable unit in JJK Cursed Clash or JJK Phantom Parade. He's not there dawg. He's literally just the mascot—😭😭😭 UGYFHBKSFSBHVDVKFHKSD

And as much as I'd love to make assumptions abt his technique and how he works—aka theorize abt the meaning of his name, make educated guesses with the short screentime he had, I don't think I can make a good guess or assumption on how he works.

So yeah. He's Pompom, he's an NPC KHDFJHGSIDKFX—

Rip Haibara, even in death, you don't due nothing other than change the trajectory of everyone's lives via dying BUKJRNLDFJXB

---

Thanks for reading...??? Genuinely feel like doing a cont to this but like—them as HSR character lorewise, or turning them into actual HSR units, or doing the other characters. Its p fun!! Also let me engage with HSR in a diff way other than me logging on, grinding Robin's domain, getting a bunch of shit artifacts and ignoring the main quest LMAO—

[cloudbattrolls]

Plying Tongue

Chiloa Teroct | Selatak | Present Night

The City of Tigers may sit on an island, governed by a violet and surrounded by the rush of waves, but every citizen knows great power is held between the prayer-clasped hands of its purplebloods.

Looking down from its skies, one can see its old buildings decked with streamers and pennants, covered in historic carvings and painted fresh every sweep. Their hues are many, vibrant and gleaming in the light of the moons.

The moons illuminate their own images, engraved deeply on a pair of massive double doors leading into one large building’s main compound.

This building dominates its fellows, the center of a crescent-shaped swath of structures - buildings and tents alike clustered together in a city where space is at a premium, even for its highest castes. 

Trolls of all castes flit in and out of doors and canvas flaps, some accompanied by lusii. All are wearing paint, be it a full face or the half-coat allowed to non-purplebloods in the Moons’ Eyes ranks.

Selatak’s humidity always hangs about its slightly salty air, but tonight it is less of an oppressive blanket. Warm wind blows through the tents, flapping their striped structures and spreading the scent of carnival food beyond their boundaries.

The Obligate is the Grand Highblood of Selatak and its smaller island territories. A figure always swathed in the veils and coverings of the old and devout, they hold court, jostle with other sects for space and power, and induct few into the deepest mysteries of the messiahs. 

They speak little, ever solemn and careful of movement, and rarely show their face even in front of their own church.

Chiloa Teroct - their right hand, the face of the circus to its inner mind - is young for his caste. 

Too soft, some outside his sect say, too mild for a proper indigo. He smiles at such disdain, greeting it as he would an old friend. 

He smiles at most trolls, politely or warmly, and if his smile ceases, his church knows it is time to start praying for whatever poor soul wiped it off his face.

Tonight - his visage painted white with dark lines to mimic centipede legs - is full of thought instead of levity. He sits in the tent meant for the sect youths, his tall and broad frame leaned back in a comfortable chair.

Even at ease he misses very little, eyes sweeping over the acolytes and every rustle of their environs.

He sees the youths bicker, practicing their chucklevoodoos on each other and on lower caste trolls who either volunteered or were selected for the duty. He hears the distant noises of lusii in the tent where trolls too young to care for their own are kept. 

The sharp cry of a hawk lusus. His lips curl up at the ends again, and the muscled indigo speaks.

“Who among you can tell me why we treasure jades?”

The youths go still at once, varying expressions on their simply painted faces. They range from seven to nine sweeps old, none at the age for conscription, but old enough to know their gospel.

“They’re one of the moons.” Says one of the younger trolls uncertainly, picking at a scab on their arm. “When the messiahs looked down upon the first trolls, whose blood ran jade, they were pleased, and their left eye reflected it forever.” 

He raised his eyebrows. “Close.” He said in an approving rumble. “Who can tell me more?”

An older troll spoke up, sighing as she rolled her eyes.

“They were the first trolls.” The girl agreed, but then her voice turned lightly disdainful as she looked at the younger one, who gazed back at her sullenly. 

“But you’ve got it backwards. They were jade because they were seen by the messiahs. Their gaze landed on these gray and dull trolls, rising from the ground for the first time, and they knew then that they had a purpose.”

The younger troll grumbles a complaint and another shushes him as a scuffle breaks out between two of the youngest pupas, barely past their sixth sweep, but all are stopped as Chiloa waves his hand and calls for order. He is calm, but expects - and is given - complete obedience.

“So it was seen, and so it was spoken.” He agrees in his deep voice. “The jades returned to their cavern with their eyes opened and faith burning in their chests. The messiahs held them in their eye and their palm, and made jade into precious stone as well, spread through the ground to cradle their chosen.”

He looks all the youths dead in their eyes, his purple gaze steady, his tone intent.

“We are nothing without our mothers and those who nurture us all. Remember, too, that is not the holy path for every jade.”

Several of the youths frown.

“Why not, Tan Sri?” A third troll says - he can’t quite tell their gender, and doesn’t want to be rude and ask in front of everyone, it hardly matters right now.

“You cannot force a mind and heart into a path they were not shaped for, little sibling.” He rumbles. 

“They will always chafe and writhe in distress, spreading their suffering to those around them as well. Most jades are meant to be nurturers, but not all; the messiahs allow for exceptions in every caste. 

What good is a jade who is forced to swaddle grubs when they were given an eye for something else? What good is a jade whose moon-blessed tongue would rather taste the open air confined from its winds? The messiahs allow for deviation when it has a purpose in their design, little sibling.”

“But is it deviation if it’s still the messiahs’ will, like everything is?” The younger indigo pipes up, hesitant, curious but clearly worried of seeming disrespectful. They fidget, one hand’s dark gray fingers worrying at the other’s tips.

“The messiahs have original intentions for us all.��� Explains Chiloa, voice still calm. 

“They mean every caste and troll to fulfill a role they divined at the beginning of our kind. They gave us our own wills not to defy them, but to be their truest children with thoughts and feelings of our own; we aren’t constructs, little sibling, made and set on one course until we die. 

The messiahs may have purposes for us that we cannot know until we find them; why rob us of the joy of self-discovery? It is one of their greatest blessings of all. As the moons shine on us, waxing and waning, so do our perceptions of ourselves; we are just like their light.”

All the young trolls had their gazes fixed upon him now, listening with varying expressions. He could see he hadn’t convinced them all yet - no matter. They were young, some still quite new to the Moons’ Eyes. Faith would come in time; crushing it into them with fear and force would do no good.

Only heretics must be punished, only the most vile and hateful of trolls must be made to pay for their abominations in blood.

Chiloa has little taste for branding the small sins of life with such a label. It leaves a sour taste in his mouth, when a messiah’s devoted should strive to taste the sweetness of the world as often as possible.

He pulls some bottles of faygo from his sylladex and hands them out to the youths, who argue over favored flavors, but all are left with something they find bearable in the end.

He smiles, gently touches their shoulders and reminds them to pray in thanks after partaking, then turns and walks out of the tent.

He makes his way inside, deep into the complex, past trolls who nod, bow, or curtsy to him and to whom he smiles at in return.

Yet his smile is not as deep as it sometimes is - when he visits his matesprit, his beloved Pietri, bound to another church in a far region, when he saves a new wayward soul, when he sees Amenel -

- which is the reason he’s here, now standing outside a heavy, dark old wooden door guarded by two of the sect’s finest warriors.

“Chiloa.” One acknowledges, garbed in bulletproof armor and a helmet. A gun is strapped to their side. He knows Selide through sweeps of familiarity, if not on much of a deeper level. They spend the greatest share of their time training, whenever they aren’t guarding the Grand Highblood.

“Do you have business with the Obligate?” The other guard asks - crisper, sharper, Mizuta is a more recent convert, she came from another sect to begin with. She’s scarce been here half a sweep, and he hasn’t gotten to know her as well as he’d like yet.

“Of a personal nature.” He rumbles. “If they are busy, I can wait.”

Selide opens their mouth to respond, but the door opens on its own before they can say anything.

Send him in.

They all feel the command in their mind.

The Obligate is blessed with the voodoo of thought sending and shaping. And their hearing has never withered, despite their age.

The guards go still, and Chiloa steps in, taking exactly seven steps before he falls to one bended knee and bows his head to his leader. 

Unlike much of the rest of the church, this room is simple. The furnishings are basic, the altar to the messiahs barely adorned. A few sticks of incense burn in a corner, their smoke faint and dying out.

“You may speak, child.” Comes the dry, careful tone of the older highblood sitting in their chair, covered in purple and gray fabric as always. “Your heart is full. Empty it for me.”

Chiloa smiles in relief, though he knows he still must choose his words carefully. His request is not a usual one for his status.

“My holy one.” He says with reverence, now rising with hands pressed together as if in prayer. “I wish to court a man I find myself stirring with pale feelings for. He is outside our church’s cradle, and he is of jade hue - yet irregular though it is, I cannot ignore my desires. 

He is not unholy or unclean in any way I know of; he is full of care, keen of mind, and I trust him with my thoughts and my heart.” He states simply.

As much as he loves the siren call of clever words, he must be clear and forthright now. A tongue too pleased with itself may become tangled up in knots.

“Will you allow me to court this man, Amenel Duxent?” He asks, formalizing his request. “And if I am successful, will you bless our union?”

There is silence, but Chiloa does not worry. He was not expecting instant approval.

“He is not a cavern jade.” A statement. “He has strayed from the messiahs’ intentions when his hue is scarce and precious.” 

The tone is neutral. He is allowed to defend his choice.

“The love he has for his birds is the grace of his caste and the expression of their will.” Chiloa says evenly.

“You will not be tempted from your faith?” The Obligate asks.

“Not as long as I have breath.” He answers instantly, a hand over his throat.

“You will not be seduced to heresy?”

“Not as long as I have mind.” He answers again, hand now upon his head.

“You will not stray into lesser sins?”

Chiloa approaches the veiled figure on their seat, and they place both gloved hands upon his horns.

“Not as long as I am guided by your grace.” He replies, finishing the promises he’d known he would have to make.

He bows deep to the Obligate, who removes their hands and makes several signs of worship to the moons.

“You may court this man. If the messiahs will it, you will find him to be a true diamond.”

Now Chiloa’s smile shows deep and wide, creasing his face and lighting his eyes, and he cannot help laughing in relief.

“Thank you, holy one.” He says, and exits the room.

He has a letter to write.

He has a love to share, bound on feathered wings, soaring out into the city.

[skyheld]

ameridan won't stay in the lighthouse while rook is in fade jail. he cares for them them (in general, individual interpretations may vary, but it'd take a lot for him to not care at all and there's a very good chance he ends up caring a lot) and he wants to save them, but the situation out there is too dire to ignore. it's no use saving them if there's no world to bring them back into. there's also the fact that he doesn't feel like he has much to add to those already working on the rescue. he doesn't know nearly as much about the fade as emmrich, and emmrich already has neve and bellara as additional magic support. if they asked him to stay specifically, because they can still use hus specific expertise on related types of magic, or just his mana pool because if there's one thing he has it's sheer power, he'd consider it. he doesn't want to abandon them, but he won't stay as just moral support. he can be of better use elsewhere. or he might head to minrathous but dip in regularly to help, if that's a possibiltiy.

in a verse with abelas, where he's not even a regular companion but more of an ally, he'll leave them his research on the possibility of taking down the veil without as much damage. it's not much, because honestly if there was an easy way to do that solas would have found it, but it might give some pointers.

with @aestuum, he doesn't stay. he'll stick around for as long as it takes for news from minrathous to reach them and for the others to make their plans, but once it's clear they're staying, he'll be off. he can't hope that casadh will come back. he can't bear the thought of having that hope and seeing it crushed. he has to just shut that part of his heart out and focus on the battle ahead.

he's eternally grateful for the others for carrying that hope when he couldn't, but the possibility of them surviving isn't something he allows himself to think about before it happens.

[yeonban]

Possibly the funniest ramification (for me at least) of Tobias having a crush nowadays is that one of his most widely used tactics is making people fall in love with him in order to use them for various schemes w/o having to worry about their loyalty swaying long-term, which means that's his first thought half of the time when someone takes an interest in him. And now his second thought which follows 0.2 seconds after is a suddenly lifeless "ah." as he remembers that he can't exactly do that without giving his crush the impression that he's taken and fucking himself over on That front. Fuck his stupid baka life he's shooting himself in the foot NO MATTER what decision he opts for 😭

[fingertipsmp3]

Ughhhhhhh I hate writing and I hate not writing and I hate myself

[cosmichae]

I want to call them so badddd

[hopelessromantic-ghost]

these under presents players got me out here like

[mooilky]

I wrote this poem years ago around 8pm when my nightly panic attack would happen.

[nereidprinc3ss]

be my angel

in which BAU fem!reader was injured on the job, but is refusing painkillers at the hospital. spencer thinks he knows why.

fluff (+a little angst) warnings/tags: established relationship, hospital stuff, reader got beat up by an unsub, discussions of spencer's past addiction, mentions of period cramps, reader ends up being administered some sort of painkiller a/n: another draft i found in my literal hundreds of pages of abandoned wips and fixed up cause it's cute, I hope you like!!!

Spencer is tearing through the hospital. They all keep saying you’re going to be okay, but what does that even mean? Why is nobody telling him anything? He’s not even sure he heard what the orderly at the front desk said, but his feet are carrying him with a strident purpose through the winding white halls, so he has to assume he at least subconsciously knows where he’s going. 

Finally he spots Penelope, a beacon in her candy-colored clothing, speaking to a doctor in hushed tones. Penelope sees him approaching and turns away from the doctor, looking harried and exhausted. 

“Is she okay? What happened?” Spencer demands, before either of the others can say a word. 

“She’s okay,” the doctor assures. “She was beat up pretty bad—concussion, broken ribs, some bruising that looks worse than it is. There was a clean shot through her arm, but—” 

His blood runs cold. Nobody told him you were shot. Why had nobody told him you were shot? 

“I need to see her.” 

The doctor frowns, glancing between the two agents. 

“I’m sorry, are you her spouse?” 

“Yes. No, not yet, I just—I need to see her, please. Now.” 

“Sir, unless she—” 

“Just let him see her!” Penelope practically yells. “She wants him here, believe me.”  

The doctor clenches her jaw and scribbles something on her clipboard. 

“Okay. Maybe you can try to convince her to accept some painkillers.” 

Spencer’s frown deepens. 

“She’s refusing pain management?” 

“We gave her as much ibuprofen as we could, but she refused anything stronger than that. She has to be in a lot of pain right now, and there’s no background of addiction.” 

“I’ll talk to her,” Spencer says, already twisting the silver door handle. He has a sneaking suspicion as to why you denied pain treatment, and it makes him feel incredibly guilty. More than he already did, after this entire debacle. 

The sight of you, bloodied and bruised and obviously suffering has his heart splintering right down the middle. Whatever meager semblance of a smile he can scrounge up and offer is reflected back to him on you—which only makes him feel worse. As always, you’re putting on a brave face. 

“Hey,” Spencer says quietly as he closes the door behind him. 

“Hi,” you croak. “How do I look?” 

He approaches, sitting on the edge of the bed and pushing your hair away from your face. 

“How do you feel? The doctor told me you wouldn’t accept pain medication,” he murmurs. 

You sniff. 

“I feel okay. Did she tell you it’s not as bad as it looks?” 

But your voice is so small, so wavery and weak, that he knows you’re lying. 

“Sweetheart...” 

You’ve been holding it together since the unsub beat you nearly unconscious. You held it together as he ran away, even got a couple shots in before he turned around and returned fire. You held it together while you sat against the dirty truck, bleeding out, not sure if your team was coming, and you held it together in the ambulance, and for the past thirty minutes in this hospital bed. But all it takes is one gentle word from Spencer, with that concerned, solicitous look in his eye, and the floodgates are opening. Tears spring up in your eyes and begin silently falling down your dirtied cheeks. 

“It’s okay!” you attempt to reassure him, affecting cheeriness even through the tears. “It doesn’t hurt. I’m fine!” 

He says your name soft and low and he tries his best to keep his tone even though he is liable to burst into tears or start yelling at someone (not you) at any minute.  

“I know that’s not true. You have broken ribs and a gunshot wound. I know how badly it hurts to breathe and how it feels every time you move your arm. That is too much damage for over-the-counter anti-inflammatories. You need real analgesics.” 

“I don’t,” you whisper. Your teary eyes make his whole body ache. He squeezes your hand—the one that’s not connected to the wounded arm. 

“Because of me?” You stare at him blankly, as if you’re shocked he was able to put two and two together. “I promise you don’t need to worry about that.” 

You sniffle. 

“But what if—what if they give me the drugs and I get all weird and it’s, it’s like... triggering for you, or something?” 

“It’s been a really long time since I’ve worried about that. I’d rather see you a little tired and out of it than in extreme pain and trying to pretend you’re not. You getting the pain relief you need in a medical emergency is not going to make me relapse.” 

“But I really think I could go without,” you begin, voice already tightening around a cry. “I’ve—I’ve had period cramps that were worse than this.” 

Despite himself, he chuckles. Goes back to stroking your hair. 

The laughter fades quickly. All the pain you’re in is so evident in your eyes. The dissociative glassiness, the tension around them, the bloodshot quality—he's seen it many times before, and he hates it on you. 

“Will you please tell them you’re ready to take something? They won’t give you Dilaudid. It’s too strong. They’ll give you something that I’d have no interest in anyway.” 

“Not funny,” you whisper. 

He ignores this. 

“Will you let me call the doctor back in?” 

You take a deep, shuddering breath—or at least, you try to, before you’re loosing a sharp squeak that deteriorates into a little sob. The ribs. 

Spencer doesn’t bother asking again, just gets up and begins to walk away as efficiently as his legs will carry him. You need painkillers and he thinks it might be fastest to just fetch the doctor or a nurse from the hallway. 

“Wait,” you plead.  

He stops. Reminds himself that you need him right now—not his medical opinions. Spencer turns back around and approaches again, crouching by your bedside this time. 

“What, honey?” 

“I don’t...” 

You trail off, overcome by something like fear in the width and shine and nervous dart of your eyes. Spencer knows, everybody at the BAU knows, that showing fear to a serial killer will get you killed that much quicker. During your time alone with the unsub, which is a can of worms Spencer literally cannot psychologically open right now, you had to put on your bravest face. Even while you were being beaten within an inch of your life. Even when you thought you were going to die, alone, and that your team—that Spencer—wasn't coming back for you. Because that’s the kind of thing you have to do to cope when you’re at rock bottom. But you were terrified. Petrified. That doesn’t just go away—and Spencer knows it’ll be bumping against the surface until it finds a way out.  

He has to remember that just because you look unafraid and you act unafraid doesn’t mean you aren’t. 

“You were so brave,” he manages after he’s sure he can say it without incident, swiping moisture from your cheek. “You did everything exactly right.” 

“I know,” you whisper, chin trembling. Spencer knows you, and he knows this kind of trauma well enough to know that you’re thinking, I did everything exactly right, and it wasn’t enough. I did everything exactly right and this is what I have to show for it. 

“But nobody needs you to act like it wasn’t hard, okay? You don’t need to pretend like it doesn’t hurt. You were so, so brave, angel. You don’t have to be brave anymore.” 

Your eyes squeeze shut, sending a new wash of tears over your tacky cheeks. A few moments pass. You say nothing. He hopes you’re not going to hide away inside yourself like he did. 

“Will you please, please, let me get the doctor?” 

At least this time you don’t immediately say no. 

“Will you come right back?” 

“Of course.” 

Finally, you nod your hesitant assent, and Spencer presses a careful kiss to your forehead. 

A few minutes later, the doctor—who was shocked that Spencer was able to so quickly change your very made-up mind—is back, and so is Spencer. It only takes a moment for them to determine the best course of action for you and soon the fist around his heart is loosening its grip as he watches some of the agony melting from your eyes. 

“Better?” he murmurs as the nurse who’d administered the drugs leaves, fanning his thumb over the underside of your wrist. You nod, already appearing sleepy. 

“Can you lie down with me?” 

He smiles at the way your words slip against each other, simply relieved that you’re able to relax and no longer in extreme pain. 

“Hospital beds aren’t rated for two people.” 

“Spencer.” 

It’s enough for him to climb onto the bed—not that he was ever going to deny you what you wanted to begin with. The fit isn’t exactly perfect—he's a bit too long and combined the two of you are just slightly too wide—but with some finagling it’s comfortable enough. Spencer has slipped his arm underneath you and your head is on his shoulder and he’s so glad to have you in his arms and so grateful that you’re okay he does something almost like praying in his head as he kisses your hair. 

“Hey. Ask me about my bruises.” 

“Why? Do they still hurt?” 

“You should see the other guy.” 

It’s dumb and it doesn’t make sense because you didn’t bother waiting for him to actually set the joke up—but he smiles dryly nonetheless. 

“Can you please give me... I don’t know, 36 hours before you start making jokes about almost dying?” 

“Clock starts now.” 

“Thank you.” He feels your lips curve into a half-conscious smile against his neck. It’s a wonderful feeling. “How are your ribs? Breathing feels okay?” 

“Mhm. Love breathing.” 

“Mhm. And your arm?” 

“Like I got shot.” 

“Well, that’s pretty much unavoidable. But not as bad as before, right?” 

“Right. Spencer?” 

“What, my love?” 

A little pleased puff of air warms his shoulder. He carefully rubs your hip. 

“Will you tell me how brave I was again?” 

He takes a silent, very deep breath.  

“You were incredibly brave. And smart, too. I’m really proud of you for how you handled that situation. I’m so sorry you had to go through that, but I don’t think anyone could have handled it better. Especially when you chose to stay put by the truck, instead of chase him. I know that wasn’t what you wanted to do, but it was the right choice.” 

“I thought you guys maybe weren’t coming,” you murmur, no hint of sadness in your smushed, flat voice—like you’re barely awake. “I waited half an hour and I thought you weren’t gonna find me.” 

“Angel, I will always find you. We didn’t stop looking even once, as soon as we noticed you were gone. I’m just sorry I wasn’t with Emily and Rossi when they got to you.” 

“’Nelope told me... she told me you got really angry and scary.” 

He stares at the ceiling and considers this. 

“I could see... how what I was feeling would be interpreted that way. I was pretty angry. But not at Penelope or any of them. I was mostly just scared.” 

“I’m sorry I scared you,” you whisper. “And I’m sorry if I made you mad.” 

“You did not. I wasn’t mad at you. And it’s not your fault that I got scared. You were just trying to do your job. None of this is your fault.” 

“She also said that you said fuck like... three times.” 

“Mm... doesn’t sound like me,” he evades. You giggle, and the sound is more a relief than any drug he could take.

“No, seriously, I’m so mad I missed it. I love hearing you swear. Tell me what you said—and you have to cause I’m all messed up so I get whatever I want.” 

He sighs in mock annoyance. 

“Well, she’s wrong. I only said fuck once. I used fucking as an intensifier twice.” 

You hum. 

“Sexy.” 

“Alright,” Spencer laughs, flushing as he moves his hand to your shoulder. “Go to sleep before I tell them to up your dosage, weirdo.”