#probably part 1

[eonni92]

Betrayals in Beyond Evil 💔

[muchdan]

dnp videos i would die for

- nail art. phil orders a bunch of nail polish, vinyls, tools he will definitely not use and makes dan his guinea pig by trying to recreate some of the most complicated designs from the internet. in the end, dan tells him to pass on nail polish remover which phil obviously forgot to get, so dan just dumps a container of glitter onto phil’s bed

- candle review. what starts like a peaceful danisnotinteresting video turns into an hour-long unedited mess of dnp arguing about the smells and ordering a shitload of candles for the next video

- making friendship bracelets. dan teaches phil to make bracelets and at the end of the video they exchange their creations, phil’s is a bit wonkier one, dan’s has a rainbow gradient color scheme. since then, we can see them wearing those bracelets all the time

- christmas decorating in a new flat. dnp go out of their way to make the house looks as festive as possible. we get to see them choose the biggest box of christmas lights, buy a huge tree they barely manage to set up in the lounge, and dan hang hundreds of silver stars in the moon room

- controlling each other in the sims. we see dnp create each other in the sims (without the other participating or being in a video altogether), decorating their houses, giving each other pets, careers, hobbies. dan tries to hide how unreasonably jealous he is when his phil sim starts flirting with a random character

- ikea shopping. loading the cart with candles, photo frames, blankets, and pillows. stealing a dozen of free pencils, sitting on comfy sofas, choosing random domestic items like new towels and coasters. “we do need new pillowcases” says dan picking two grey ones without a second thought

[fuckyeahmeagancamper]

Rare pictures of Meagan requested by anon!

[vesselofterra-blog]

promises to keep ||

[ @trenokingsman​ ]

i. 

     Sunlight has never looked so beautiful to him as it does this morning.

     The fever rides him thin, papery; the wound has been infected for three days. His tongue feels thick as it moves against the back of his teeth. He aches in ways he’s never known, in ways he hasn’t felt in years. His soul is a bruise inside him. The agony is a constant companion.

     But the sun is vivid. And seeing it makes him...lighter.

     This is the moment that he knows he will live. He never believed he would see the sun again when he was at the bottom of the lifa. But he is here now. And it seems a shame to leave again so soon.

     He turns his head to Zidane. His brother is sitting on the cot beside him. He’s been sharpening the same dagger for three hours, whetstone a steady white noise in their shared shack. “I need you to deliver something for me,” he says.

     Zidane gives him the bleakest sort of smile he’s ever seen (on this boy’s face, particularly.) He is ill suited to an expression like that. His eyes aren’t meant for whatever that emotion is, staring out at him. He still has that baby fat, he’s made for grins and smirks and half-baked attempts at heroism. He’s not made for premature grief.

     “It’s not a will, right?” he asks. Bleak, gallow’s humor. “Cause I’m stealin’ all your crap as soon as you kick it. So you better not.”

     He offers his brother a sharp look. Just a flash of his old fire; all he can afford to spare at the moment. “No, you’re telling someone I’m alive.”

     Zidane doesn’t have to say it. The question is in his eyes.

     But will you stay that way?

ii.

     Screaming by firelight. Mikoto, covered in blood to her elbows. His blood. His near-delirious directions--clean it, thread the needle, no, no, cleanse it again you touched the point, take the knife, use the fire--guiding her through abrading it and cutting away the rotten flesh. Attempting to fight the infection he already feels like a cold black hand around his throat. Pulsing though his ruptured abdomen, the septic infection that is killing him. Like a hot core of molten iron sitting below his lungs; pulsing, pulsing. 

     Mana comes easy; weaving is the hardest part. He’s spent all his strength healing the boy sleeping in the bed beside his own. His hands tremble so badly; none of the spells are right. In the end she has to do that for him, too. She holds his wrists and guides his hands. There’s blood everywhere.

     Long, long nights. Bandages swapped in, swapped out. Agony. 

     Mikoto at his side, hand on his. Has she learned that from Zidane? Garland was never much for holding hands. “Zidane will survive. You have to heal yourself,” comes her warning. She repeats it, over and over. 

     “You’ve lost too much blood,” she says. “You waited too long.”

     But is he okay? he wants to ask her. His lips don’t cooperate. Is he okay?

     “Yes, but you’re not.”

     That’s alright. 

iii.

     He surfaces when Zidane finally wakes. That outraged cry could’ve woken the dead. And he is not sleeping, he is working. He is floating well below the pain threshold, sitting far enough from his own dissociated vessel to attempt to salvage the organs. Poison in the blood, poison in the blood. The spirit heals and the vessel dies and it is a vicious circle.

     And he is so tired.

     “Who’s blood is that? Who’s blood is that? Kuja!”

     “Zidane calm down. You aren’t fully healed, either.”

     “Why does he look like that?!”

     “He’s been healing you. If you hurt yourself, he will stop to heal you again. So calm down.”

     Some measure of time passes. He has no way of gauging how slow reality oozes by him, only that he is beyond exhausted and has very little left to give. A warmth brushes up against him and he is surprised, despite himself. Zidane has figured out how to reach him, soul-to-soul. He brushes back, weak. Establishes a thin line of communication while he still has the strength.

     “Look at you. Finally going to learn magic with spirit awareness like that.” Because everything is just a little funny when the world is unraveling around the edges.

     “Why did you do that?”

     His brother sounds angry. He hadn’t expected this. “What?”

     “Why didn’t you heal both of us?”

     Oh.

     “I needed you to be okay.”

      “I won’t be okay if you die here.” 

     Zidane is spitfire, one-two punches and cold logic and the idealistic idea that white magic can cure everything. He wants to strangle the boy, he wants to protect him. He wants him to be okay and he will be, because the wound is healed and he has a life waiting for him in Alexandria.

      “...I’m sorry to disappoint you, then,” he offers to Zidane, because he has nothing else to give.

     The whiplash was immediate, vicious, like a slap in the face. “Fuck you, Kuja. You don’t get to be the asshole, here. You promised me.”

      And he’s right, he’s right, he’s right. There’s promises to keep.

iv.

     He runs his fingernails under Axol’s crest, between his feathers and against his warm skin. The dragon purrs at him, in pleasure and excitement. He can smell the bloodbath about to begin, the distant machinations in place.

     “This is checkmate, darling,” he says to his Auctioneer. “This will take some...time.”

     It feels like any other trip away from Treno, on the surface. Only he knows Achtung sees right through him, and he doesn’t know why he bothers. 

     “Keep the hearth warm for me, hm?” His painted lips, his playful smile.

     Don’t worry, darling. This is victory.