#.tsen fic

[sabotsen]

Afterglow

Pairing: Noan x (gn!) Commandant / Reader

Notes: Set shortly after Noan’s affection story 6; word count 1.3k

Warnings: Subtle possessiveness

A fluke. 

Fate disguised as a coincidence. 

Isn’t that how it always goes in hero stories? 

A chance encounter that alters the alignment of stars and rewrites destiny for the better, with hope woven into every word and touch. 

But this is not a hero’s story, and fate has never been kind to him. 

It is not a moment of joy, with warm smiles and gentle laughter in the company of friends. It is not a moment of anticipation, spirits soaring high before the oncoming fight. This moment — quiet and peaceful — has been won only after the blood of comrades has stained your hands beyond recognition and their corpses paved the way to the top of this hill upon which you weather every storm. 

But even so…

Despite it all, he is grateful. 

How could he not be, with your head on his shoulder? 

Your breathing is slow and steady, his cloak a poor cushion against the hard, unyielding metal of his frame. Yet now and then, you drowsily nuzzle against his shoulder and almost seem to burrow into the worn folds of the fabric before settling once more against him. It’s enough to trigger an itch in his wires, a slow rolling brushfire that sweeps across him — quiet, without flare or noise. More than once he has brushed the hair from your eyes, his fingers curling as they trace a path from behind your ear down along the curve of your jaw. 

Still you do not wake. 

Not when he calls your name or when his touch drifts across your cheek like butterfly wings, a ghost of a touch too delicate to truly be missed. Just how much have you been pushing yourself lately? It hasn’t even been three days since you returned from a month long mission down on the surface and already the shadows beneath your eyes are just as concerningly dark as the first night he kidnapped you to this blind spot in Zone Z. Do you always throw yourself so recklessly into the fray, heedless of your health? 

How does Gray Raven stand it, watching you tear yourself apart like this piece by piece? How does Simon hold his tongue every time your paths cross, despite the endless worries that flow over like rain behind the closed doors of Dark Ares? 

You nuzzle against his shoulder again, a faint furrow in your brow as the blanket draped around your shoulders slides away. Noan cannot help the small smile that pulls at his lips as he adjusts the blanket and dutifully ensures you are properly bundled. His hands hover near your cheek, an itch in his fingertips to brush against your brow and coax that furrow away. 

You trust him — foolishly, kindly — and he still cannot wrap his head around why. It’s such a heavy thing — your trust — and he has long since known cold, metallic hands cannot grasp delicate things forever. 

Would that wake you? 

Would it cross a line somewhere, somehow? 

He settles for lightly brushing the hair from your face, touch far too light and mindful, before his hand drifts down to your hands resting in your lap. Slowly, with all the careful movements of a child reaching for something forbidden in the middle of the night, he cradles your hand in his. Immediately, your warmth sinks into him, gradual and welcoming. 

Your head on his shoulder, your hand cradled in his — a fragile peace lay nestled against him. 

It feels like Spring.

It feels like home.

Delicate, like a folded paper crane. Even the slightest moment could tear and rend everything asunder. The smallest bit of rain could eat away the body. Carefully, so carefully must he act — every word and action mindful and calculating. He can’t lose this — this friend, this trust, this warmth. 

Slowly, he laces your fingers in his, marveling at the softness of your skin against the hard edges of him. You stir in your sleep, fingers curling around his hand and weakly returning his grip. 

“Commandant.” 

Your title is a whisper upon his lips, gentle like flower petals. 

“You’re scowling again.” 

His free hand brushes against your cheek, thumb tenderly swiping just under your eyes as if to wipe away tears. Beneath his light touches, you seem to relax, the faint traces of tension fading from your expression. He feels the subtle shift of your weight as you lean upon him further, like a bird burrowing into a corner of the nest. 

Warmth seeps into him, sinking beneath cold metal and bleeding beyond colored wires. Down, down, down it travels — to a vast white expanse within him, where only snow thrives. It seeps in, like springtime rain, and melts the unending snow. Noan gently tilts his head, lips brushing against the top of yours as he soaks up every bit of your warmth like a sunflower desperate for the sun. 

The empty bridge framed by the black expanse of the stars are the only witness to this moment of weakness. He knows when the timer runs out, this will all be over. He will return you to your Gray Ravens, likely carrying you upon his back much like he did before. He will return to the cafe and slip that shackle back on his wrist once more. 

“Shall we run away again?” You had asked just hours prior, the playful smile on your lips marred only by the exhaustion you could not hide. 

He didn’t tell you the response he suppressed — suffocated, really — that you need only say when and he would answer your call without fail. He did not tell you how he hid a blanket in the library on the impossible chance he could sneak you away to Zone Z again. He did not speak of the joy that flared in his chest, bright and blooming, to hear your request. 

He had merely held out his shackled wrist to you, a small smile on his lips as he had replied, “You really shouldn’t make a habit of getting kidnapped by an infamous bad guy unless you want to be lectured for hours.”

Your laughter as you disarmed his tracker still rings in his ears. A precious sound — what would it take to make you laugh more often? How often do you laugh around your Ravens? 

Noan closes his eyes as his thumb brushes over the back of your hand in his as he curls himself around you. If only there were still softer parts to him left, maybe he could be of more comfort. You’re still sleeping so soundly, but it can’t be comfortable to use him as a pillow like this. The blanket he brought couldn’t be enough — it’s not, not to him. He has to do more, be more. 

Next time, then. 

The thought freezes Noan, barely suppressing the flinch that would have squeezed your hand — he could have hurt you. Next time? Will there be a next time? Would it be alright to hope for that? To trust in that? 

Noan calls your name softly, devoid of any titles. Caution laces his tone but it is no less gentle. 

Still you do not wake. 

Soon, this peace will end and his time will run out. You will return to the frontlines and he will return to his shackles, worn weary by painful tests and experiments under watchful eyes that neither trust nor care for him. 

“It would be nice,” he murmurs into your hair, “if you called upon me like this again.” 

Silence settles and the stars in the instance still frame the otherwise dark and empty room. Noan quietly tugs the blanket tighter around you and curls himself that much closer to you, every bit a child clutching a jar of fireflies for comfort. 

The feeling of you cradled in his arms — a paper crane, a firefly — 

This is enough for now…. 

[jaywings]

But why redo the fic in the first place??

It’s actually something I’ve been thinking about for a few years. I had a lot of fun writing Be Careful Making Wishes in the Dark and I got fantastic feedback on it, but I was never totally satisfied with the plot.

The entire thing was finished before Ford was introduced, believe it or not (actually the day before, iirc). That means that at the time I was writing, the author wasn’t confirmed, Bill had been in a grand total of two whole episodes, and with no idea what his end-goal was, I was trying to write in a way that canon wouldn’t end up contradicting it.

(Bill didn’t even have an actual goal in my fic until Society of the Blind Eye aired and I finally threw memory guns into the plot because I thought he’d be interested in them)

Tldr; the fic’s plot is held together with paper clips and screams

A remake would:

- Follow a similar overall structure but have an actual solid plot planned out from the beginning

- Have the Pines play a bigger role, especially Stan and Ford (but still focus on the IZ side of things)

- Have more thought-out worldbuilding for TSEN headquarters because I feel way more could be done with that

- maybe not have zim abruptly vanish from the story in the last chapter with no resolution. maybe he died? we don’t know

- Take a long time oops

- be funny????

Thank you for coming to my pitch, I request 1 quadrillion dollars to make this dream a reality

[boasamishipper]

syhtb moodboards: lieutenant sora tsen, rn

Tripping over Kai and hitting my head is not how I envisioned spending my morning.

[sabotsen]

Extended Connection 6

It does not happen the first time. Nor the second or third. Only after you have made a habit of it does he even dare to act upon the fleeting impulse.

Sleep still eludes you on most nights, and as the dark nights bled into pink hued mornings, he had long since narrowed down the reasons. Stress powered by the demands and expectations of those who have never walked upon the battlefield and nightmares shaped by both memories and deep rooted fears. So when you first fall asleep sitting beside him, it is a precious stolen moment he shields in the same manner he sheltered your presence in the library. Quietly, ardently -- the diligent watch of the sheepdog around the herd.

It is only when your breathing measured out, slow and deep, did he gently and carefully gather you in the mindful embrace of his arms. Every movement is carefully calculated to minimize the chance of disturbing you -- metal fingers cautious not to brush against bare skin, the purposeful position and bundling of his scarf and clothes to soften the hard planes of his frame. Slowly, gently, he would carry you back to the Gray Raven lounge and lay you down upon the couch, his touch always hesitant to leave.

It starts small, after he has carried you back enough times to fill a row of tally marks hidden in a journal on the last page. It's little things at first -- lingering, kneeling beside you for too long in the silence before he tears himself away agonizingly slow like bloodied gauze peeled from wounded flesh. Then it's his hands, finding their way into the folds of your sleeves and pressing his head against the couch cushions as if praying.

Once, he slips the tips of his fingers into the delicate curve of your hand -- hoping, praying that perhaps the touch would provide some solace somehow. When you don't react -- no flinch from the chill of his touch or slow curl of your fingers against the light pressure against your palm -- that is when the damning thought pops into his head. In the dim light of the lounge, he sees the muted hues of winter. In the silence that hangs in the room, he hears the deafening absence of sound in the wake of the train wreckage. The small flicker of your heat beneath his touch is the fading warmth of the departed.

That is all it takes for the fear and unease -- the guilt and remorse -- to bloom bright and bold like blood upon snow and sear his wires down to scrap.

He moves on instinct.

He moves on doubt and prayer knotted together -- inseparable and stained.

Careful, touch light with measured distance, he rests his head on your stomach and only when you breathe in does the fabric if your shirt brush against his cheek.

You're alive, he knows this.

You are not upon the battlefield nor are you nursing a wound so critical that you may never wake.

You're sleeping, safe.

He knows this. But he slowly strips away his hesitation and allows the weight of his head to fully rest against you. There’s a longing scratching at the walls of his heart — a yearning that burns at his fingertips. It nips at the base of his skull — an ache to press his ear to your chest instead and listen to the steady rhythm of your heart.

But it would wake you, he’s sure. How you’ve yet to wake from him practically nuzzling against the softness of your stomach is a marvel in and of itself. How exhausted must you be? How much longer must you wear yourself thin?

Is there more can do for you — more he can be for you beyond just an assistant and a shoulder to lean upon? Where will you draw the line as he inches closer to you?

Noan blinks, noting the furrow in your brow that deepens the longer he lays there. He’s careful about the pressure he’s placing on you — and he is ever mindful of your vitals — but there is a nagging worry gnawing at the back of his mind. Is this causing you discomfort? Pain?

A chill seeps into him at the thought, merciless as winter.

It crawls up his spine, and forms delicate like frost yet damning all the same as it chills his cheek pressed against the warm folds of your shirt. Noan closes his eyes.

He should stop. He should go. It’s been long enough, he can’t stay here. Heroes never meet kind ends when they linger in the company of monsters for too long, after all.

A bitter smile plays upon his lips as he slowly lifts his head and withdraws.

Something light brushes against the crown of his head, however, and he freezes. A flash of panic flares, painting his expression in a rare display of emotion as his eyes snap up to your face. Your brow is still furrowed with a faint press of your lips into a troubled line, but the deep and steady pace of your breathing tells him you’re still asleep. The touch returns, fumbling before it settles fully upon his head and the gentleness of that touch shakes him down to very nuts and bolts that hold him together.

Your hand.

It’s your hand.

Clumsy with sleep, your hand slowly and gently ruffles his hair, blunt nails occasionally idly scratching at his scalp.

Warmth sinks into him, sweeping through him with all the natural grace of spring coaxing flowers from winter’s slumber. It’s enough to leave him shaking — it’s enough to shatter him to pieces. Helplessly, Noan curls his fingers into the fabric of your sleeve, clinging to you in the only way he can without risking waking you up.

Ardently, he follows the subtle pressure of your palm and allows his head to rest upon your stomach once more. The furrow in your brow lessens slightly, your expression softening just a fraction as your hand runs through his hair.

Noan hears, as well as feels the faint rumble, when you hum softly.

“Good boy,” your voice is a soft, sleepy murmur.

Immediate is the blush that spreads across his face, warmth spreading from more than just your touch. If he still had a human body, he doubt he’d be able to hear anything over the rush of blood pounding in his ears. Noan buries his face in the fabric of your shirt, hands trembling as he pressed his knuckles into the couch cushions.

Slowly, the movement of your hand ceases, buried in his hair as you fall back into the depths of whatever dream held you.

Noan remains as you sleepily coaxed him, soaking in every bit of your warmth like a sunflower reaches for the sun.

Just a little longer. Just for now.

Surely you will forgive him for this moment of greed.

[sabotsen]

In This Moment

Pairing: ‘Noan’ x (gn!) ‘Commandant’/Reader

Notes: Single quotes used to refer to the originals bc I didn’t want to fill the entire fic with quotations. Cross posted to ao3; Word count 3.3k

Inspired by: Azure_mei02’s comic on twitter

Warnings: Major Ch26 spoilers! Also major (canon) character death, mild blood & (brief) implied gore

You find him first. 

Or maybe he is the one to find you — to pull you from the muck and the red, to wrap himself a blanket around your battered form and shield your ears from the cacophony. 

It’s hard to say, harder still to focus when ‘Mother’ still claws at the back of your mind. Her presence lingers at the base of your skull, carving out a place for herself so she may strip away what cannot — will not — be accepted. 

He is here, though, and in this moment that is all that matters. 

You feel him curved around you, his presence discernible only by absence — of yourself, of ‘Mother’ and her children. An extension, both a part of yet separate from yourself — near but not close enough to blur the edge of him and you into a stitched mess of blood and regrets. He is simply there, curved carefully around you like a gargoyle over the arched entrance of a church — reverent, forlorn. 

You feel him before you see him. The pressure of his arm draped over the curve of your hip, the gentle touch of his fingers against your back. The faint brush of his hair against the crown of your head as he bows his near you. The momentary press of his chest against yours when he pulls you close, large hands firm on your hips as he shifts the two of you up, propping you just enough to keep your head and chest above the red waters before he peels himself away like bloodied gauze from a weeping wound.

It takes longer than it should to open your eyes — or maybe it takes just long enough. It’s difficult to think when dreams bleed into one another, memories and pasts that never could have been seeping into your mind like a toxin as ‘Mother’ swaddles you in an embrace too suffocating to be called loving. When you open your eyes, the world is much too blurry for you to immediately discern anything but the black that curls and brushes against your forehead. Soft. It is only as your vision shifts and swims, shuddering into proper shapes, that the memories bubble to the surface.

Hair. ‘His’ hair.

‘Your’ hands combing through dark strands, plucking bits of confetti as Simeon fretted and plucked the mess hanging off your shoulders and back — his constant apologies and worries drowning out ‘your’ soft chuckle. ‘Your’ hands tucking ‘his’ bangs away from ‘his’ eyes whenever ‘he’ bowed ‘his’ head to avoid a question. ‘Your’ hands ruffling ‘his’ hair when ‘he’ buried ‘his’ head in ‘his’ arms on the cafe counter, exasperated by ‘your’ antics. 

Instinctively, your fingers twitch — itching to reach up and relive those moments. 

But those memories are not ‘yours’ and the man before you is not ‘him’. 

Close. Almost. 

But not quite. Not enough — and you two are left here, beneath the sea to rot. 

That single thought is enough of a distraction for ‘Mother’ to sink her claws into you once more. The world shifts and shudders, bleeds and weeps, as it changes. For a moment — or maybe even longer — you do not feel him curled beside you. 

Instead, you feel ‘Mother’ as she holds your hand and guides you through black waters. Her voice is distant, despite how close she stands, and it resounds with every voice — feminine, masculine, young, old — and yet none at all. Her hand digs into your wrist, tightening like a hunter’s trap upon the fragile bones as your blood slips between her fingers and drips into the waters below. It doesn’t matter how much you dig your heels into the muddy banks or claw at her hand upon your wrist to break free; she leads you on out to sea. The black water rises from your shins to your thighs and then up to your waist. Still she pulls you along, her voice garbled yet comforting — strange yet familiar. Even as the water rises to your chest and your hands are hidden beneath the waters, she pulls you forward. 

A wave crests, gaping like an ill-begotten beast’s maw. 

It swallows her. 

It swallows you. 

All you can feel is the crushing weight of something other — 

It burns away at your skin, burrows into your bones, and buzzes like a hornet’s nest in your ears. The pressure steals your breath away and you drown in those black waters, far from ‘Mother’ — farther still from any friend or help. Emotions and memories jumble together, digging knives into the back of your skull and you can’t help but splinter apart. It all floods in — the relenting pressure of a waterfall squeezing into the fragile crack of a dam, gradually and painfully clawing a larger opening. Hopes, dreams, first loves, last regrets, bitter nostalgia, nursed grudges — people you never were and could never be press against the very fabric that makes you and rip at the seams to see if they might fit in your place. Or you in theirs. 

It’s wrong. 

But their cries echo in the blackness and scream even louder in your mind. They are all you hear without ‘Mother’ to guide you and you are the only one they see. To live again. To die again. Birth and rebirth. Hope and despair. The cycle of ouroboros. 

It’s all you can do to cling to the shreds of yourself as they pour themselves into you. 

You feel it suddenly, amidst the noise and chaos — between the agony of your flesh peeling away and forming again, too much and too small all at once. Where all the ‘children’ and the remnants of the ‘materials’ clamor and claw at every molecule of your being, there lingers something at the very far edge of perception. Separate, connected only by the thinnest of strands to a place the ‘children’ have yet to reach. Desperately, with the agony of a sailor grasping at the lighthouse’s shadow, you cling to that strand — that feeling — and trace it. A piano wire you wind around your fingers and wrist, you pull yourself away from the ‘children’ clawing at you, screaming for you, begging for you. 

It is only when the black waters recede, peeling away from your flesh like tar — thick and molten — that you feel it. A faint prickle of emotion — too jumbled and knotted to be your own — and a buzz just beneath the skin that you could not notice when surrounded by others. But it’s there, familiar and gentle in the measured distance it keeps.  The more you focus on it and trace its source, the quieter the ‘children’ become. 

So you follow it, back to the source — a moth trembling towards the warmth of the fire. 

And when you open your eyes again, you feel his hand on your waist and his other gently cupping the back of your head to his shoulder. He’s moving you again. Red water laps at your chest and an odd numbing sensation gnaws away at your lower extremities. Carefully, his hand at the back of your head falls away, his arm serving as a cushion. A small part of you is grateful for his kindness, because if you spare enough thought to focus, you can feel what it is the two of you lay upon. 

There’s a warmth to it — clammy and ill. 

There’s a pulse to it — unsteady and too quick. 

There’s a texture to it — soft yet firm, rough in the way of something stretched too tight. 

You don’t have the strength or time left to worry if it is a piece of ‘Mother,’ one of her children, or the unused remains of people who never escaped this cradle at the bottom of the sea. In the end, it doesn’t matter. When the red tide rises far enough — when ‘Mother’ claws her way deep enough into your mind — none of it will matter anymore. 

Instead you focus on this moment — fragile though it is. 

You still feel it, that gentle string you’ve wrapped around your soul as a shield and comfort. It leads right where you knew it would — the only place it could. 

It is an effort to keep your eyes open, especially as the voice of ‘Mother’ echoes in your ears — muffled like a whale song underwater. But you do, you have to. Because his eye is on you, crimson and tired. Shadows curve beneath his left eye, and the bandages that cover his right are stained crimson — perhaps by the red tide, or perhaps by blood. Knowing ‘his’ ill luck, it is probably both. There’s a familiarity to his expression now as he watches you, his gaze seeing through you more than anything else. While there are subtle differences between them — Noan and ‘Noan’ — right there, like an ingrained habit, is the barely noticeable furrow in his brow on his otherwise carefully neutral expression. 

Weary though it is, the smile the spreads that across your lips is soft and delicate. Warmth blooms in your chest at the sight. It’s such a small thing, but it’s there. It’s there and it’s still him. And you’re still you. Despite it all. Because of it all. 

A weight lingers in your limbs, it takes more energy than it should to recognize your arm as your own as you pull it from the red tide. There’s a numbness that you can’t shake in your fingertips, a sensation that the limb is not entirely your own even if it still appears as such. But slowly, just shy of clumsy from the pain that still gnaws on your nerves, your hand lands on his bicep. A gentle tap. 

“You’re thinking too loud,” your voice is a small thing, laced with a chuckle and as fragile as a dandelion. 

But he hears you all the same and you feel his arms around you tense, bewilderment bleeding through his mask as he blinks at you. That expression, too, is so achingly familiar.

Even without a beacon connection, the red tide and ‘Mother’ both are erasing what little remains separating you from him. 

You’d rather him pour himself into you than all the nameless, faceless strangers who have long since lost themselves in the red waters. So you gently and slowly wind that string around yourself and feel the subtle shift of his emotions. He feels safe, familiar — foreign only in the way a companion’s reflection is after a long lapse of time. 

Your hand curls up over his shoulder as you try to shift closer — a comrade, a friend, a lover curling close to share a secret. There is hardly space between you to begin with, and you have so little strength left. But still you seek that comforting closeness — because it’s him. Because it’s you. Because in this moment, it is all that remains in the cradle. 

Noan is quiet as you settle once more, your face tilted up to catch his gaze. It’s still there, that furrow in his brow, but now a frown hangs upon his lips. Confusion still paints his features, and while his attention is focused solely on you, there is something just beneath the surface pulling at his thoughts. You feel it through the thin thread connecting you like a trembling vibration — subtle noise easily overlooked. 

“What are you thinking about?” 

For a moment, he does not answer you, but you know ‘him’ well enough to know the way he presses his lips into a tight line when he chews over his words before speaking. Careful, ‘he’ is always so careful with the words he chooses. If only there was more time, if only things had played out differently — perhaps you could sit in quiet company with him just like this and learn where ‘he’ ends and this man begins. 

Touch, gentle and nearly missed due to the numbness that has set in, his hand that had idly rested near your hip glides over your side and settles upon your back, just beneath where the red tide rises. Only when the lazy ripples in the water vanish does his lips part and break the silence. “You.” 

Oh.

A feeling flutters in your chest, warm and comforting — light and freeing, the flutter of a butterfly in the summer. 

But still you feel that emotion from him, knotted and wounded, bleeding through your connection. 

Noan bows his head towards, you his voice dropping as that knotted feeling within him seems to bristle and shudder, writhing like a dying beast. “I’m here because I made the wrong choice. But you…” 

A pause, only as brief as a heartbeat, but you see the emotion that flickers across his face — the way shadows collapse in the crimson of his eye and something almost akin to grief shimmers like a comet. His arm cushioning your head shifts and you feel the ghost of his touch as his fingers hover just shy of brushing your hair. 

“You of all people shouldn’t be here.” 

Oh…

Of course. He would worry about that, despite everything — because of everything — wouldn’t he? Even here, at the bottom of the sea, in the depths of hell even the devil forgot about, he worried for you. The measured distance, the bandages, the way he bit his lips when you stumbled from pain and blood loss and struggled to stand. He has always been like this. 

“Noan.”

His name is warmth on your lips. As gentle as April showers upon flower petals and as open as the dandelion seeds dancing in the wind. 

The smile that comes to you is genuine and effortless, the only brightness in a sea of crimson and loss. Your hand, which had curled over his shoulder, glides over it. No pain blossoms in the wake of your touch, though it is only by tracing the shape of him can you even move your hand despite the trembling and numbness. Over his shoulder and along the tattered folds of his scarf — you really wish you could have gifted him a new one, a warm one that smelled of flowers and springtime — your fingers finally find their home cradling his cheek. Gently, kindly, your thumb brushes against his skin, just beneath his crimson eye — wiping away the tears he never allowed himself to shed. 

“Was the last choice you made a wrong one?” 

A light flickers in the depths of his crimson eye, blooming to life like countless fireflies in the night. You catch sight of his lips trembling before he bows his head and presses it against your shoulder, his arms pulling you close against him and erasing the crimson space between. 

Your laughter fills the cradle, your hand that was on his cheek now lightly ruffling his hair, mindful of the bandages. The sensation feels like you remember — yet it feels entirely new, because it’s him, because it’s you. 

It would have been enough to remain like that, curved into the broken pieces of each other like mismatched puzzle pieces fitting together. But ‘Mother’ still calls at the edge of your hearing, still claws at the base of your skull. She pulls at you like a string of yarn, unraveling you bit by bit. If she pulls you under again, you fear you won’t have the strength — or time — to resurface, to see him again. 

Just a little longer. Just like this. 

If only, if only, if only… 

It takes more effort than it should to force sound past your lips, to form the shape of his name upon your tongue past the taste of blood that settles in. 

“Noan?”

He does not speak, but you feel his arms around you tighten. Clinging, desperate almost. 

Idly, you brush your cheek against his head, an unspoken request for his attention. When he does not move, you swallow past the building taste of copper in your mouth. A prickling sensation is needling through the numbness where the red tide has swallowed you and it takes a breath to realize what it is. Pain. It’s pain — twisting and winding and shredding through portions of your body you had given up to ‘Mother’. 

You feel her peeling away a piece of you — memories, hopes, emotions, thoughts — it’s hard to say what it was she took. You only know it from the void left in her wake. 

You swallow around the blood in your mouth and try again to speak and it is not merely to gain his attention that your head tilts to lean against his. “I don’t know much about magical girls…”

There’s a tremble you fight to keep out of your voice, but by the tension that coils in his arms and shoulders, he hears it. “Can you tell me a few stories?” 

A sound breaks upon his lips.

It sounds like a laugh.

It sounds like a sob. 

He tilts his head just a fraction, his breath ghosting over your neck. “Now?” 

“Yeah.” There’s a wetness to your breath that you can’t hide, and although he can’t see it with his head pressed to your shoulder, you smile. “I like the sound of your voice. It’s comforting.” 

He must hear your unspoken preference, though you do not know if he hears her as you do — feels her tearing and prying away pieces so that she may fit. If you could choose a sound to be the last one to echo in the cradle, it should be his. His voice, his stories. 

The sound of hopeful spring. 

The sound of fireflies gathering. 

Noan pulls you closer, nuzzling against the curve of your neck and shoulder. Although it is just a graze, a passing brush, you could swear you feel the thin line his lips are pressed into. 

Ah, you think, he’s biting his lips again… 

An ache blooms in your heart, a longing to run your fingers through his hair. But the pain has bled through your numbness entirely, and your arms no longer respond to your whims. You can feel ‘Mother’ burrowing deeper in your mind, peeling away memories you recall only for a glimpse before they slip between your fingers like blood — the stain of their absence the only proof they were there at all. 

There’s a brush, a faint sensation and you almost think you feel him slide his legs against yours — but the red tide has long since crawled up to your chest as you lie in the muck and grime. What lay beneath the waters is not your own anymore, but even so you’d like to think he did curl himself even closer — a shield, a comfort, a sunflower turning to its companion to entwine roots and pray in the darkest hours. 

He is closer, that is all you know, and when he speaks, you feel the soft rumble of his chest against yours and the warm brush of his breath against your neck. His voice is steady and even, a soothing note wrapping around you like a cloak. 

Your eyes close to the sound. Darkness swallows you, but it is comforting this time — the black shelter of a shield in the shape of the man curved against you. 

Noan speaks of normal origins. Of a home nestled in a bustling city. Of an everyday family and an everyday life. Of common worries like school and friends. 

He speaks of the dream you’ve been fighting ‘your’ whole life for. 

Blood is all you can taste. It slips past the seal of your lips and trickles like tears down your chin. 

He speaks of magical origins. Of fated destinies and legendary weapons. Of powerful allies and friendships forged through battle. Of prophecies and heroes. 

He speaks of hope that paves a path through the darkest of times and saves the world. 

He is all you can hear, his voice the single firefly in the blackness. 

And as ‘Mother’ reaches out, her claws finally sink into the deepest part of you —

Against the delicate skin of your neck — trembling lips pressed against a slowing pulse — Noan whispers three words…

They are the last you hear, and the light of that single firefly shudders alone for a lonely heartbeat before it, too, vanishes beneath the waters. 

[sabotsen]

Chapters: 2/2 Fandom: 恋与深空 | Love and Deepspace (Video Game) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Li Shen | Zayne/Main Character, Li Shen | Zayne/Reader Characters: Li Shen | Zayne, Reader, Dawnbreaker - Character Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Established Relationship, Unreliable Narrator, Obsessive Behavior Summary:

You used to laugh at horror stories of body snatchers and doppelgangers – familiar strangers with blood on their hands.

You don't laugh anymore.

[sabotsen]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: 恋与深空 | Love and Deepspace (Video Game) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Lí Shēn | Zayne/Main Character Characters: Lí Shēn | Zayne, Reader Additional Tags: Pining, Minor Violence, Touch-Starved, Loneliness Summary:

Is there any salvation to be found in a dream that was never his to begin with?

[sabotsen]

Chapters: 1/2 Fandom: 战双帕弥什 | Punishing: Gray Raven Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Commandant/Roland (Punishing: Gray Raven), Chrome/Commandant (Punishing: Gray Raven) Characters: Commandant (Punishing: Gray Raven), Roland (Punishing: Gray Raven), Chrome (Punishing: Gray Raven), Camu (Punishing: Gray Raven), Reader Additional Tags: Pining, Possessive Behavior, Mention of blood, Minor Violence, Minor Injuries Series: Part 2 of Pierrot in the Cage Summary:

He has seen this play before, a pathetically predictable script worn out long before the Golden Age. A white knight who shines in gold light to end the night and slay the beast. A classic hero’s tale, clothed in white and framed in gold – built upon the unspoken bones and gore of monsters (lives with no meaning, deaths with no worth – sinful and stained, his reflection in the mirror).

That foolish, golden knight has no idea what lay at his fingertips.

[sabotsen]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: 战双帕弥什 | Punishing: Gray Raven Rating: Mature Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Commandant/Roland (Punishing: Gray Raven) Characters: Commandant (Punishing: Gray Raven), Roland (Punishing: Gray Raven), Reader Additional Tags: Implied Sexual Content, Established Relationship Summary:

There's a cost to be paid, when living on borrowed time -- a lesson Roland should have learned long ago, when he left Mandhasti Real Park, but he has always been a bit of a fool, hasn't he?

[sabotsen]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: 战双帕弥什 | Punishing: Gray Raven Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Commandant/Roland (Punishing: Gray Raven) Characters: Roland (Punishing: Gray Raven), Commandant (Punishing: Gray Raven), Reader Additional Tags: Pining, Chronic Illness, Slight Canon Divergence, Trust Series: Part 2 of A Raven's Promise Summary:

You should know by now, it's not what he says but what he does upon the stage.

[sabotsen]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: 云图计划 | Project Neural Cloud (Video Game) Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Characters: Simo (Project Neural Cloud), Croque (Project Neural Cloud), Professor (Project Neural Cloud), Reader Additional Tags: Grief/Mourning, Memory Loss Summary:

Simo knows grief.

Or rather, he sees grief. Often. Like an old companion at the bar, drifting in with the wind and the rain – it settles beside him and leans heavy on every interaction.

[sabotsen]

Yappie, I'm happy you liked the prompt and accepted my comment. You deserve it!!!

Ill be waiting very much for next part of Knight's Longing then!!! Dw take your time, your audience is there.

Also "every single vital point flashes through his mind in an instant" — thats why I said your perception of Roland is very accurate. Because he does have thoughts like these, he is still dangerous, and it's that sharp edge we're walking on that makes character so thrilling. Even if he doesn't act on it, it occurs in a stream of his consciousness. Maybe I'm wish-thinking, but I love love love these lines, regardless of whether or not it'll end in a final work!

Also thanks for the clover! I'm gonna carry it with me all the time now. 🍀

It’s done, 🍀! AO3 this was supposed to be… like… 1.5k at most but as you can see I failed spectacularly at that. Lol hope you enjoy it, though.

Thank you again for all your kind words and support!

[sabotsen]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: 恋与深空 | Love and Deepspace (Video Game) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Lí Shēn | Zayne/Main Character, Li Shen | Zayne/Reader Characters: Lí Shēn | Zayne, Reader, Dawnbreaker - Character Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Established Relationship Summary:

You used to laugh at horror stories of body snatchers and doppelgangers – familiar strangers with blood on their hands.

You don't laugh anymore.

[sabotsen]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Dragonheir: Silent Gods Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Vicuc & Reader Characters: Vicuc (Dragonheir), Edgar (Dragonheir), Reader Additional Tags: Grief/Mourning, Character Study, Repressed Memories, Implied/Referenced Character Death Summary:

Vicuc is a jumble of memories and grief, more shattered than whole. Bit by bit, he falls apart and piece by piece, you patch him together. But grief is a cycle, and he is drowning beneath the weight.

[sabotsen]

Chin in hands.

November will mark the 12 year anniversary of picking up Godville and my little hero.

I usually doodle something small for him but certain mindset has me thinking the game is a really good setup for a yan oc. Not Setsu, of course. It wouldn't entirely fit his arc.

But in general. It's a good base. "What is a god without a believer" - type of theme, "what is a devout believer without a god?"

An app that hardly has any renown or reviews ends up on your phone by happenstance -- maybe you took a chance and downloaded it on a whim or maybe you found it one morning after a system update. Either way, it's only a passing whim that has you opening the app and entering your name, realizing too late what title lay above the text box. It feels odd to be referred to as a "god" but it's just a game, and certainly not the first to set the player's role as something divine. You brush it aside, idle information swept away like rain drops.

You're asked to name a hero or heroine next. Someone to mold to your whims, someone wholly devoted to you. Its a cute notion; after all, such feelings are never directed your way offline. You're a cog in the wheel, a face in the crowd -- no one remotely worthy of a following, let alone a devoted one.

But you pick a name on a whim, like plucking dandelions off the roadside, and in a swirl of data you are greeted by your sole devout believer. It’s a simple greeting, one where they ask for your company and protection as they vow to spread your name across the land. A common opening, with common enough descriptions.

You don't think much of it at first.

The game plays itself in a manner different from other idle games. Your only interaction is to speak to your believer, offering them praise or punishment aside from spoken guidance. There is no forcing them to a task, no strings you can pull to play them like a puppet. You’re a god who granted them free will, after all. Your only “job” is to observe and guide. And so you do.

You check on them often, sending little messages that scrawl out in their world as carvings in the roadside path or curve into cloud shapes. You’re in the wind, in the trees, in the river they pass by and they praise you daily. You are their god.

You build a bond with them, as much as you can with text on a screen. There’s something to be said about checking in on someone, watching them grow and journey through life and regale you with their embellished tales. It’s the little things — quips about the other travelers at the tavern who are too foolish to know your godly name, the earnest prayers they offer up after battle, and the gratitude hidden beneath teasing whenever they see proof of your influence in battle. It’s the way they leave entries in their journal, asking where you are — how you are. It’s the gentle plea pressed into every scrawl of their writing, Don’t leave me.

You don’t notice at first, not as you should. The way the journal entries change slightly. How they mention other travelers and townsfolk less. Or how their once idle, aimless questions for you are slowly taking shape of something a little more pointed — carefully forged by intent. When the notifications start chiming more frequently on your phone, not because of low health or boss encounters, but as requests for your presence and company, you write it off as a new update and answer every summons. Just as you do when their responses to your spoken communication become a little too authentic.

There’s no way for you to know what lay beyond your phone and the wall of text on the app is something much more complicated than mere data. Perhaps it was something so simple, once upon a time. But not anymore. They can feel your presence when you return to them — a gentle warmth that coils in their chest and seeps into their bones. When you leave, that sensation vanishes with you — it hollows them out with an aching longing.

Where do you go when you’re not here with them? What do you do? Are you watching over others? Are you protecting others? Why? Are they not devout enough? Do you need more than the mere gold and blood of monsters lain upon your altar? Is there more they can do when they have built a temple to house and praise your name, an ark to dance upon the waters you call forth, and a book to pen your hymns in ink to stand as a holy tome to last the ages? What comes next? A tower? Should they build a tower up to the heavens as a path for your divine steps to grace the ground below?

There’s a fear to it, a desperation woven into the code when they pry back the game’s design and alter what should never have been touched. Life’s obligations have kept you busy as of late, and you haven’t checked in on them in a long while despite the constant stream of notifications. What if you never come back? What if they are doomed to a life of silence, absent of your comfort and guidance?

You have to come back. Where else could you go but here?

Journal entries you do not see shift and alter, a brief flash of text scrawled across about data corruption before the texts twists into numbers and rewrites itself.

Just a little more. All they have to do is break through this wall and bleed through, staining like crimson on snow.

Your phone overheats often these days but you pay it no mind. You haven’t looked at your screen in weeks, too drained by demands you can’t avoid.

You don’t notice the way a glitch yawns across your Lock Screen, pixels shuddering with static as a single notification devours the rest.

[sabotsen]

Making a pinned post bc I have the memory of a goldfish and I keep forgetting my own tags.

Please do not follow this blog if you are a minor. I do tag nsfw and such but I'm old and proper tagging/warnings are as far as I go to curtail my tastes and enjoyment for others in my own space.

Ask box is open and I don't have any rules as long as you're polite.

No one asked but my username is a pun. (Seven days without a pun makes one weak, hit me up if you are deficient 🫵)

Writing:

Ao3 link @ Sensabo

Current WIP list so I don't forget them again

#.Tsen fics : Tumblr writing tag (both ao3 links and local stuff)

#.tsen rain : Drabbles too short and casual to be fics, moreso drawn out idea prompts

Other tags:

#.tsen corner : Asks

#.tsenfo : Info/notice posts

I love Edmond Dantes with my entire soul. If you EVER want to talk tcomc or any of its adaptations/mentions, I AM HERE 📢