#.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]

Fragment - 21 - T1004

Pairing: Lee x Commandant/Reader

Notes: Set during Ch21 Spiral of Chronos & contains spoilers. Cross posted to ao3 bc I hate the paragraph formatting here. Word Count 3.6k.

Warnings: Subtle Jealousy and possessiveness. Brief mention of character death and panic attack.

This is a secret Santa gift for @yandere-yearnings. I love you Dar!!! Happy holidays. I hope this knife stabs you lovingly.

Emotions cannot be compressed into numbers, not in a way that does them justice.

The depth, the weight, the agony of them cannot be expressed in binary. There is simply too much — too little — to account for them in calculations. 

He knows this. 

Honestly, he would like to think himself rational enough to follow through his calculations without the influence of emotions altering the numbers. In most situations, that assessment would be correct. His measurements, calculations, predictions are all precision sharpened to a lethal bullet aimed with perfect trajectory. He is a machine, built for war and numbers. He is a soldier, eliminating obstacles for the best calculated result. 

But Gray Raven is not a factor that can be compressed into simple numbers and figures. You, in all your stubbornness and kindness, are not measurable no matter what calculations and equations he uses. 

Your smile makes him happy — flustered, even — and your laughter rings in his head for days, leaving no room for even the shortest string of binary. Your touch is a warmth, a fire, that burns away every equation he knew by breath. Your voice is a melody that drowns out every calculated plan on the tip of his tongue. Your mere presence — the steady guiding light of your M.I.N.D. beacon — pieces him together so gently, more human than machine. 

It’s a terrifying thing — to be stitched together so lovingly, to feel the weight of emotions more than the unchanging shape of numbers. It’s a foolish thing — to think of himself as a person and not a machine, a tool, a number in the data string. 

He loves you for it. He fears you for it. 

Because you make him more. Because you make him undefined. 

But he does not change. Because it’s him.

So here he remains. Trapped in a Möbius loop. Because it’s you. 

Lee is rational. 

He is not one to be swept into fleeting emotions. Reacting on impulse often leads to more messes and headaches. There is a logical explanation for everything. 

He knows this. He knows this. 

But there’s something about the sight before him that makes his jaw clench until metal grinds against metal. 

Maybe it’s the way your frame seems even smaller than usual as you kneel with one knee pressed against the floor, a sniper rifle that is not your own within your hands. Maybe it’s the way Wanshi curves against you, the white of his hair and outfit a stark contrast to the soft grays of your Gray Raven uniform as he embraces you like sea foam does the ocean waters. Maybe it’s the way you tilt your head just slightly towards him, his voice soft as he speaks. Maybe it’s the sharp glint in Wanshi’s golden gaze flitting over your shoulder as he notices Lee in the doorway.  Maybe it’s the smile upon Wanshi’s lips, the silent glee of a hawk with prized prey, as he bows his head and nearly brushes his lips against your ear.  Maybe it’s the way his hands drift over yours, adjusting your hold, then drift to ghost over your hips and shoulders, lingering just a little too long to merely correct your posture.

Maybe it’s all of them at once. 

It’s an ugly thing that flares to life in the metal confines of his chest, writhing and clawing at the cage of his ribs. It’s an ugly thing that spurs him into the shooting range, jaw clenched and fingers digging into his palms firmly enough to scrape metal against metal. 

He knows the name of it.

But Lee isn’t one to act on emotions. He has to be rational. He has to be level-headed. Someone has to be in order to keep Gray Raven out of trouble. 

But even so. 

It’s an ugly thing that rattles in his chest and claws up his throat. He tastes it on the back of his tongue as he steps up behind you.

“Commandant.”

He feels it burn like acid against his skin when golden eyes lock with his over your shoulder and Wanshi’s fingertips brush against the nape of your neck. 

He feels it oozing, seeping like blood at his feet, lapping at the edges of your clothes as you kneel upon the ground and finally, finally turn your attention up to him. 

Your smile is soft, gentle and welcoming as always. “Lee. Are you here to hide from Asimov for a while?” 

Lee frowns slightly, his brow furrowed. “Please don’t lump me in with you, Commandant.” 

You have no idea, do you? 

You laugh — a beautiful sound that soothes the ache in his chest only as you lean back, posture relaxing and Wanshi naturally shifting just a breath away. It’s still too close, in Lee’s opinion. There’s a burning in his fingertips, a twist in his wires that urges him to pry you free from the hawk’s talons. If it’s shooting advice you need, isn’t he enough? Do you doubt his skills? Or is he not close enough to you for you to ask such a thing of him? Has he done something, said something, or missed some sort of subtle hint that forced you to go to Wanshi instead? 

It’s an ugly thing that burns in his chest and drips like acid from his tongue. But he swallows it back. He is made of metal and numbers. 

Lee sighs, his voice steady as it always is — he forces it to be. “Did you forget?” 

You blink, head tilted slightly to the side and your silence is his answer. 

He tries to ignore the way Wanshi tilts his head ever so subtly in the same direction and the way the hawk’s hands still linger on your shoulders. 

“You’re going to be late to the meeting. Celica asked me to be sure you didn’t forget or run off to hide again.” 

“Ah.” The color momentarily drains from your face, lips twisting in a blanch. The butt of the rifle drifts down, away from the cradle of your shoulder as you set it down and look every bit the image of a cat grabbed by the scruff. “It wasn’t on purpose,” you mutter, “I really did forget.” 

If it weren’t for the hawk still pressed against your side, perhaps Lee would have smiled that small, subtle one you know him for. The one that vanishes if you pay it too much attention, fading like light refraction shifting rainbow hues to common daylight — a lasting secret only if you cradle it just right. 

But he does not smile as he shakes his head in exasperation and gently places his hand on your elbow. “Let’s go, unless you really want to be in trouble.” 

His movements are gentle as his hand on your arm guides you up, but his gaze is sharp and pointed on the hawk whose touch lingers too long as you move away to stand. 

That golden gaze only softens when you turn your head to Wanshi, that familiar somewhat sleepy expression splayed across his features as if it had always been there. As if a sleepy owl is all he has ever been and ever will be. 

“Sorry to run, Wanshi. Thanks for your time,” your voice is friendly as always, unaware, as you hand the rifle back to the Strike Hawk. 

Wanshi merely smiles softly and waves his free hand. “Take care, Commandant.” Golden eyes shift, just for a moment to glance over your shoulder at Lee before lazily gliding back to your face. His smile sharpens in the corners, too soft and subtle perhaps for you to notice — but Lee does. “You know where to find me.” 

Lee scowls, his hand on your elbow shifting and anchoring onto your shoulder. It is pure restraint that keeps him from digging his fingers into the folds of your clothes, and you merely take his gesture as a silent hint to keep moving — something innocent and friendly. So you let him coax you away by the shoulders as you offer a small farewell and final thanks to Wanshi and leave the room. He should be grateful you see his actions in such a light rather than for what they truly are. But that ugly feeling in his chest wails and mourns that you do not see through his act. 

Just before the door slides shut, Lee casts one last look over your shoulder to the construct who remained sitting where you left him. That sleepy expression is gone, replaced by something too patient and cold, too sharp and predatory as it follows your back. Wanshi smiles, the shape of it upon his lips every bit the silent threat — the promise — of a hawk’s shadow brushing over a rabbit. The cold metal of the door slides shut, separating you from the Hawk perched and waiting. 

It is only after he has guided you down the empty hallway far enough away from the shooting range for his nerves to settle that he realizes the weight of your gaze on him. You’re burning a hole through the side of his face and by the press of your lips he can tell you’re thinking something — worrying about something. His arm across your back slips away, his touch drifting down to your elbow in a soft brush — easily avoided. But you don’t. You allow the soft, ghost’s touch of his fingers against you. 

“What.” He’s frowning. He knows he is. 

You’ve known him long enough by now not to be deterred by his blunt speech or soured expression. If anything, perhaps you find comfort in it — familiarity in the easy banter you’ve developed with him and his dry humor. But there is thoughtful caution as you watch him now and he traces even the smallest movements in your gaze as you observe him. 

“I don’t have a meeting with Celica today.” 

There’s a note in your voice, subtle and easily missed. Light and almost airy — it’s the soft smile hidden in your voice that doesn’t play upon your lips. 

That tone is the only reason his reply is as blunt and dry as any other common conversation, “Gray Raven is truly in dire straits if our Commandant is suffering memory loss so early in age.” 

You laugh, a hand rising to hide the bright smile he adores. You have a bad habit of doing that — tucking smiles and laughter behind your hands as if they are stolen burdens not meant to trouble others. Perhaps the war has done that to you, or maybe it was something else — the cruel words of others. He never did narrow down the origin, as you’ve had that habit since the day he met you. 

You should smile more, he thinks, as your hand falls away from your lips and the small hint of a smile remains. It’s the same one that plays upon your lips whenever he brushes off his flustered expression as his cooling system failing. But just like those moments, you do not call him on his bluff. 

Instead, your hand shifts and taps his that still lingered on your elbow. “How are you holding up?” The worry in your voice is evident despite the light cheer you try to hide it behind. “We haven’t seen you lately. I know you like to keep busy but you’re not allowed to pick up Asimov’s workaholic tendencies.” 

Lee tilts his head to the side, his frown softening a fraction but his brow furrows even more. “Do you not read the reports I send?” 

“I read them, but that’s not what I asked.” Your hand on his shifts, interlacing your fingers together and if he were still made of flesh and bone perhaps you would have felt the way his heart would have stumbled, the way his fingers would have trembled. But he is made of metal and numbers, and he is still as the warmth of your hand sinks into his. “Are you alright, Lee?” 

That ugly ache in his chest finally settles, soothed by your touch, but his thoughts tumble over each other in a silent maelstrom. His gaze falls to your hand in his, the way the softness of your touch contrasts so cruelly with the hard metal of him. What is there to say in this situation? Progress is being made on the specialized frame, everything necessary to know is logged within the reports you receive daily. So why are you asking? Why are you worried? 

He won’t fail you or Gray Raven. Never. 

The only thing stopping him from fully syncing with the frame is just those— 

“Lee?” 

Your voice pulls him from his thoughts and he feels the way your hand squeezes his gently. He hears the concern in your tone, feels it brush against him like the warmth of a blanket —  cozy in its familiarity, even if it is foolish. Carefully, he returns the gesture, ever mindful of his strength. But as he lifts his gaze up to your face, his breath catches in the metal of his lungs. 

Red.

The hallway engulfed in red and black — scorched and burning. Smoke curls and spills from the warped, gaping doorways on the right, billowing up and crawling through the broken ceiling above. On his left is an opening in the wall that frames a hellscape beyond — the earth molten and burning, shimmering in the blazing heat as the roar of flames nearly drowns out the screams and wails, human and metal alike. The sky above, once blue and freckled with stars, is now shrouded by the gray billows of smoke and ash. 

Grounded. Ruined. Burning. 

When did they fall? How could Babylonia, the cradle of humanity, have fallen? 

His hands shake.

Something’s wrong.

Information pours into him, drowning him — the swell of the ocean crashing into a man lost and dehydrated in the desert. 

He sees the figures of soldiers — constructs — fighting off in the distance. But it is not the corrupted they turn their guns upon. In the smoke and flames, he sees humans. He hears their screams, despite the distance — despite the fire roaring around him. He sees the constructs fall upon each other when the fire and wounds claim the humans. He sees them burn and melt in the heat, sees the way they tear their own limbs from their bodies and the arc of sparks that sparkle in the smoke like mournful stars. 

Something in his hand pulls upon him— too soft, too gentle, too delicate for this hell. 

“Lee!” 

Your voice cuts through the smoke and ash to pull his attention back. 

His gaze snaps from the sprawling burning battlefield to your hands on his then up to your face. But the sight of you crushes the metal ribs in his chest. Blood. Blood trails from your nose and dots the corners of your eyes like ruby tears. A dried trail of blood lingers in the corner of your mouth, lips too pale despite the crimson that stains them. Your vitals aren’t showing in the corner of his vision and panic spikes in his chest. 

The virus. 

It’s the virus. 

You’re ill. 

You’re hurt. 

His hands fly to your face to wipe the corners of your eyes, to your neck to find your pulse. 

It’s fine. It’ll be fine. 

Liv. Where is Liv? 

He has to get you to her. 

Serums. 

You need serums. 

Lee doesn’t hear the way you call his name as his hands fly to his chest, patting down his pockets. Where are the serums? He always carried some on him for you. Where…. Where are they?

Did he drop them in the crash? 

Did they shatter? 

Your hands follow in the wake of his, trying to grasp and still him, but he doesn’t notice. 

You need help. 

You can’t stay here. 

He has to —-

“Lee!” 

Your hands cradle his face, holding him in place and forcing his gaze back on you. 

Immediately, he feels the weight of your connection, the steadying link of your beacon sheltering him. A piercing headache cuts through him, pierces him like a lance straight through his head. Crippling. Agonizing. It blinds his vision and nearly brings him to his knees as a shrill sound shatters his audio modular — the dying wails of a beast, a warning call drowning out the roar of the flames. 

Your hands, the warmth of your touch, and your voice calling his name are the only things that keep him on his feet. He blinks, vision clearing as your worried expression comes into view — he feels the way your concern bleeds from you through the connection, a hint of fear rippling in the undercurrents. 

“Lee?” Your thumbs brush against his cheeks. “What happened? Are you ok?” 

Lee swallows, fingers finding purchase in the folds of your shirt. “Yeah,” he steadies himself, forces the trembling in his fingers to cease as he begins to count. Numbers, strings, data — anything to calm himself. “Just a headache.” 

“A headache?” Your tone is incredulous, a scowl on your lips as you pull his face closer to yours. 

“It happens,” is all he says. His gaze lingers in the corners of your eyes and trails down to your lips. No blood. He pries one hand from the folds of your clothes and gently wraps it around your wrist, fingers pressing lightly against your pulse. Steady, normal. Your numbers match the vitals in the corner of his vision.

You’re ok. 

You’re safe.

“Lee,” his name is a short, clipped thing. 

Slowly, reluctantly, he pulls away from your grasp and you let him, fingers lingering against his cheeks before he is out of reach. Your gaze is a heavy thing upon him as he glances to his left. The metal wall remains intact and from the narrow window outside he can see the vast  black starry expanse of space. 

There is no fire.

There is no smoke. 

“I’m fine, Commandant.” Lee takes a breath, his attention returning to you as his expression returns to the neutral calm you know him for. “They happen, now and then. It’s fine.” 

Doubt needles against the back of his mind through your connection, nibbling on the edges of him like a mouse. You don’t believe him. He doesn’t blame you. 

Lee doesn’t like the expression on your face, the way your lips turn down in a frown weighted by worry or the slight shimmer in your eyes. Your hands find his again, warm and gentle. He does not pull away as you gently tug on his arm. 

“Let’s go back to the lounge.” 

Lee does not argue. Quietly, he follows you, his hand in yours as you lead the way down the hall. 

It feels natural — 

It feels like home — 

If you lead the way, your hands on him to guide, he would follow you anywhere. Even into —

>>Memory playback paused.

>> Data corŗ̶̥̮̣̦͈̗̣̤̚ū̵͙̦̦͙̠͓̝͖̦̒̔̈̄̒p̴̢̎̈̄̂t̵͎̩͓̮͚̹̹͔̄͌̏͋͒̿̓́̄̎̓̀̆̈́̊͝i̶̧̛͙̥͖̫̹̘̤̳͎͈̜̍̒̏̔͒͐ͅơ̶̢̧̛̰̹̫̻͕͖̤̺͈͉̲͑͂̈́̃̂̅̀̿͗̅͗̃͘̕ṉ̷̢̡̛͙̙̹͚̠̲̦̞̖̤̱͗̈́̀͂͗̔̿̈́̈́̌̓͂̓͘͜͝͠ ̸̡̞͍̯̫͉̘̭̗̝̭̪͎̥̺͔̈́̄͑̐̆̾̅́͘̚f̸̧̱͎͈̣̲̣͓̖̟͎̆̏̚ơ̸̢̧̢̠̙̞̯͍̫͖̪̩̰̪̯͚̫̓͂͗̽̐̋̆̈́̒͊̊͋́͠͝u̷̝͇͍̰̜̥̣͊̍͆̈̌ņ̴̧̨̡͚͕̞̟̥͚̱̠͍̳̪́̽́͒̂͛͛̿̑̑͊͋͝͠͠ͅd̶̨͕̤̱̞̯̃̍̍̈͆̀́̽̇̿̏̽̍͛̚͠͠

>> Terminating playback. 

Thunder is the first thing he hears. 

Like the last wail of a dying man, it rumbles across the cold desolate landscape. A whale song unanswered. 

He knows it is not truly thunder, but rather the chaotic storm of information continuously flowing and merging into the center of this space, swallowed and devoured. It is the last sound made by those who came before and a warning to those who will come after. It is the sound of a body falling from the heavens, another stone constructing the Tower of Babel. 

Lee listens to it reverberate as he lingers on the last memory that flowed through him. 

How long has it been since he felt warmth — your warmth? 

Hard to say. Harder still to remember where ‘he’ originated from. Too many memories have been swallowed and merged into him, too much data compiled and stored for him to know which were originally ‘his’ and which came from ‘others’. 

What happened to you — to that version of you? 

Was it the fire that claimed you? Was it sickness? Was it age? Was it a bullet he failed to shield you from? Was it the corrupted he didn’t spot in time? Was it the Red Tide that swelled too quickly to stop?

Lee quiets.

Around him, data converges into ill begotten shapes only to crumble and shatter into streams of numbers. He feels it — in the not too distant future, in the not too far gone past — a ripple in “time”. Another version of ‘him’ who failed is falling from the Tower of Babel. 

He’s lost count of the bodies he has devoured. He’s lost count of the memories he has stored, stolen and kept. He’s lost count of the times he has failed.

The bodies pile up like stones. Brick by brick. One day he will reach the heavens. One day he will reach the top of the tower. 

He has to.He has to.

There is no other option.

Because there must be a world where you survive. There must be a future where you still exist.

Someone falls into this pitiful M.I.N.D., tucked into a corner of space and time long forgotten and overlooked. 

Another body. Another failure.

Lee sees ‘himself’ bloodied and wounded crumbled in a heap upon a shape made of data.

Thunder rumbles in the distance. A mournful wail. A warning.

Lee resigns himself once more and pulls ‘himself’ closer into the center of the storm.

He has to know what happened in that world of ‘his’. He has to learn. 

He only hopes he will see you again.

Even if only for a moment.

Even if it is only a fragment of a memory.

He misses you. 

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[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]

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]

🍀 I have a weird urge to touch Uvhash's heart. You can probably already tell from Trolland spine thingie I like touching stuff but

Its just all so inviting like a candy to the kid I WANNA TOUCH HIIIM

not squish not pluck out not other painful things just touch. I genuelly believe it wouldn't hurt considering he has it out in the open 24/7 and if he sleeps, it is ought to touch surfaces like bedsheets and blanket and whatsnot

Am I weird

”Go ahead,” he answers easily, as if you asked for an apple off his plate.

You hesitate. That’s… it? It was that easy? You asked to touch his heart, for god’s sake.

Uvhash merely waits, one hand casually tucked into his pants pocket as he stands before you. His natural height pretty much puts his open chest cavity at eye level; the bloody organ in the center pulses steadily — calmly.

“I-…it won’t hurt you, right?” There’s a quiver in your voice as you reach out, fingers hovering. It’s his heart — his heart! He may be an awakener but surely touching his organs directly can’t be comfortable…. Right?

Uvhash is quiet as he stares down at you. Slowly, he tilts his head to the side, the weight of his gaze suddenly heavier. As if he’s studying you.

A habit of his, you’ve long since realized, when he doesn’t understand you. His posture tends to change, tensing just barely as he stares — like a lion studying a rabbit about to flee. There’s a subtle threat shimmering in the air, though you’d like to believe he would not harm you, not after everything you two have been through. But it’s there, needling under your skin.

If he’s not going to object then it’s best to just take him at face value, you assume. Which is easier said than done when you’re about to press your fingers against his goddamn beating heart. It won’t hurt him, you’ll be gentle — it’ll be fine! Just. Fine.

You take a breath to steady your nerves — last thing you need is your trembling fingers to accidentally scratch the damn thing. Slowly, both to steady yourself and to show Uvhash you truly, honestly, intend for this to be harmless, you reach up towards the open cavity in his chest.

Warm. You feel the warmth radiating off the pulsing heart as your fingers ghost over the surface. Uvhash always seemed to run a higher body temperature but you never thought that heat would radiate from his heart as well. His heart pulses, just barely brushing against the tips of your fingers and it takes every bit of self control not to flinch and flick your gaze up to his face. There’s a slickness, too, one you only truly register when you tentatively lay your fingertips against the organ.

Blood. It’s blood.

He’s not oozing blood, thankfully. But there’s a wetness to it and the only similarity your brain can associate to the sensation is that of your fingers brushing against clammy, sweat slicked skin. But his heart is bloodied all the same, and the few drops that condense from the organ glide down and fall, splattering against the bottom of the open cavity.

No wonder he doesn’t wear a closed shirt, you think idly.

This close, you can feel and see his heart pump and the way the arteries partially visible in the open cavity and beneath the translucent areas of his skin shudder in response. There’s an odd sense of calm that settles in the back of your mind as the steady rhythm of his heartbeat pulses beneath your fingertips. There’s a sense of peace to it — a vulnerability you would normally never associate with him. But it’s there, pulsing a gentle rhythm beneath your fingertips.

You don’t notice the small smile that forms on your lips or the gentleness that overcomes your expression. But he does.

Uvhash feels it before you even move — senses it in a way only an animal would, waiting for that shift in the air. Your fingertips only lift a fraction, barely ghosting against his heart as you withdraw before his hand clamps around your wrist. He moves too fast for you to see and the small “thank you” that had begun to form on your lips twists into a choked noise as your heart leaps up to your throat on instinct.

“U-Uvhash?!”

His grip isn’t cruel, but it isn’t exactly gentle, either. Firm. Insistent. A shackle, almost. He presses your hand fully against his heart, warm blood smearing against your palm.

“Ok, ok, ok, ok,” you mutter, nearly regretting asking in for this in the first place as your gaze drops from his hand to his heart. You’re touching him. You’re touching his heart. Were your fingertips not enough? You were trying to be gentle.

Uvhash tilts his head to the side once more, quiet for too long of a heartbeat as you try to resist (futilely) the way he all but presses your palm too harshly against the warm, pulsing organ. Blood slips between your fingers, curls around your hand, and smears against his hand wrapped around your wrist.

You’re almost trembling. Not from fear. No. He doesn’t smell fear from you.

Uvhash blinks, and his head tilts to the other side — as if that would help him understand the answer he sees better.

It’s worry. You’re worried.

It’s obvious from the furrow in your brow, the frown on your lips, and the way your gaze keeps flitting from his heart to his face then back to his hand on you, bloodied now. He just doesn’t understand why you’re worried.

“Do you want it back?” He asks, calmly — like a friend offering back a coat once borrowed.

“What?” Your head snaps up, fingers twitching — a thrill shudders down his spine when your nails catch on the edge of the cavity. Oblivious, you blink up at him, baffled, “Are you —- your heart?”

Uvhash merely nods, and presses your hand even more firmly against his heart, immovable when you flinch and try to jerk away as it pulses against your palm and between your fingers.

You immediately shake your head, gaze dropping to his heart. “Nope, no, not at all. We’re good. You’re good.” You take a breath, trying to calm your pulse he can feel racing beneath his fingertips on your wrist. “Keep it. You need it.”

Uvhash merely hums, his gaze still heavy on you.

You bow slightly, bending like a rabbit in the shadow of a lion. “Thank you. For letting me, uh… touch… you?”

“Satisfied?”

Immediately, you nod your head, almost giving yourself whiplash. “Completely!”

There’s a moment of silence, heavy upon your bowed head and for a moment you worry he won’t release you. But slowly, his fingers unfurl from yours and, surprisingly, there is not a blooming purple mark on your wrist left in his wake. But his blood is smeared all over your hand and wrist. It drips from your fingertips as you retract your hand — an immediate chill settling against your palm without the heat of him beneath your touch. You pointedly ignore it and snap your attention back up to his face.

He’s grinning, practically radiating glee. Uvhash keeps the hand that released you raised and spreads his fingers as if showing off the blood coating his hand. “Rejoice,” he purrs, “You have touched what no warrior or foe have ever reached.”

Your brow furrows automatically before the words fully register. Oh.

The one vulnerable spot he keeps openly displayed, almost framed in bloodied glory, and anyone who aimed for it lay buried and gone. It’s a challenge he boldly proclaims — it is a pulsing trophy he dares to be stolen.

Words begin to form on your lips, but Uvhash is faster. His bloodied hand reaches out, gently but purposely smearing his blood on your forehead and down the soft bridge of your nose.

You heave a sigh, whatever you intended to ask forgotten as you lean and duck out of the way of his bloodied hands. You asked for this. What did you expect.

[sabotsen]

God’s Offering

Relationship: Tulu & Keeper/Reader [Platonic!! Friends!!]

Notes: Based off his Wandering chapters and a bit of his Frenzy chapter. Word Count 5.5k because I’m insane. Cross posted to ao3.

Warnings: Child sacrifice, mentions of death and gore, grief, survivor’s guilt.

There is no such thing as an outstretched hand without expectation. There are always strings attached. 

Tulu knows this. It is simply the nature of things, much like the way a curtain of colors follows the sun’s trail across the sky. It just simply is. 

So why, then, are your strings so hard to find? They must be there, somewhere. True, there are times you ask for his aid in battle on the few occasions you manage to catch him awake enough to ask, but that is simply his agreement and duty to Mythag, not you. Perhaps if you reached out to him more often he might be able to see it, glinting like piano wire in the sun. But rare are the instances you reach out to him at all. He has noted, more than once, you tend to keep your hands to yourself in his company. Now and then, you offer small sweets if your hands are full from a recent visit to the bakery you seem to enjoy. 

But not once have you reached those scarred hands out to him, empty and pleading. 

It’s strange. Baffling even. 

Tulu watches as you crouch on the dusty paved walkway a short distance away, a small smile on your lips as you listen to three children awakeners. Jenkins and Aigis, he idly recalls two names only thanks to the passing memories of their play and laughter reaching him from afar as he dozed. He does not know which is which, however, and he lazily watches as the one with the tattered cloak jesters wildly with excitement. The other two are quieter: one clutches a doll beside the cloaked child and the other child with long brown hair lingers closer to you, almost pressed against your side. 

They’re speaking of a small path they found in the garden where a well tended to shrubbery maze rests, as if it might lead to a grand adventure or secret. There’s excitement woven into every word of the cloaked child and, although silent, it shines just as well in the gazes of the quiet children. There’s an innocence to them — in their words, their gaze, even in the way their tiny hands grasp at your clothes. 

It reminds Tulu of days long, long gone and buried beneath the waves. It reminds him of faces blurred by time that shook him from his sleep and dragged him from the bunk bed with giggles and urging. It reminds him of reverent whispers spoken in hushed tones as they dragged him down hallowed halls, hope and dreams lacing their every word. 

An ache, aged and calloused, unfurls in his chest. Heavy, it settles upon his lungs as he watches the three of you. But he sits by all the same — looking, waiting, searching. 

You listen to the children, laughing softly at their excitement when the cloaked child grasps your hand and tries to pull you up to follow and the brunette child clings to the folds of your clothes. The child clutching a doll hovers and watches, her face nearly hidden behind the doll.  

“I can’t right now,” you say even as you allow them to coax you to your feet. “Doll is waiting for me.”

The quiet child tilts her head up towards you and Tulu only barely manages to catch her voice, “Are you hurt?” 

Even the cloaked child settles as they stare up at you, worry muting their excitement, and the third child clings to the former’s cloak seemingly near tears. But you gently pat them each on the head and smile, “No, it’s just a checkup. How about I come find you two tomorrow morning?” When the three of them blink up at you, eyes wide, Tulu hears your laughter once more. “We can’t go on an adventure without packing anything. Even great thieves need tools, right Jenkins?” 

The cloaked child, Jenkins, immediately perks up. “Th- that’s right!” Her small hands clench into tiny fists for a moment before she latches onto the other children. “We have to get ready! Let’s go, Aigis, Lily!” 

Aigis stumbles but is quick to match Jenkin’s stride as if almost second nature. Lily allows herself to be herded and dragged away from you, but she still glances over her shoulder to give a small wave before Jenkins drags her too far for her murmur to reach you, “Bye-bye.” 

Tulu watches, gaze lingering on the gentle slope of your smile as you wave goodbye to the children. It’s only when they are out of sight that your hand falls, as does the smile on your lips. It shifts to something more subdued as you wallow in your thoughts. Behind you, the setting sun casts you in a gentle glow, the silver key around your neck glinting in the golden light. 

That weight still lingers in his chest, burdened even more by your solitary figure for a reason he doesn’t have the energy to discern. Instead, he calls out from his perch beside the fountain. “Shouldn’t you hurry along?” 

You startle, visibly jumping as your hands fly to the silver key around your neck before your head snaps in his direction. “Tulu?” Tension bleeds out of you just as quickly as it came and the chuckle you offer is more a weak breath than a true laugh. “How long have you been there?” 

“Long enough,” he closes his eyes for a brief moment, the fountain gurgling behind him. He had only come to stretch his legs and hide from Miryam for a moment, yet he ended up lounging here. It was… nice, even if only faintly, to hear the distant bustle of the university. The birds chirping in the nearby trees that rustled in the breeze, the occasional footfalls and rush of students and faculty as they moved from building to building, the hourly chime of the clock tower that loomed near the center of the university — the voices and life of people who did not crawl on their knees before him. The sound of life flowing, free from his grasp and direction, as it thrived around him. 

There was comfort to be found in it. There was a loneliness to be found in it. 

Tulu opened his eyes and noted you had ventured several steps closer, hands behind your back and head tilted slightly to the side. Absently, his Aequor limbs coiled closer, winding around the bench he lounged on and even dipping into the water of the fountain. The setting sun gleamed off his crown and cast even the green hues of his tentacles in a soft glow. He sighed, head perched upon his hand, “If you have something to say, I give you leave to speak it.”

“I only wanted to say don’t stay out here too long, Tulu. The evenings are getting colder.” 

That’s… it? 

Tulu blinks, nearly raising his head from his hand. That’s all? A faint frown tugs at his lips, his voice even and weighed with something too heavy for someone his stature, “You forget what I am.” 

“I haven’t,” you answer simply, still offering that baffling gentle smile. “I imagine even God Kings would have trouble sleeping if they get too cold.” 

Silence is your only answer as Tulu watches you, the soft coral of his gaze deepened to an almost eerie crimson hue by the setting sun. Patiently, you wait and watch as his gaze narrows, his presence alone enough to peel the layers away of any normal mortal’s facade. But you are no mere mortal and you do not buckle beneath his gaze. Tulu closes his eyes. 

You are different. For better or for worse. You have always been different. 

You know him well enough to take his quiet gesture as permission to leave. Just barely does he catch the faint chuckle you hide behind a quiet breath, nearly lost beneath the crunch of gravel underfoot as you turn to leave. 

“Wait.” 

It is pure impulse that wrenches the words from his lips. But you halt just the same, and Tulu feels the warmth of your gaze upon him, waiting. 

Almost hesitantly, he opens his eyes, but he keeps his attention downcast upon his Aequor limbs that curl just beyond his feet. The words form and die in his throat several times and he struggles to salvage the wreckage of their remains. It’s foolish, he knows, to hesitate like this. He is a God King — there are few things he has not seen and heard over his long, long life. 

But perhaps that is why he is all the more baffled. 

Tulu frowns, a furrow in his brow as his gaze finally lifts back up to your face. Your hands linger near the silver key — a nervous habit, he has long since noted — but still ever present is that soft smile of yours. The sunlight shimmers off the soft green of his tentacles as they squeeze close to him before unfurling out, expanding their reach around him as if to elevate his presence. 

Perhaps it is cruel of him to ask this of you. But enough time has passed with him holding his breath as if waiting to drown. Why haven't you reached for him? Why haven't you asked anything of him?  A cold, plain stone bench rests beneath him and the humble clustered buildings of Mythag sprawl just beyond, but all he feels is the bloodstained throne and all he sees is the muted, swallowed remnants of his homeland. 

“Do you not wish to ask something of me?”

Confusion wipes away your smile as you tilt your head to the side. “Like what?” 

“The revelations of a God, their prophecies, or even the vast treasures of Lemuria.” There’s an edge to his voice, crowned by the cold metal of the burden golden upon his temple and framed by the Aequor that coils around him. Faintly, he hears in the echoes of his own voice the prayers and pleas that used to haunt his dreams.

You laugh, more a huff than anything else, and an amused expression replaces your confusion. “I don’t need them.” 

The frown upon his lips twists, small and fragile in a way only a soul lost at sea would know – grasping at the wreckage of what he once knew and finding no landmark in sight. “Do you truly not need anything of me?” 

Tulu watches as you press your lips in thought for but a moment, fingers rubbing at the silver key. “Nope,” you reply with a smile so honest and bright it hurts. 

It doesn’t make sense.

An ache hollows him out, old and nameless. It settles in his lungs, nestles where the sea once burrowed when the grand civilization was swallowed. 

Tulu closes his eyes, Aequor limbs coiling close and in on themselves as if to make him smaller. You’re strange. So strange. A god king sits before you and offers a wish yet you laugh it off and continue on your merry way. Do you think he cannot honor his word? Do you think whatever you wish for is beyond his reach? 

“You are strange.” There’s a grumble to his voice, barely hidden behind the exhaustion he sighs with. 

You laugh. It’s a gentle and warm sound, an honest one — Tulu can’t bring himself to dislike it. “I hear that a lot.” 

When he does not respond, his eyes closed and his brow still slightly furrowed, Tulu hears the gravel crunch underfoot once more as you turn to leave. He does not stop you this time. He listens, straining against the noise of the trees, the chitter of birds, and the distant bustle of others to catch the sound of your steps until they fade. Only when you are truly gone does he open his eyes again, gaze lingering where you once stood. 

The sun has nearly vanished beyond the horizon and the deep blue and purple hues of the night creep across the sky. 

He is tired. 

Dreams hover on the edge of his periphery, gnawing upon the fringes of his waking mind. It wears him down to ignore them for long, but he couldn’t help but stall the lulling call of his evening nap when you happened by. He had thought perhaps if he watched you a little longer, stared a little harder, pried a little deeper he might finally see the strings wound about your hands. Perhaps he could finally, finally see your end goal. 

But it was for naught. 

All he saw is all he ever seemed to see. Your hands are empty and there are no strings attached to your kindness. You do not reach for him. You do not ask anything from him. 

Is it because you have nothing to ask from a King? Or do you have nothing to beg from a God?

Tulu rises slowly, Aequor limbs lazily unfurling and flowing in his wake like ripples on the water.

It doesn’t matter. 

He just needs to sleep a while, and then this ache in his chest will drown beneath the sea, just as all things do. 

He dreamt. 

Tulu always dreams, but this time was different. He dreamt not of things yet to come — of chaos twisting unto itself upon a throne of corpses he could never save. No, this time he dreamt of something etched in stone and lost beneath black waters. He dreamt of the past and that made it all the worse. 

Like a curse, those hallowed halls loomed around him, pale stone gleaming in the soft light as children — his friends, faces he has not seen for eons — chatter in hushed whispers as they dragged him along. At his side, as if he had never left, was Noah — face still soft and round, unmarred by both the sea winds and time. Innocent. Youthful. They all were. As they pulled him from the bed and dragged him through the quiet temple halls, dread coiled in the shadows of his every step. 

He knows how this plays out. He has seen it time and again, a curse burned into his mind at night whenever sleep claimed him — as unchangeable now as it was back then. Tulu watches, resigned, as his long gone friends usher him into the throne room. There, as he knew it would, gleamed the golden crown. Something bitter and cold coils in his gut at the sight of it.

Despite the many years since. Because of the many years since. 

Tulu did not dissuade his friends when they cloistered around the crown, nor did he stop them when they pondered testing it upon their heads. 

“To see if they are worthy,” one of them had said.

As if that relic was anything but a burden and a curse. 

When the high priest came and admonished them, Tulu let his eyes linger on the crown. What did they see when they stared at it, he wondered. Did they feel that eerie sense of dread drip down their throat as they neared it? Did they see the Aequor tentacles coiled about it, twisting and writhing like a beast grasping for air? In their eyes was it truly just a mere metal crown? 

Tulu closed his eyes. 

He did not ask. This was a dream. Nothing would change. 

Tulu resigns himself, as he always does, to allow the currents of the dream to carry him forth. There is no point in thrashing against the tide, no merit to expending energy in the struggle. Nothing would change. 

When the dream shifts to the crowning ceremony, Tulu tastes bile in his throat. He is loathe to relive this moment, no matter how many times he has seen it. It did not prepare him when it haunted his dreams prior to the ceremony, and it did not bring any comfort now that his homeland lay buried and lost beneath the sea. He lingered, just as he had that day, at the foot of the grand altar. 

Distantly, he feels something different. Something off. There is something — someone in the dream. 

But he hears the reverberation of several pairs of footsteps climb the stairs and he cannot focus on anything else. He feels the rain against his skin, hears the distant scream of his people as they flee to safety. Nature and beast alike roar in the approaching distance upon the black waters. At his side is Noah, face twisted with worry and fear. But there, upon the altar is that foolish, gentle friend of his — Samuel. The clown glints in his too small hands. 

Tulu sees, too late — always too little, too late — the golden crown rest upon Samuel's head. For only a moment, a heartbeat’s stumble, he prays that perhaps this time will be different. 

But Fate cannot be changed, and blood sprays from the child’s mouth, blooming bright amidst the dreary colors of the storm. Bathed in crimson, emerald tentacles curl from Samuel’s mouth and further burst from his throat. Bloodied tears form and trickle before every semblance of his face is erased in a writhing mass of emerald and mutilated flesh.

One after another, those foolish — brave — young friends of his give their lives for faith, for hope. For salvation. 

Their prayers are answered in blood.

He hates it. He hates these dreams he cannot change. He hates these memories that haunt him still. He hates the faith he cannot shake, the voice that echoes in his dreams. He hates so many, many things. 

But Tulu still screams at the top of his lungs, his voice swallowed by the storm. He still runs up the stairs with Noah scrambling and grasping after him. He still salvages that bloodied, cursed crown from the horrid remains of Samuel, Amos, and Gretchen that are quickly nearly washed away by the rain. He still grits his teeth and bears the weight of that crown — that burden, bloodied and gory — upon his head. 

Because such was his dream. Because such was his fate. 

Only when the metal kisses his skin, the cold chilling his scalp, does he feel it. There, buried and nearly lost amongst the presence of something Other, is someone familiar. Small, weak — like a firefly nestled beneath the cycling beam of the lighthouse. Easily missed, easily overlooked. But Tulu knows the weight of this crown — he knows the blood upon its metal and the sound of its call. You are not the crown, but you are there, within it. 

There’s comfort to be had in that, perhaps. 

A gentleness that flows from the shadows of the metal into him that he is unaccustomed to as he floats through the dream. You stay with him, even as the storm ceases and his people return. You remain, even as they place him upon that damnable throne and the days slip into years between his slumber. You remain, unchanging and gentle, even as Noah ages beside him with every blink of his eyes. 

An ache grows in his chest, cold and gaping. Bottomless. But still he feels you, that warmth you try to seep from the crown into his small form to fill the gaps. It’s not enough. But it means something, still. 

It is only after he stands in the darkened doorway of Noah’s home, a small pouch of treats pressed into his hands by Noah’s wife, tears still streaming down her face, that he feels the tendrils of the dream shake. The delicate thread connecting you to him thins, twisting as if strained. It’s ending. The dream is finally ending. The priestess calls his name, all but beckoning and grasping at him to drag him back to the throne. But he still lingers in that doorway as if trapped, his gaze on the lifeless form of Noah upon the bed and the way his wife curves a weeping willow over him. Her delicate hands grasp at his calloused ones as she bows her head as if in prayer. 

Idly, Tulu wonders when exactly did he close his eyes to the way Noah’s hands outgrew his own. He knew Noah aged, just as everyone else did — just like all mortals are supposed to. 

Tulu stands in that mourning doorway, unchanged since that day in the storm — his frame too thin and his shoulders too small for the burden crowned upon his head. 

Tulu turns away, the warmth of you shatters, and the dream collapses. 

But the priestess begs for him once more and the dream shudders. 

Tulu turns away from Noah’s corpse, from Noah’s wife, and the cozy little home Noah had built with his own hands that Tulu knew from countless cherished tales like the back of his hand. 

He wakes slowly. 

Upon his head, the crown gleams in the morning light, cold and devoid of comfort or warmth — just as it should. 

It takes longer than he would like to untangle himself from the Aequor limbs that had coiled and twisted themselves around him like a sinner’s chains in a lakebed. But he crawls from the bed, scowling all the while. A pressure lingers upon his shoulders and nestles in his chest — a weight he can’t quite place. It unsettles him. Tulu ignores it, as he does so many things, and slips silently from his room. 

Miryam will no doubt come to pay her respects to him — too noisy and devout by far. Despite the many hours he lost to his slumber, he could still track when she would come. Religion requires time set aside for devotionals and Miryam was nothing if not fervent in her devotion. She knows his sleep schedule almost by heart and, knowing he would wake around this time, she would no doubt come to him. It would be best if he made himself scarce now. 

Tulu flees to the one place he knows she will at least hesitate before gracing the doorstep — your room. 

He's dreaming again. 

Resignation taints the edges of his emotions. He doesn’t recall falling asleep. He should have been on his way to your room, to burrow under those thick, fluffy blankets and while away the remaining hours of the day in quiet peace. He should have been curled up in the corner of your bed, bundled up as he watched students bustle to and fro outside your window. He should have been in the sole quiet shelter he carved for himself away from dreams and burdens. 

With a sigh, Tulu lets the edges of the dream twist around him. There’s chaos in this space, here at the edge of dreams where colors and noise blur into dizzying shapes — the place beyond a normal mortal’s reach. A voice, muted and distant hums at the back of his mind, too invasive to be friendly as it needles under his skin. He doesn’t bother trying to parse what it’s trying to say; he gave up long, long ago. He simply waits for the chaos of the realm to collapse in on itself enough to break the edges of a dream, to pull him once more into a vision he cannot change. 

But there's something else beside him in the chaos of noise. Soft and subtle, foreign in this alien sea he has grown so accustomed to drowning in.

A light burning silver blazes in the swirling colors like a comet struggling against the gravitational pull of a giant star. He sees it flicker and wane, sees it surge in a brilliance of silver before it wavers and dims again, like a foolish cycle. A firefly struggling in a monsoon rain, brave yet fragile.

It's you.

He would recognize that silver hue of yours — that gentle warmth, that guiding light — anywhere. A beacon, a comfort, a friend, a fool. 

Tulu plucks you from the sea of dreams too old and powerful for you to swim and linger in.  He feels the confusion that ripples off the edges of your light, the way panic tinges the edges of the silver into a burning white. Carefully, he cradles your consciousness close, basking in the familiar warmth of your company. You settle against him, quieting once you recognize him. Idly, he wonders what he feels like to you in this dream, so close to the edges of reality. Do you still recognize him as himself, or is he overshadowed by the crown upon his head and the tether tying his soul to something Other? 

Your light dims a fraction the longer he holds you, a firefly battered and weary in his palm. 

Tulu supposes it doesn’t matter what you see him as here. It’s a dream. Perhaps you’ll forget. 

He weaves the chaos and noise into something more stable, darkness bleeding like ink from his fingertips. Carefully, gently, he guides you back to shallow shores, where dreams are contained and harmless things. He guides you back into the gentle embrace of a black, empty dream and slowly pulls you up with him to the surface. 

Sleep washes from him effortlessly, smooth as water off his Aequor limbs. There's a soft bed beneath him, pillows and blankets piled high like a nest. A bed. He’s in a bed, warm and bundled. Tulu shifts, Aequor limbs coiling around the pillows as he rises. 

Across the room, he sees your slumped form as you lay rousing with a groan from your sleep at a desk. 

“You—”

His voice is hardened, a scowl upon his lips. How many times has he told you not to carelessly approach him while he sleeps? Do you not care for your safety? Do you not realize how dangerous it is for a feeble mortal like yourself to glimpse even a shadow of a God’s dream? 

The words boil up his throat and they taste of blood — of salt water and blood splayed across the altar. 

But they die upon his lips, dissipating to sea foam as he catches sight of the framed picture on the wall above your head. Even from across the room, he recognizes your figure — one arm slung over the shoulders of a silver haired girl, Ramona, as you flash the camera a wide grin. He can almost hear the sound of your laugh when the picture was taken, the way your eyes gleam with pure joy and how honest you are, right down to your posture. 

He doesn’t have a photo of you upon his wall. 

Tulu’s gaze drifts down as you groan and slowly push yourself up off the desk. He sees little trinkets decorating it. A small train car, an old coin, a rusted key, a pendant with a chain that gleams white gold in the faint light. Gifts. Memories. They are not his. 

This is your room. 

Tulu is quiet and still as you mutter something under your breath and rub the back of your neck. He does not make a single sound, but you must feel the weight of his gaze on your back. You turn, still half groggy as you rub a kink out of your neck, “Tulu?” 

He does not answer you right away, instead his gaze lingers on your face. Searching. Waiting. Nothing happens, aside from the way you furrow your brows at him. You’re fine. You’re safe. Tulu casts a glance at one of his Aequor limbs, the green hues shimmering between soft seafoam and a deeper emerald as the light filters over them from the window. He closes his eyes and takes a breath. 

He still tastes blood on the back of his tongue. But it’s not yours, and that’s what matters for now. “My apologies. You were pulled in because of me.”

You tilt your head and roll your shoulders, stretching. “I honestly didn’t see you bundled up over there. You were buried pretty deep,” you chuckle. 

Silence settles, gentle but strained in a way Tulu feels like oil against his skin. He opens his eyes, quiet as deep waters as he remains half buried in blankets upon your bed. You’ve stood and have turned your back to him, sorting through paperwork you fell asleep on. Homework and reports, he assumes. That’s not what catches his attention. 

It’s you. 

It’s the hue that lingers around the silver of your soul — the colors he sees through the crown’s eyes. There’s exhaustion lining the edges of it, a film that mutes all colors. Understandable, considering you were pulled into two of his dreams in short succession. He hadn’t intended to fall asleep while he waited for you to return, but he did. You’ve always been sensitive to awakeners, and his pull is stronger than most. 

But beneath the muted color of exhaustion is something new. Something he can’t ignore. Deep, rolling, seeping into the silver colored core of your soul like ink stains in water. A deep purple that bleeds into crimson and back again. 

You saw. Too much, too little — he isn’t sure. But it was enough. 

But even so, he did not want you to see those days — those green Aequor limbs soaked in the blood of children (his friends…) that now surround him, the remains that the storm couldn’t fully wash away, the empty days that followed, the silence between dreams, the loss as time slipped by. 

Tulu closes his eyes to block out the sight and bows his head. 

Of all the things for you to see. Of all the moments in his past. 

He is not ashamed of his choices, nor is he capable of regretting the burden he carries. 

You are too kind by far. 

“Tulu?”

He knows such sights are not easy to bear (but he carries them all the same because there was never any other choice). 

Your gentle voice pulls him from his thoughts and he opens his eyes to see you hovering near the edge of your bed. Your brow is furrowed in worry as your hand hovers in the air, just shy of brushing against the blanket still hanging off his shoulders. “Are you alright?” 

When was the last time someone asked him that, genuine and kind? Was there ever a time? Back before the crown claimed him, before even the temple plucked him up to be reared for something Other? Had there ever been someone who needlessly fretted and worried over him? 

He can’t recall. He never dreamed of them. Perhaps it really, truly never happened. 

Tulu reaches out, his hand lightly brushing yours away. 

You worry too much, he meant to admonish. To remind you that he is not a child, but a God King. 

Instead, his tongue betrays him. “Do you think differently now?” 

You blink, confusion evident as you withdraw your hand. “About what?” 

Tulu presses his lips into a thin line for but a moment. He already caught himself in the net, he might as well let it pull him to the surface. Perhaps it will be different this time. You’ve shared a dream with him, even if only one of his past. It stretched for decades yet flickered by in a blink like light flitting downstream. You’ve glimpsed what it means to be a God King — trapped in the crown, you’ve seen the world from a view no mortal has. You’ve witnessed sacrifices and miracles, salvation and death. Perhaps now your answer will be different. 

Tulu straightens his posture, Aequor limbs twisting in the blankets to frame him like a wreath upon a throne. “Is that all you wish to ask?” 

You straighten, no longer hovering over him as you stand by the edge of the bed. The furrow in your brow deepens and a scowl begins to tug at the corners of your lips. You are quiet.

He presses further because surely, surely you have something to ask of him now. Surely you’ve glimpsed enough of what a god king can provide to answer him now. Surely, surely, surely you will reach for him with purpose, with strings, with intent. “Do you truly have nothing to ask of a God King?” 

A change. Subtle and soft, but devastating like the fracture of ice over a lakebed. Tulu watches as that deep purple hue around your soul shudders and bleeds dark crimson-violet down to the very silver core of your soul. Your expression shifts, your frown pressed into a thin line as you bite your lips. A mist glimmers in your eyes as you regard him. Your hands, always so kind and gentle, curl as you tuck them close to your chest — not in prayer, not to beg, but simply to press as if staunching a wound weeping from your heart. 

“No,” your voice is a fragile, delicate thing nearly lost in the silence of the room. Yet there is a weight to it that lingers, heavy — weeping and bleeding from the sacrifice of others. It rings in his ears. “I don’t need anything.” 

Something nameless and wounded writhes in his chest. It has been there since his first dream and it will remain, suffocating and dying within his chest, until the crown falls bloodied from his corpse. 

You do not reach for Tulu.

He does not ask again. 

[sabotsen]

Scorched Prayers

Pairing: Salvador x Keeper/Reader

Notes: Based off his frenzy; 2.3k words & cross posed to ao3

Warnings: Subtle obsession, mentions of previous death by fire

Burning. 

He’s burning. 

He feels the flames char his skin, feels the way the heat boils the blood in his veins. The smoke coils in the air and builds in his lungs, leaving him to choke on the heat and agony. It burns. It burns, burns, burns. There’s a crackling, a sizzling  — the sounds of firewood swallowed whole, of flesh bubbling, scorching and charring black, black, black. It’s hot. It’s too hot, hot, hot, hot. It burns. 

There is a fire. An ache. A sin. 

It burns him from the inside out, as damning as the memories of that day. He feels the heat of the flames roil beneath his skin, feels the way his lungs struggle for breath between gasps of smoke. Sweat trails down his brow and dampens the cloth over his eyes, his white hair clinging to his scalp as he lay a pathetic crumpled heap inside the small confines of the confessional. The many layers of his clothing are only adding to the heat beneath his skin and he can feel the white cotton shirt of his innermost layer clinging to his skin. It’s too hot — he’s burning, burning… 

But Salvador does not remove a single layer of clothing. These robes are for the Father’s children. They are his shield and his promise to the Father; they will protect him. 

This is a trial. One he must weather and pray through. 

Salvador knows fire. 

He knows the flames and the heat that once crawled across his skin. He can still smell burnt flesh and hear the crackle of wood even within the confines of the confessional. The incense he lit prior to trapping himself in here did little to diminish the scent. Salvador remains as he collapsed: kneeling upon the narrow floor as the small step presses into his thigh. There’s a trembling to his hands that he tries in vain to hide as he folds them in prayer and bows his head. 

He’s burning, burning, burning. 

He’s safe within Father’s House.

He is buried in the wood of a pyre. 

He is within the confessional, blessed. 

He can hear the crowd over the roar of the flames, their cries and screams for salvation. 

He hears the silence of the cathedral, empty save for him. 

Scriptures pour from his lips, his deep voice steady despite everything — because of everything. Salvador knows fire. He knows the heat of it, the damning touch of flames against mortal flesh. This is temporary. The Father is eternal, and His scriptures his guide. Salvador need only wait and hold to his faith, as he has always done — as he will always do. 

Time loses its meaning within the confessional. There is only him, kneeling in the house of the Father, and the Word he follows. Salvador prays. For salvation. For forgiveness. 

The fire coils in his veins. It is an ache. It is a sin — one the words of his Father do little to abate. 

It is only when he pauses for a brief moment as the heat rolls through him anew, crippling in its intensity, that he hears the soft click of one of the cathedral’s double doors open. The sound echoes down the aisle, and crawls through the crack beneath the door to the confessional. 

“Bishop?” Hesitant and soft, a gentle call. 

He knows that voice, intimately.  It sounds like Grace. It sounds like Salvation. 

Fire roars anew, flamed by an urge in his veins. It beckons him to open the confessional door, to crawl from its darkness and through the pew benches to kneel before his Savior. It’s an ache, a longing that tears up his throat and chokes him on words he dares not utter. Salvador’s trembling fingers dig into the backs of his palms, leaving deep red marks through the black gloves. A shuddering breath tumbles from his lips as he tries to swallow around the coal lodged in his throat. 

“Here, Pale Flame,” his voice is hoarse. As if torn asunder from screaming. 

But it reaches you all the same, and your attention is drawn to the confessional nestled halfway across the room in a quiet corner of the cathedral. Your footfalls echo softly in the domed cathedral — a normal sound. A common, everyday sound — one he has heard many times before when you dropped by to visit. 

But they reverberate in his head like a siren’s call. Each step fans the flames, and Salvador shudders as he presses his knees further against the wood beneath him to remain kneeling. 

There’s a fire in his blood, an ache in his very bones. 

But he kneels, hands trembling and folded in prayer. Silent and waiting, begging for salvation in the dark tomb of the confessional. 

Salvador hears you pause just before the confessional booth, and he knows without asking what caused your hesitation. The door that lay open for you is the priest’s compartment, while the penitent’s compartment remains firmly closed. When he contacted you and asked for your time, he did not offer any details on why he needed your aid so suddenly out of the blue. Yet you answered his call without question. 

It gladdens him that your kindness is so unwavering. It wounds him, spurs on the flames burning him, that you offer it so freely. 

“Come, Pale Flame,” his voice curls through the lattice and beckons you, still gentle yet hoarse. “Talk with me for a little while.” 

“I don’t really know the—” You pause, searching for the words even as you step closer. Salvador hears your voice clearer as you linger in the doorway of the priest’s compartment, “The… proper procedures…? For this.” 

“You need not worry about that,” he laughs, a bit breathless as he struggles around the smoke in his lungs. Slowly, he shifts as the rustle of his clothes seems loud in the small confines of the confessional as he kneels on the step proper, his still prayer clasped hands now offered before the lattice window. The latch in the lattice window seems to gleam in his eyes, his fingers itching to twist it open and clear a path no matter how small to reach for you. Salvador digs his fingers further into the backs of his hands, praying still. 

Wood creaks softly as you cross the threshold into the compartment and sit. Through the darkness blinding his eyes he sees the gentle glow of your soul as you near him. A warmth washes over him — soothing, healing. A balm seeping into a bleeding wound. 

But there is an ache in his blood, a fire scorching him from the inside out and it quickly drowns out the quiet peace you bring. There’s an urge, a longing — a wail, mournful and lonesome — for something more. Something closer and all-consuming that could be his if he just pulled that soft silver light of you closer. It would be different, so different from the flames that once consumed his flesh and blood. It would be gentle, it would be loving — it would be salvation… 

“Thank you,” Salvador forces the words past the fire and ash, past the ember and coals that choke him. There’s a roughness to his deep voice, a rumble that teeters on the verge of something desperate. “For coming. I will never forget this kindness.” 

“Anything to help you.” There’s a softness to your voice and Salvador hears the smile he knows graces your lips. 

The fire burns, burns, burns, burns. 

You’re there. You’re right here. 

It boils the blood in his veins and peels the flesh from his fingertips with an ache so deep he feels himself back upon the pyre. 

The bishop presses his forehead against his folded hands, to pray — to beg. 

“For foregoing formalities, I ask for your forgiveness.” He pauses, a shuddering breath wracking him. There’s smoke in his lungs and fire in his veins. “Please, I ask you listen to my confession.” 

Silence settles for a brief moment, but there is a gentleness to it that he can’t help but cling to. He hears the soft sounds of your presence beside him, separated only by thin wood and lattice. The soft, barely audible sound of your breathing, the rustle of your clothes as you shift forward — closer to the lattice window, to him. You’re here. You’re here, you’re here, you’re here. 

Salvador takes a breath, struggling around the smoke in his lungs. “Recently I have felt…” 

A fire. 

“…An inappropriate urge.” 

A longing. An ache. 

His voice is a deep rumble as it crawls through the lattice to reach you, the calmness of it belying the desperation that hides just beneath the surface. Like a mountain, towering and vast shrouded in fog — or the ocean with lulling waves sheltering the deep and unspoken. 

“Although I know the name of this … desire, I have never truly experienced it. Not like… this.” 

It is a fire — a fever in his veins, a burning in his lungs. A beast roils in his blood and strains against the very stitches of his skin. It's an ache. A hunger. A sin. Though he knows its name and though he has cleansed the sins of others done in its wake, he has never walked those bloodstained halls himself. Has never heard its call or felt its breath mingle with his. But now… he feels it. Oh, does he feel it now. An ache. A burning. A thirst. A devotional carved into his very skin that weeps with every pulse of his greedy, sinful heart.

It is too much.

It is not enough.

A longing, a yearning — a fire spreading across his skin and charring him upon the pyre. 

Salvador’s voice shakes for a but a moment, “Nor do I understand how it can overshadow the Father’s glory and stain my heart so.” 

A faint pain cuts through the ache and agony of the fire as his nails dig further into the backs of his hands, scratching at his skin through the gloves. But he does not register it. All he feels is the burn of the fire, the swell of the smoke in his lungs, and the longing in his fingertips to reach for you. 

Instead of answering to the fire, he continues to speak, head bowed and pressed against his folded hands. Praying, begging. “But perhaps because healers are not immune, they too must seek aid. So I confess to you, the Father’s Messenger, seeking guidance and forgiveness.” 

“I see.” There is a faint rustle of clothing as you shift upon the wooden bench. 

An innocent sound that only serves to urge the ache in his fingers. To trace the folds of your clothes — is it cotton or silks that you wear? Does the color match the silver hue of your soul? 

Your voice is kind, unaware of the way Salvador all but presses himself into the wood to remain still and kneeling. “The fall of the Sacred Tree affected Awakeners all over. I heard the reactions can be—” You pause for a moment, searching for the words. “Um… intense.” 

Something hollow follows in the wake of the fire in his veins, cooling its burn if only slightly and Salvador lifts his head from his hands to stare blindly at the lattice window.

Is this yearning artificial, then? False? Fabricated? Is it nothing more than a feeling, a whim, an echo rippling out from the collapse of something otherworldly? Is this longing not his own? Is this sin not wholly his even though it consumed his flesh so? 

“I see,” his voice crawled through the lattice, muted and detached almost. Lost. “Then this is just the influence of something else afflicting me.” Salvador tastes smoke when he swallows. “Forgive me for losing my composure.” 

“No, no,” Your voice rushes to answer him, closer. He hears you shuffle and lean a bit closer to the lattice window. “It’s not your fault.” Faint, like the sound of raindrops on flower petals, he hears your fingers tap and land upon the thin sill of the lattice window. “I … um, forgive you for your sins. Is that… the right thing to say?”

Laughter, honest and heartfelt though it remains quiet, tumbles from his lips and echoes in the small confessional. For the first time since he entered, he smiles — a small gesture, tinted with a twinge of helplessness. “Yes. Forgive me for asking this of you.” 

Stiffly, like prying open a steel trap, his fingers unfurl from their clasped prayer and Salvador silently reaches for the latch in the lattice window. A flick of his wrist and a small opening appears at the bottom along the sill, through which he slowly slides a hand palm up. Were his body in better shape, free of stitches and the bloodied marks he no doubt carved into his skin this evening, perhaps he would have braved a bare hand to you. 

But he doesn’t. 

Still, he reaches through the small opening for you, and though his hands are steady, in his shadow hides the weight of a sinner grasping bloodied hands towards the pure saint. 

“If you can, please hold my hand.”

Without hesitation, you do. He feels the warmth of your skin bleed through his glove and it burns, burns, burns so much kinder than the fire that consumes him. It’s real. The fire afflicting him may be just an echo of something far beyond him, but this — your warmth, your hand in his, the silver of your soul before him is all so very real. An ache, a yearning follows on the heels of your warmth and seeps into his skin, prying open every stitch across his marred flesh and burrowing into his bones. 

There is a fire in his veins. There is a pyre at his feet. 

But the Father’s scriptures pour from his lips. And your voice echoes in his wake. 

The light of your soul washes over him, silver and pure. He kneels in the shadow of it — yearning, grasping, praying, begging. 

A sinner upon the pyre of silver. 

Salvador gently grasps your hand just a hint tighter — in prayer just as much as a shackle. 

[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: 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]

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.