#AO3 IS FINALLY BACK UP

[sockreads]

chapter 5 of nine lives by machiroads !

(chap 4 here)

⬇️ we start off with eraserhead being demoted to cup holder 😞 determined unfit for hero work by the docs ig

their emotional constipation means so much to me🌕 🐺

aizawa and yamada confront ur feelings challenge level impossible 😾😾

his whole talk with bkg is so ijbol like where does he keep finding the patience 😭

MIDNIGHTT

oh the little mannerisms with all the students visiting and mentioning midnight again…… kero…☹️☹️☹️

aizawa spiraling ☹️🗳️🤧 he needs his emotional support buddy and extensive therapy 🎀🧼🫧🩹✨

and i’ve finished the chapter sad and tired :( but thank god i waited until ao3 was back up again I AM A FIGHTER 🥊NOT 🙅‍♀️A QUITTER👎 teheehehe i can’t wait to get emotional over a high school teacher again next chapter 🤭🤭

(chap 6 here)

[varpusvaras]

The days continue like that.

Fox tries his best to continue focusing solely on Leia. He feeds her, plays with her, puts her down for a nap. Feeds her, bathes her, puts her to bed.

They continue to keep watch in turns. Ben stays up first, while Fox sleeps the best he can, and then he stays up until the suns start to rise.

Then they do it all over again.

Ben does most of the housework. Fox thinks that he takes pity on him, and lets him focus on taking care of Leia, instead of making him do any of the maintenance that the house needs every day. Fox tries not to feel too bad about it.

The days and nights go by.

Leia starts to get a little restless. Fox hasn't had the courage to let her outside, in case they are spotted. Or in case there are any of the gangs or other dangers lurking around. Or because the days are hot, and Leia's skin is light and sensitive, and Fox doesn't want to expose her to the suns too much.

He sees Ben watching them. It almost looks like he is getting a little restless, too.

That night, after Fox has gotten Leia to fall asleep, Ben speaks.

"I think we are out of immediate danger now", he says. "Of course, it might just be because they haven't managed to track us down yet, but perhaps we can afford to relax a little."

Fox is not sure if he wants to relax a little.

He is, quite frankly, a little afraid of what will happen if he does so.

He can see that there is something else tied to what Ben is saying, though.

"Are you getting tired of staying inside the house with us around the clock, Kenobi?" He asks.

Ben makes a little huff. Fox doesn't know if it's a laugh or a sigh.

"Not that I don't enjoy your company", he says. "But I do have a job. Or at least I had a few days ago. I might already be laid off for not turning up for my shifts. Things are a bit scarce here, and even though there are various jobs available, getting one that is at least somewhat on the side of legality is always a bothersome thing. And, since things are scarce, they cost credits. Even more so now, as there are three mouths to feed, instead of one."

He looks at Leia, and smiles slightly.

"Even if one of the mouths is smaller than the other two", he says. He sounds fond as he speaks, and there is a look in his eyes that Fox knows.

He wonders who exactly Ben is thinking about when he looks at her.

"I do have credits on me", he says. "A lot of them."

Ben turns to look back at him. He raises a brow.

"And they cannot be traced back to you?" He asks.

"No", Fox answers. "They were reserved exactly for a situation like this. Just like everything else we have with us."

He decides not to think too much about that right now. He's doesn't have the energy to start and really think about how everything they have with them is everything they currently have left.

Ben nods. He is quiet for a while, clearly thinking.

"I will still go out tomorrow, to see if I still have a job", he says. "We do need to get more supplies as well at some point. Might as well do it at the same time."

That is true. Fox has supplies with him, but they are not going to last forever, and they need to keep up a stock, in case they need to leave again.

So he nods.

"Good. I will leave more weapons for you. But do not stay and fight. If they come, flee. Do not worry about me or anyone else."

Fox nods again.

It's for the best. If he flees, they will probably not go after the boy.

"I don't think I could even fight against all of them", he admits. "It would be a losing battle from the start. Most likely Vader himself would come after her-"

He stops talking when he sees the expression on Ben's face.

He looks like he has seen a ghost.

He stands there, his face white and his eyes wide, and Fox isn't sure if he is even breathing anymore.

He looks more like a ghost himself.

"Ben?" Fox calls. He doesn't seem to hear him. "Ben? General Kenobi?"

Nothing.

"Obi-Wan?"

That gets him to move again. Ben breathes in sharply, and his eyes focus fully back on Fox.

"He..." His voice comes out as a strained whisper. "He's...alive? Anakin is alive?"

Fox nods.

Ben sits down on the floor. He stares at the wall, and when he doesn't get up after a while, Fox stands up, and carefully pulls him back to his feet. He walks him all the way to the bed and makes him sit down on it, next to Leia, who is thankfully still sleeping.

Ben doesn't say anything. He just keeps staring somewhere, somewhere beyond the walls of the house.

Fox takes the first watch for the night.

[kirisclangen]

Larchpaw

She/her, 8 moons, cis molly

[stabbyfoxandrew]

you know what's fucking insane though???

it's only been 3 days in the mafia front fic. THREE DAYS= ~34k. (so far, we're still on day three rn)

wow i'm truly insane. three days... mein gott

(potential spoilers for this fic in tags???)

[rosie-b]

🦮 fill this empty space (ask game)

(link to the summary)

This turned out to be... longer than a snippet, and like the summary, angstier than I expected. It's been that kind of week ig! But there's a promising ending because I needed one :)

It had been a warm summer day when the old Marinette died.

The new Marinette woke up surrounded by golden light, soft, green grass, and the soft murmurings of a stream in northern France. It was perhaps the best way for her rebirth to happen, in a calm, relaxing environment far from the place she somehow knew was home.

She met her family there. They already knew her, and called her "maman," or "ma femme," or "my lady."

Marinette was no one's lady. She never had been, but according to video evidence and the testimony of her husband and children and best friend, that was one of the many roles her past self had filled.

Marinette did not know how to fill any of those old roles anymore. But because of the secret, magical way she'd chosen to lose her memories, she couldn't let anyone know this fact. She had to study years worth of business lessons in mere weeks, preparing for her return to Paris and the international company she would soon be in charge of running again.

At least her past self had accounted for this new Marinette's incompetence. But no one else seemed to see that she wasn't the same woman she had been once, back when a kwami lived in her purse and villains of the day (and year) kept plaguing Paris.

Adrien, the man past-Marinette had married, professed to still be in love with her. He saw some of the differences between the new Marinette and the old one, but claimed they weren't nearly as big as Marinette thought they were. And he chose to spend most of his time around her, so maybe he was right. He whispered praises for each small thing she did, both when they were alone and in public; took the time to learn her new habits; made her fresh coffee for when she woke up two hours after he did; stayed out of her bed to help her feel comfortable.

Marinette could see why her past self had loved him. It was something both halves of her were beginning to share, a love for this man who found a way to bring joy to her life even when it had been turned upside down.

But it didn't change the fact that the new Marinette was not the same woman he'd married. That fact was written into the vows Adrien and the past Marinette had exchanged; the way they had split up their chores; the daily schedule that Adrien still remembered while the new Marinette did not.

To Marinette, this new self of hers was nothing more than a facade made to cover the void her past self had left behind. She was thirty years old and as empty inside as a newborn baby, with no memories to guide her through this unfamiliar world.

Marinette was an icon, the magazines said. A paragon of virtue in an age of corruption, one half of both Paris' favorite couples, a woman who managed to be a world-famous CEO and an attentive mother at the same time.

That wasn't the new Marinette's reality. She didn't even know her children's middle names, though she was learning their favorite desserts, sports, and hobbies.

Most days, it was like learning a foreign language, and it felt just as isolating when she got something wrong or tried to remember something she thought she knew but actually didn't. Sometimes, this new life of hers was crushing, a drain on her already empty self, taking the last bit of Marinette out of her.

But not always.

As out of place as Marinette felt in her own life, the people in it still felt right somehow. They'd been there for her when she woke up; they were there to hug and comfort her when she cried in the night, to help teach her about her own life and tell her about theirs, and to listen when she said she felt different. They loved her, that much was clear, and they promised to love her no matter which Marinette she was; the old one with all her memories or the new one just fumbling through life.

And somehow, even though she claimed not to feel anything more for them than for other strangers at first, Marinette still loved them back. Their presence soothed the ache she felt in her chest, the one she felt when she couldn't remember, and she found herself more than missing them when they weren't there. She looked forward to hearing about their day, to learning their middle names; she held on to the facts they told her about themselves like sweet gifts of gold and honey, like they were all she needed to survive, to fill the empty space her memories had left behind.

The new Marinette was not the old one, and she never would be.

But maybe that was okay. The new Marinette had her own space, too; it began here, in this remote, rural town near the seashore, and it would expand back to Paris, to the place where the old Marinette had lived.

Marinette's home had always been her family, the people she loved. That was something she knew without having to remember it, and something she was more sure of every day.

So she studied the journals her past self had written, re-learned how to design, baked bread beside Adrien, sang songs with her children and stayed by their side. If her mind was an empty slate, then she was going to fill it with love, the same love she'd chosen before and was choosing again.

And someday, this new Marinette would feel whole again.

Thanks for the ask! I hope you enjoyed <3

[good-beanswrites]

I mentioned this in the AO3 comments, but:

What does Fuuta think about how Es treated Amane at the end of her interrogation? (Still not completely sure what happened)

And in trial 2, what does he think now that Kotoko has joined the ranks of "people who have been hit by Es" while he has not? (And Amane, if she didn't already count)

Yessss thank you :3 I always enjoy LCSyS questions (even if I take forever to reply to comments and things LMAO) Though, some details apply outside of the au too

Well. I don’t know if it really needs to be said for Fuuta, but yeah, he is pissed 😅 Even if she wasn’t directly hit, he would be just as riled up that she was treated so roughly. (Ah, I’m once again tempted to write up my mv machine post, but) basically I picture the machine itself locking the prisoner in place with sudden restraints. There were reactions of shock and fear, as if it were affecting them immediately,  and prisoners like Fuuta and Muu would definitely run from it if they could. So I believe that moment in Amane’s first interrogation is just Es standing over her and rubbing it in. There’s no direct harm, but the fact that they are so smug about her helplessness is just as psychologically painful. 

I don’t know if Amane would really go into detail about her interrogation (the others who were hit seem the type to come right out and say it), but she mentions it during the trial hiatus debriefing. Fuuta is furious: “why didn’t you say something sooner?? I would have kicked their ass right then and there!” His outburst is the very reason she doesn’t tell him that she was hit in T2. She knows he’ll get himself into more trouble, and she feels pressured to bear it on her own. She ends up pulling him aside and telling him during the second hiatus. He has to tone down his explosion a bit to focus on comforting her more than cursing Es. Though I don’t know exactly what will happen, the knowledge that she was hit drives him to stand by her side in T3 and defend her every chance he gets, affecting whatever changes we already are getting hints of.

He feels equally upset when Kotoko mentions getting hit, and Kotoko's nonchalance allows him to do a full rant. She doesn’t seem that phased, and admits it makes sense they would have an extreme reaction to her violence. She says that she deserved it, and Fuuta of all people stumbles over his words to tell her that she didn’t – violence does not deserve more violence. (He’s learning, folks!) In the privacy of his own thoughts, the poor guy is mortified. He would be grateful if he didn't keep comparing himself with the others who didn't get hit. “Do I look as fragile and girly as Yuno, Muu, and Mahiru?” “Do they not see me as a threat?” “Do they pity me or something?” He makes up his mind to be a big, manly threat in T3 and be taken seriously enough to get hit. (He can only learn so much at a time, folks.)

[necrotic-nephilim]

Sorry if this might be a rude question but why don’t you just make a seperate account for your nsfw fics?

not rude, it's a valid question! tbh it's a combination of a couple reasons.

i started posting anonymous dead dove batcest fics long before i had the balls to make a tumblr. at first i was content to just leave them unassociated with each other because i didn't really care about them being tied to me. i made this blog to actually show solidarity to my partner who wanted to make a sideblog for Sandman comic stuff so we could cheerlead each other and be brave together, since i've wanted to make a batcest sideblog but i've been nervous about actually having to get it going. (mal ik you're reading this go be brave and actually make your blog so i can cheerlead you damnit-) only did it dawn on me then that i should probably mention the fics i've written on the blog after like, three of them were posted anonymously. and it would've annoyed me to have half of them anonymous and half of them not, because notifications for them would've gone in different places. i could go back and take my fics off anon if i wanted to, but i can't switch the account they're on without taking them down entirely and that'd fuck over people who have them bookmarked already.

which, ties into my second reason, if i made an entire second ao3 account it'd be harder for me to see notifications, reply to stuff, and post things for both accounts because i'd have to constantly switch. and honestly i'd be terrified of accidentally posting on the wrong one on a brain fog day. posting fics is always the most tedious part of writing them for me lol. it's easier for me to stay logged into one account and have all of my stuff in one place for me and just use the anonymous collection when i feel like it. if ao3 pseuds worked like tumblr blogs, where you can't see all my side blogs but i can, i would've used pseuds, but since you can see all pseuds on an ao3, i felt it was a moot point.

and the last reason is i just feel more comfortable being anonymous on ao3 because of the rise in anti culture. on tumblr it's very easy for me to just filter that out and find the people i want to follow and block the people i don't. i don't mind getting hate, on tumblr or on ao3. but i think, for whatever reason you want to blame it on, there's been a massive boom of antis on ao3 who are very entitled about how they read on ao3. i tag extensively, but i just feel safer from getting targeted attacks if everything i write on ao3 isn't attached to one profile. if people like a fic i wrote, want to find more i always link my tumblr in the notes, but if an anti wants to get huffy with me, they can't easily track down my other things. they definitely could if they wanted to, but being anonymous on ao3 just makes me feel more secluded, in a weird way. it's like saying "if you want you can come find me but on here i'm just a weird faceless guy throwing stuff in the void". i've used ao3's anon feature a lot, actually, i used to be a hydra trash party dumpster kid back when that was in it's prime.

i also used to be vaguely popular on a different tumblr blog and my main ao3 and while i think it'd definitely be cool if i got a decent chunk of followers on this blog too, i don't really miss having fanfiction do so well i got targetted hate on all of my fics from the same people, i had my fics stolen, etc. it was really exhausting for me. i have 120+ works on ao3, not counting what's anonymous, and that level of exposure tires me, even when i use my main ao3 to post things that aren't trashy. it's just a weird feeling knowing so many people are subscribed to you on ao3 and what if you post something they won't like because you jumped fandoms again, or you're posting something niche, or you don't think it fills enough fandom tropes to be well-liked. i used to obsessively think like that, and it made me not write the things i wanted to because i cared about numbers. and i don't want to slide back into that hole. writing on anonymous is mostly to remind myself i wrote this for me, and if other people like it, they can come find me, but i don't have to perform like that anymore. if i get a really weird fucked up idea, i can write the really weird fucked up idea. at the end of the day, just makes me more comfortable! but i get it's a super confusing set up from an outsider perspective so, i really don't mind the question, thank you for asking!!

[doom-dreaming]

Prompt: kiss?

PART 1 (of 5)

**********

The first time she kisses him, he’s unconscious.

She knows he’ll recover, these aren’t the worst injuries he’s ever endured—not by a long shot—but the sight of him laid out in the infirmary bed still tugs at something in her chest. He looks disturbingly small, vulnerable, under the white sheets and white lights. At least his breathing has improved over the several hours she’s been here—it’s deeper now, stronger. The painkillers must’ve kicked in.

A sharp ache crawls through her stomach and she’s suddenly reminded she hasn’t eaten in… She can’t even remember. Not a good sign. She sighs. She knows he’s in good hands here, that he’s safe, that he’ll be fine. She still doesn’t want to leave him. Some lingering carryover from her code, maybe? Or just ubiquitous, old-fashioned concern, no matter how irrational.

Resigning herself to a few minutes away from his side for the benefit of her own health, she stands, wincing as her stiff muscles protest. Apparently she hadn’t moved in the past few hours, either. “You might be in better shape than me, right now,” she half-jokes to her sleeping Spartan. She doubts it would have garnered much of a response, even if he were conscious.

That tugging in her chest pulls tighter. The dense clusters of freckles on his face stand out in stark contrast against the pallid backdrop of his skin and before she can talk herself out of it, she’s leaning down and brushing her lips, feather-light, across his cheek. "Be back in a second," she whispers.

[catsafari25]

A/N: Hello again, and with this I think (?) I may have succeeded in writing enough bionicle fic to get it out of my system (unless another plot bunny hits me like a cannonball, but... eh, we'll see) and thus, here is the companion piece to the Vakama & Roodaka oneshot.

This time, exploring the scene where Vakama entered the Great Temple, from his side of things! This was also partially inspired by the scene in Challenge of the Hordika where Nokama is almost physically repulsed in trying to enter the Great Temple :)

x

In the tunnels beneath the temple, Vakama must stoop.

At first he shuffles, mutated arm tucked against him and his sole hand brushing only briefly along the floor to steady himself, but the passages are dark and deep and lined with creatures which seek out the weak. The eyes that watch him are not hungry. They keep their bellies too full for that.

In the end, it is easier quicker to drop to all fours, to share the weight between claw and tool that feet alone cannot. His altered form folds into the new stance with frightening familiarity. It's comfortable.

Natural.

The crown of his mask grazes the tunnel's ceiling, but only in passing. His gait is sure. Well. Surer than the ungainly slouch it had been before.

It was said – back when Matoran were awake to say such things – that even the strongest swimmers of Ga-Metru would hesitate before plunging into the depths of the protodermis sea. Not because the creatures there had any fondness for the taste of Matoran. In truth, it was thought that the rahi actively disliked the flavour. No, it was because the way Matoran swam was indistinguishable from the rahi's usual prey. Only when they had sunk tooth and jaw into their meal would they realise their mistake.

It was an annoying, if harmless mistake for the rahi.

Matoran couldn't say the same.

Vakama's early crawl through the passage had been like that of a Matoran swimmer: functional, but slow and indiscernible from wounded prey. Creatures drag themselves down into these depths to die, in hopes that they will be devoured only when they are too far gone to feel it. The eyes are patient. They will wait to see if this newcomer is similarly inclined.

And so when Vakama drops to his haunches, the eyes blink. Reassess. He moves less like the hunted and more like the hunter now, more predator than prey, and the eyes – and teeth – keep their distance after that.

The path Vakama stalks through was once a protodermis pipe, made obsolete even before the cataclysm. Newer conduits had been built, more efficient, more resilient, and this one had been disconnected but never dismantled. When he reaches its origin, it takes some effort – and his blazer claw – to break the seal across the hatchway, but when he does, one of the temple's protodermis purification chambers looms above him.

The room beyond is quiet.

Unmarked.

He doesn't realise he's stopped until the chittering of his audience draws closer. The snarl he throws back echoes off the pipe's walls, and the eyes retreat, but do not leave.

Vakama curls his hand around the lip of the hatch, and then falters.

Something is wrong.

It's not a pain, because the feeling does not hurt as it ought, but something is undeniably, fundamentally wrong. It causes his breath to catch, his hand to flinch, and it would be so easy, so easy, to turn and walk away, only...

Only he came here for a reason.

The wrongness flares, amplified for a moment, and then he pulls himself up. The eyes watch, but do not follow. Do they feel it too? Can even such base creatures sense the innate malice the temple exudes?

He clambers out of the purification chamber – empty and abandoned now – and stumbles upon his landing. He catches himself, but does not rise back to his feet.

Wrong.

This is wrong.

And at the edge of the wrongness there is a strange sort of terror. It dreads the same way the fire fears the sea, the same way the prey fears the predator; it is the meeting of two primally antithetical forces where only one can survive. It whispers turn back through his mind.

He moves into the next room.

It's one he knows well. Light filters down from the rot-stained windows, centering – as it had the day he'd first seen it – on the suva, and casting long sentinel shadows of the columns standing to attention around it. A crack mars the suva, its stone dome now split cleanly in two from the quakes, and – drawn by some desire he cannot identify (instinct, curiosity... nostalgia?) – he approaches.

It seems so small now. Even bowed and altered in his Hordika form, he looms over the Ta-Metru symbol he'd once had to stretch to reach.

Unbidden, his hand moves to the niche where once he'd placed a Toa Stone – where once he had though himself chosen, duty-bound, destiny-gifted – and falters a breath from the stone.

The wrongness spikes.

Screams.

And with a twist of something he will not call horror, he understands it is not originating from himself.

But from the temple.

It is repulsion. It's alienation. It's recognising him, but as other, as rahi.

It's disgust that a monster would dare enter its sanctuary.

In the Ta-Metru carving, stone once polished to the point of fragmented reflection, he sees a glimmer of his own face. Neither Toa nor Matoran. Nothing blessed by Mata Nui.

Vakama recoils.

And then a wave of his own disgust, propelled by that fury that runs so close to the surface now, rolls through him. If you didn't want us as the Toa, you should've stopped Makuta from choosing us, he thinks, and digs his claws into the stonework.

The wrongness sings.

But he knows it for what it is now, and his morphed, clawed hand gorges scars through the carving. The stone is soft. Its makers had never imagined someone would take a blade to it.

There comes a tapping from across the room, echoing brazenly off the ancient stone walls, and Vakama retreats instinctively into the shadows. A Rahaga enters.

Norik?

No, this Rahaga's armour is more akin to a Po-Matoran than a Ta-Matoran's, the colour of dust and stone. Vakama tries to recall the Rahaga's name – and then dismisses the attempt.

It won't matter, in the end.

The Rahaga walks as he always has, stooped and slow, but clearly unhindered by the temple. He passes by the suva and runs one gnarled hand across the stonework, his movements marred by curiosity rather than reverence.

The rage arrives a fully-formed creation. It drowns out the wrongness, floods the apprehension, and he is moving before he's decided that this is the path he wants.

It is not pain, for it does not hurt as it ought.

But it does still hurt.

x

Whatever the Rahaga might once have been, they are old and weak now. Four are captured before Vakama's rage has a chance to cool, but the ire is no less dangerous when it does.

(That's the thing about Ta-Metru; it's not a place of fire so much as it is of magma. And magma doesn't extinguish with the cold; it sets. It moors itself into place, an unmovable, burning force.)

The rage settles, solidifies around his heart and lungs and carves a home between his breaths.

(Magma is not fire. It does not leap blindly from one source to the next. Instead it advances. Slowly. Steadily. It finds a channel, a destination, and it engulfs all in its path until it reaches it.)

He finds the last two remaining Rahaga, pathetically ignorant to their brothers' fates and still scavenging the temple for answers. He hears the way Norik appraises his sister's translation, relief clear in his voice that they are one step further on this wild rahi chase. Relief, surely, that the Rahaga are one step closer to regaining their Toa form.

(And Vakama's anger has found its destination.)

He does not descend on the Rahaga's leader the way he has the others. No. Norik will know what's coming for him first. He gets to fear. Vakama waits until Gaaki has gone, until Norik is alone, and then he circles. The wrongness thrums in his veins, weighing him down and labouring his breaths. It doesn't matter. Let Norik hear his approach.

Norik doesn't try to run. Vakama will give him that much. (A wise choice. Vakama intends for this encounter to last, but if Norik runs, Vakama cannot be sure he won't chase.) Instead, the malformed once-Toa calls out and actually tries to approach him. Stupid. Doesn't he know that he won't win any fight, transformed as he is? As both of them are? No, instead, he tries to talk. As if they are equals, as if Norik has done anything to deserve his respect rather than his scorn. As if he has earned the temple's forgiveness for his trespassing.

Even when Vakama raises the fate of Norik's fellow Rahaga, Norik attempts to sway him with the illusion of reason, talking of duty and unity, as if he's not using the other Toa Hordika to chase after a rahi myth for his own desires. As if their roles are in any way comparable, both Toa of Fire once, both leaders, it's true, but Vakama hasn't forgone his duty to chase after selfish needs.

And it stops now.

Vakama circles closer, and Norik is still talking, unease in his voice, but not fear. Still searching for the right words to turn Vakama to his bidding as he has the other Toa Hordika. Ever the voice of two-faced logic.

Why won't he just shut up?

Does Norik think him to be as gullible as the others? As quick to desert his duty as them?

And Vakama knows he wants – needs – to shake that assurance, that arrogance out of Norik. Needs to see that facade of self-righteous wisdom crumble into the terror of his situation.

The growl begins deep in his chest and, unleashed, it becomes a roar. He rears out of the darkness, into the weak sphere of light surrounding Norik – and there, there he finally sees true fear fill the old fool's eyes.

Something slams into Vakama and he reels, his roar cut short. His hand reaches automatically, defensively, to his mask. He finds only water there. It clings to him, imbued with some sort of power – he can feel something other in it – but otherwise impotent.

"Leave my brother alone," Gaaki snarls. She stands in the doorway, small and hopelessly overpowered, but her shoulders are tensed with a stubborness Vakama recognises. Already, her spinner is powering up for another shot.

Well. Two can play at that game.

Vakama's rhotuka fires into motion, but the water has seeped into the mechanism, and dowses the fire before it has a chance to catch. He gives it a withering look, before turning the expression onto Gaaki. "Very clever."

Another water spinner hits him, but this time he is braced for it and all it does is wash harmlessly off him.

"Is that all you have?" he asks. His blazer claw splutters, but the claws on his hand flex. After all, there's more than one way to defang a muaka...

Gaaki steps back. Good. She knows she's outmatched. "It's a devastating attack underwater," she offers, and her words are strong but there is a cracked edge to them.

"Then you'd better start finding a puddle," Vakama growls, "before my claws find you," and he drops into a run, feet pounding and fangs bared and that ever-present wrongness humming about him.

She doesn't flee. Just like Norik, she stands her ground, gnarled fingers wrapped tight around her staff. Her eyes are hard, but he sees the way her hands shake.

How long will her resolve last, Vakama wonders. Before or after the claws find their mark?

He never finds out.

He's knocked off his feet before he reaches her, and when he hits the ground, ropes of energy pin him to the earth, like a water-bound rahi caught in a net.

What–

Norik.

He'd forgotten Norik.

He thrashes against the restraints, but they hold strong – for now. His blazer claw splutters again, but it does nothing to the energy that binds him.

He stills as he hears footsteps approach.

The two Rahaga hobble into his line of sight. Gaaki is breathing hard, as if only now is she allowing herself to feel the fear. "You left that late, Norik," she says, and even the breath that follows sounds more like a shaken wheeze than a nervous laugh. "Almost too late."

"I only had the one shot. I couldn't afford to miss," Norik replies. "He's got our brothers. Gaaki, go find–"

"I'm not leaving you alone with him," she retorts. "I only went for a moment before, and look what would have happened if I hadn't returned."

Vakama tilts his head as well as the energy net will allow. He grins at the Rahaga, anger curdling it into a sneer. "Yes, Gaaki, you're very good bait, congratulations." He shifts his gaze to Norik. "But you've always been so good at getting others to do your dirty work, haven't you, Norik?"

Norik doesn't even have the decency of guilt. Instead, he simply looks tired. "Whatever you think you know–"

"I know the truth! You don't care about the Matoran, you only care about yourselves!" He strains against the ropes, and although they do not break, there's a little more give in them than before. He slumps back to the ground, breathing hard. "You might have the other Toa fooled. You might even have the temple fooled, but not me," he growls, and the temple's hatred presses down on him, straining his last words.

Gaaki places a frail hand on her brother's arm. "Norik," she says, and there is such unbearable sorrow in her voice. "He looks in pain."

"It's not my doing," Norik assures her softly. "My snare spinner only binds."

Vakama snarls. "I don't need pity from the likes of you. I know what you are."

"We're allies, Vakama," Norik says, in that insufferably reasonable way of his. "Friends."

"You're frauds," Vakama snaps. He twists against his restraints. They slacken, just a touch. "Liars. You don't deserve to walk these floors."

And the Rahaga stand there, unburdened by the temple's hate, strangers to this land, to Metru Nui, and yet it is Vakama the temple repulses? After everything he has forgone, the life he's abandoned, the friendships he's lost, Mata Nui punishes him?

His rhotuka fires off a fire spinner, and it goes wide, cracks a wall. Norik and Gaaki stumble back, Norik preparing another snare shot, but the energy net holding Vakama snaps. Vakama lurches forward, suddenly free, and slams into Norik.

The snare spinner wraps itself around a column. It lights up the room with crackling energy.

A blast of water grazes past his shoulder, too shy of hitting Norik to commit to taking the easy shot, and Vakama reels towards Gaaki. He fires with a snarl, but hears the snare spinner coming again and ducks at the last moment.

Again his own attack misses and the shot cleaves clean through a wall. Something on the other side begins to smoulder.

Then it begins to rumble.

It's a low sound at first, as deep as the earth and just as vast. Almost like a distant growl. But then the cracks begin to spiral out across the roof, along the columns, and the room buckles.

The light flickers. The frames of the high windows above collapse.

The world becomes fragmented, filled with flickering images. Falling masonry and toppling pillars and dust – but the sounds never relent. Even in the depths of the passing darkness, the thunder continues.

And when the dust settles, so does an awful silence.

Vakama straightens, or does his best approximation of it. Fragments of cracked protodermis fall from his shoulders, his head, his back. He withdraws the hand which has somehow found itself raised above Gaaki, knocking aside the stone slab caught against his arm.

Where's Norik?

Both Hordika and Rahaga stand side by side, that quietness disturbed only by the skittering of stone shards settling. There is wrongness in his breath, his head, and it's impossible to separate where the temple's ends and his begins. But any moment now, Norik will reappear from the wreckage, bearing that ever-same holier-than-thou look, and the anger will rise anew in Vakama.

Any.

Moment.

Now.

"You've killed him," Gaaki says, and her voice breaks that terrible stillness. She draws in a half-breath that cracks into a sob. "You've... oh, Norik..."

No.

No, it was an accident. He hadn't meant to– Norik had simply been in the wrong place. It wasn't as if he'd taken a blazer claw to Norik, or hit him directly with a fire spinner. He'd only meant to... what? What had he only meant to do?

Something swings towards him and he grabs the staff before he even registers what it is.

"He's not dead," Vakama says, and maybe if he says it, he might even believe it. He snaps his gaze to Gaaki, as if her grief is bringing it to pass. "He's not. He's not as easy to kill as that. When the others– when the Toa find him, he'll be fine. Fools like him always find a way to survive."

Gaaki attempts to pull her staff free, but her strength is no match for Vakama's. He wretches it out of her grasp and tosses it aside.

"Stop that."

She doesn't listen to him, only steps back and charges up her rhotuka. The grief in her eyes fogs into hatred.

The water spinner hits him but does little more than rock him.

"Stop."

Gaaki screams, a sound of rage and anguish, and releases a volley of spinners as ineffectual as the first.

Vakama's patience – or whatever had held him in place until now – snaps. He lunges forward. His claws close around the joints of Gaaki's rhotuka and pins the mechanisms harmlessly into place, in the same manner one might pick up a baby ussal crab by the widest edge of its shell. She thrashes, but Vakama's grip holds.

"I said, stop," he snarls.

She's breathing hard, her gasps sharp-edged with agony. "You killed him," she says, voice hoarse and hateful.

His insides twist, and – Gaaki hauled by his side – he starts the ascent to where the rest of the Rahaga are trapped. He doesn't look back to the rubble. Doesn't glance for one last glimpse of Norik's resting place.

He's not dead. He's not dead he's not dead he's not

The wrongness, the hatred, has woven so deep into him, it's almost a part of him now.

Toa don't kill. Vakama can't remember who taught him that (he recalls, briefly, the flash of a gold mask, but it comes with pain – grief – and he pushes it aside before it can take root) but it gnaws at him like a trapped stone rat. Toa don't kill.

But he was never meant to be one.

And if the Great Temple – if Mata Nui – thinks a mistake was made in Vakama's destiny....

Well. That's somebody else's problem.

x

The Hordika that returns to Roodaka is different from the one she sent out. There's something new in his eyes... or perhaps something lost.

"How was the temple, Vakama?" she asks when it's just the two of them.

He looks to her. Beneath the anger, beneath the rahi, there's almost a haunted look to those eyes. It vanishes a moment later, but Roodaka never doubts her own eyes.

"Unwelcoming," he replies, and Roodaka smiles. She could have suggested Vakama pick the Rahaga off one by one in the chaos of Metru Nui, outside where her Visorak could have been an aid... but the temple had been too good an opportunity to miss.

"Good." She sets a hand on his shoulder. "You owe no loyalty to Mata Nui, Vakama. Not anymore."

He rolls his shoulder, but not sharp enough to dislodge Roodaka's hand.

"One thing I do not understand," she says. "What happened to the sixth Rahaga?"

The Toa growls. It is a gutteral sound, rooted deep in the chest and at home in a way it wasn't before. "You wanted a message left for the other Toa. I needed a messenger."

"Alive?"

Vakama shrugs his shoulder again, and this time she lets him roll her hand loose. "Does it matter, so long as they understand?" he growls.

No, Roodaka concedes as she surveys the remains of the Toa before her. She supposes not.

[bitegore]

[keicordelle]

Things are starting to get just a little bit spicy up in here! (Don't worry, they're going nowhere fast, we've got at least another 6 chapters of fluff and fretting before the two of them get their act together enough to do anything more than kiss and blush.) Chapter 14 of A First for Everything, Off the Beaten Path, is up on Ao3!

Read it on Ao3 at the link above, or check out the first chapter on Tumblr here.

-

The light filtering through the windows made for a dappled display against the map spread out over the coffee table. Shadowy spots danced over the carefully marked routes and hideaways. It might have been distracting, had Thancred actually been studying the map as closely as he pretended.

Instead, his eyes drifted sightlessly over the patterns, his own cramped handwriting blurring into illegible blotches. Worry gnawed at his stomach and clattered like pixie wings through his skull. This was a really bad idea, wasn't it? The longer he thought about it, the more certain he became that this was one of the worse ideas he’d had in recent memory. He’d agreed to it in the moment in part because, well, he would probably agree to just about anything Urianger asked of him at the moment. And in part because he was worried that if he said no, Urianger would just make the trip himself. Which...

He would be fine, probably. Almost certainly. He'd clearly traveled here on his own, and he wasn't some damsel in need of constant protection. He could take care of himself when he needed to. Thancred had been impressed recently, watching how adept Urianger had become at his divining magicks. But if something were to happen to him when Thancred had just stayed back and let him go off on his own, he'd never forgive himself.

But... Maybe it wasn't the best idea to bring Minfilia back into Eulmore's reach. Not when they'd just lost their trail. They’d fought so hard to get away from them. If they were to draw their attention again, it would mean returning to life on the run, dodging scouts and armed soldiers on scant hours of sleep.

...It would mean having to leave behind the comfortable routine they'd established here. Leave behind the soft blankets and the real food and the solid roof over their heads. Leave behind Urianger. And.... Thancred didn't want to leave.

Hells. He dragged a hand harshly through his hair, and when that wasn't enough, down over his face, lips catching on the rough drag of callouses. They were going to have to leave eventually. That was always the plan. They couldn't stay here indefinitely, no matter how comfortable it had grown to be. It wasn't fair to Urianger to impose so long on his kindness, and it wouldn't help Minfilia. Thancred was supposed to be training her, helping her become something more, not relaxing in the fae lands with his new— his new.... Arg. His friend. Urianger. Who he happened to kiss. A lot. And think about constantly. And spill himself almost nightly to the thought of. Gods this was dangerous. And stupid. Maybe he really should just leave.

Soft footsteps and the shush of robes around slender ankles drew his head up like a dog who smelled a treat. Urianger's eyes landed on him, golden and kind. He paused, head tilted in that familiar way that used to simply mean "elezen" but now just screamed "Urianger." "Is aught amiss?" Urianger asked.

And suddenly, miraculously, nothing was. The familiar melody of his voice washed away all of Thancred’s troubles in an instant, and suddenly everything felt right — and that in and of itself was wrong. Urianger shouldn't be able to do that to him, to make everything feel better just by walking into the damned room. Nothing should be able to distract him as much as Urianger did.

Thancred merely shook his head, pushing his hair back out of his eyes. "No, I'm fine. Just a bit of a headache," he assured him.

Urianger looked as if he wasn't entirely convinced, but he didn't push. Instead, he brushed his fingers against through Thancred’s bangs as he passed, glancing furtively both ways before stooping to press a quick kiss into his brow. Pink tinted his ears as he pulled back, turning quickly away to return his attention to his task.

Thancred watched him as he moved about the room, gathering the things he thought he would need for their trip, lost in his own world as he contemplated two different canisters of tea leaves. Slowly, the worry crept back in to gnaw at Thancred’s thoughts, the small smile Urianger’s kiss had raised to his lips slipping away. He really, really didn't want to give this up, but... If he brought Eulmore's forces down on Urianger’s head because he was too selfish to leave, he would never forgive himself.

"Urianger?"

"Mm?" he answered without looking up, distraction blanketing his tone as he set one jar back on the shelf.

"I've been thinking... Maybe I should leave. Once we're done at the Crystarium. Maybe it's time that Minfilia and I go our own way."

There was a clatter as the tea hit the floor. Urianger didn't even try to pick it up as he turned to Thancred, his face contorting as he struggled to hide the distress that so clearly painted itself across his features. His mouth opened and closed, once, twice, soundlessly. Then, quietly: "I... would prefer if thou didst not. I... I wish thee to stay. Here. With me. Just for a short while longer?"

Watching the shadows that flitted within his aureate eyes, Thancred could have kicked himself for even suggesting it. He felt rather like he'd just punched a puppy, his heart aching in his chest in a way he'd never felt before. He fought the urge to grip it, to reassure himself that the sensation was all in his head. "If something happens though while we're out, we won't have a choice. I won't risk bringing Eulmore's forces to your door." Never mind the fact that a handful of moons ago, he'd been all too willing to take that risk. Desperate for somewhere to stay and someone to turn to.

Across from him, Urianger swallowed hard, feeling the lump in his throat all the way down to where it settled like a stone in his stomach. He'd known that Thancred would have to leave eventually. That was always his plan. That he'd stayed even this long was nothing short of a miracle. But... Urianger had grown greedy. Avarice clutched at him like a dragon's claws. Demanding. Desirous. He wasn't ready to give up the tentative intimacy that bloomed between them. He wanted to spend more time at Thancred’s side. "Perhaps I could simply come with you, if that is the case. Thou couldst use a healer to assure thy safety."

"No!" Thancred barked, a little too quickly. A little too vehemently. The tentative hope that had begun to unfurl beneath Urianger’s breast withered. He couldn’t supress the expression that twisted his features before it broke across his face, hurt welling in his chest.

Thancred flinched, back pedalling. "It would be too dangerous, to have so many of us in once place. Better to have allies tucked away than to travel together. For now, at least. Besides, your research is too important to give up, and you could hardly do that on the road. That's the whole reason we're taking this risk in the first place."

Urianger’s teeth worried at the inside of his cheek, eyes falling from Thancred’s face. Much as he would have liked to, he couldn't argue with that.

Thancred softened, casting a glance over his shoulder to ensure they were alone before he held out a hand to Urianger. "Come here."

An offer Urianger could never resist. He went to him in a shush of robes, the tea cannister abandoned on the floor behind him. Thancred's hand closed around his, drawing him down into an embrace. His arms were gentle around him, a quiet strength in his fingers as they stroked along the exposed skin of Urianger’s back. Chains tinkled as he caressed upwards, over Urianger’s shoulder to rest his palm against his cheek, cupping his face tenderly. Thancred’s thumb brushed out across his jaw, the warmth in his eyes mirrored by the warmth of his body, seeping into Urianger’s skin where Thancred’s leg pressed tight against his.

Thaliak preserve him, he was practically sitting in Thancred’s lap, tugged down onto him when he'd drawn him into his arms. This close, Urianger could see every fleck of green and gold in Thancred’s eyes. Could feel the brush of his breath against his lips. The hard lines of his body beneath him, soft skin and dense muscle and warmth, so much warmth. Urianger’s pulse quickened, his heart racing beneath his breast as heat spilled through his cheeks and out along his ears. Surely Thancred would be able to feel it, thundering against his chest. Urianger’s eyes dipped to his lips, plump and inviting before him.

He couldn't say who leaned in first. They met somewhere in the middle, Thancred’s lips ghosting against his in the softest of kisses, sweet and chaste. A gentle brush, then another. Just a pressing of lips, nothing more.

He could say for certain that Thancred was the one who deepened the kiss. Lips parting and tongue sweeping out to tease at the seam of Urianger’s mouth in a silent request. He opened for him, as readily as he always did, allowing Thancred in to taste him. Thancred’s tongue slid along his, curling along his lips, his teeth. Urianger’s head tilted to allow him in deeper, mouth moving on Thancred’s as his hands rose to tangle in his hair, holding him to himself.

Urianger could also say for certain that he was the one who pushed for more. Gentle brushes became more heated, the thrum of Thancred’s pulse echoing through Urianger’s chest as he pressed closer, pushing forward against him until his back pressed into the cushions, Urianger’s knees framing his hips and their bodies pressed flush. He could feel the heat of Thancred’s skin bleeding through their clothes, could feel the way he shifted against him. Could feel the hard dig of something against his stomach, pressed tight against his naval. Was that his—?

Blood rushed to Urianger’s face, fluster making his tongue clumsy against Thancred's.

Yes, that was definitely what he thought it was, digging into his stomach. It wasn't the first time he'd felt it when they kissed, but it wasn't usually so close. Usually Thancred played it off, or he shifted his hips so Urianger didn't have to feel it, but this... It was... curious. Intriguing.

Urianger’s own body stirred in response, thoughts swimming from the depths of his passion-addled brain. Thoughts of what lay beneath the tight grip of those trousers. Thoughts of what it might looked like — what Thancred might look like, with his jacket and his pants decorating the floor rather than his body. How it might feel to press his bare skin against Thancred’s, to feel those hands on him as Urianger kissed him. To... Touch him? No— That was— He couldn't—

Urianger drew back, his tongue a leaden weight in his mouth and his ears burning hot enough to melt snow. Where on earth had those thoughts come from? His eyes dropped, away from Thancred’s face and down to focus on the sculpted lines of his stomach. And yet, despite himself, his gaze was drawn inexorably downwards to the catch on Thancred's groin. Not, of course, because he was picturing what lay beneath the cover of cloth and leather. He simple could not bear to look Thancred in the face while his own body raged with a slithering heat that coiled and gathered beneath his robes. Urianger’s pulse throbbed between his legs, distracting and insistent, and his fingers twisted in the fabric of his robes. Please no. Calm down. Go away!

Thancred followed Urianger’s gaze down to his own lap. Surprise jolted through him, redness spilling bright up his ears as his eyes darted back up to Urianger’s face. "Shit, Urianger. I'm sorry, it just— it just happens, you know. I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable. I— please don't run away."

It had been a consideration. He forced himself to stay, despite the antsy twitch of his legs. How could Urianger express to him that it wasn't Thancred that made him wish to flee? It was a natural response, full well did he know that. He was not unimmune himself to the natural course of biology; he was familiar enough with the body’s automatic response to such... stimulating situations... But the way that his own blood raced, his mind filling with thoughts of kissing Thancred, of holding him, of... "It's— I know. Mine apologies. Pray forgive my response, I simply— I'm not—"

Seemingly assuaged that Urianger wasn't going to flee despite the tension that still sung through his legs braced where they around his hips, Thancred softened. He reached up to brush a hand along Urianger’s face — not holding, just touching, allowing Urianger to move away if he wished. Allowing him the opportunity to run, even if he hoped he wouldn't. "Hey," he said, his voice soft and soothing as he drew Urianger’s attention back to him. "I know you're not. It's okay, it doesn't mean anything, really."

Urianger merely nodded, not quite able to bring himself to look up and meet Thancred’s gaze, no matter how reassuring those steady hazel eyes would be. Not when his smalls were still uncomfortably tight beneath his robes, rubbing against his skin in all the wrong ways. His hands fisted in his robes, grateful that the heavy fall of fabric hid it from view.

Thancred's thumb stroked along his cheek, gentle and soothing. He scratched lightly at the edge of Urianger’s beard, the pleasant shift of the hair beneath his finger tingling along Urianger’s skin. A welcome distraction from other, less pleasant tinglings. Slowly, the sensation faded, and with it, the tension leeched from Urianger’s body until he was able to meet Thancred's eyes.

Thancred was watching him warmly, waiting, a reassuring smile on his lips. "There, that's better," he said. He leaned in and Urianger braced himself for another kiss, but Thancred’s lips landed instead in the tip of his nose: a quick, light brush. His lips were damp from their earlier kiss, softened by their shared saliva as they ghosted against Urianger’s skin.

Urianger’s heart caught in his throat, snatching his breath to reside there with it. That was a new kiss. Of all the places Thancred’s lips had touched, they had never touched him there. His mouth, his cheek, his brow, but never his nose. It was different from the others. Lighter. Sweet and cute and playful and... Affectionate.

Not that kissing Thancred wasn't always affectionate; the mere act of kissing necessitated affection. But this was different, somehow. More like the stroke of a thumb up the back of his hand while their fingers twined, or the caress of fingers through his hair while Thancred helped lull him to sleep. Like....

Like the countless little gestures Thancred doted upon him each and every day. A hand on his back when he was stressed. The bump of a knee beneath the table. A mellow voice reminding him to stretch out his back and asking if he'd eaten. Thancred’s every gesture was full of that same sort of soft affection. How long had he looked upon Urianger so, with that delicate warmth in his gaze, without his notice?

 Urianger’s eyes lifted to meet Thancred’s, seeing as if for the first time the way the light haloed his features in a gentle radiance. The way his eyes softened at the corners as he looked at him. The private smile that graced his lips, the one he shared only with Urianger and none other. It widened as he reached forward, tucking a stray lock of hair behind Urianger’s ear. "What do you say we finish getting ready for this trip. Best be prepared for anything, right?"

Urianger could only nod, the swell of emotion beneath his breast staying his tongue. Oh. So that's what I've been feeling all this time.

[Chapter 15]

[Kofi/Commissions]

[brittlebutch]

"No, I think he's just coming down with something," Brian continues, and Alex could almost laugh at its half-truth. Come down with the plague of something haunting and hungry and watching. Come down with the holy rotting wounds of age old saints. Sure, that works.

In which Alex Kralie joins the ranks of stigmatics and gains a firsthand understanding of what The Destructors meant when it claimed "destruction is a form of creation".

--

Word Count: 41,952

[immamapletreekid]

ok movie thoughts time

[daincrediblegg]

I peaced out of TWD in season 6, and I'm having no trouble watching TOWL. I 100% recommend it! It's soooooo good.

oh thank god that's just about when I tapped out too ok good yeah I think I'm down for that then because jesus

[triglycercule]

UGH i wrote another stupid small thing 4 swapinverse.... idk whats wrong with me why am i writing so much swapinverse stuff when i havent even finished it. anyways swapinverse killer here take this (this one is much vaguer bc it takes place before a lot of the more like obvious events happen??? idk only i understand what i'm talking about here)

-

open eyes. greeting by the dark ceiling again. get dressed. typical routine for him… nothing new. nothing interesting. papyrus will knock on the door soon. he should probably prepare for that. no need to stay in bed. that won't do anything anyways. he’ll still feel nothing. like normal, he knocks after the jacket is put on. and he opens that door, to be greeted with the enthusiastic, smiling face of his brother.

sans smiles. obviously, he has to. otherwise paps will get worried, and he doesn't wanna have to deal with a worried paps. it just makes things worse for everyone. they walk through the forest, paps leads him to the guard station, and he sits. same as usual… the exact same. the same routine, nothing new. nothing new. the same. it's all the same.

sans had long since gotten tired of this monotony. soon, chara would come out of that door. he’d introduce himself to them, and they’d play that short game of pretend where they pretended not to know each other. like they always did. chara mentioned something about it being scripted or something, but sans couldn't be bothered to care. besides, the human always mumbled random stuff like that. it meant nothing. nothing new. they’d kill the rest of the underground, he’d fight them because he has nothing better to do, and die.

although they did mention that deal they’d been talking about? what was that? join them? yeah, no. he wasn't gonna do that. no matter how many resets passed.

oh. here they come. better get on track. or onto script, like chara says. for some reason, they say that. the saying gets stuck a bit in sans’s head. just a bit though, since it’s a new thought. and they turn, and sans shakes hands with chara.

he’s long since ditched the whoopee cushion. despite them still doing what was practically a ritual at this point, that was the only change that ever happened. nice that he chose for the newness, but it didn't change much. but… something was off. something was wrong. and sans could feel it. he could feel it. and that was what was wrong.

it wasn't with the way chara smiled, or their posture, or how their hand was outstretched. not the strange, expectant excitement in their red eyes, although that was a bit new. it wasn't even all of the dust covering them, certainly from the ruins. no, the issue was from sans himself. he could feel something wrong. like some sort of internal dread? no, something worse… an ache? he’d gotten used to all the one’s he normally felt, so what was it?

once the human’s hand left his and walked through the gate, he knew what it was. something… that something he could feel. that something that passed through the barrier of apathy he’d built all this time. an itch? sans scratched at his head, just idly. physical or not, he didn't know. he had to figure it out. and so, he followed after the human.

after a while of watching them, chara, do their… usual business, sans had came to a conclusion. it was both. and also, neither. the itch was something that he could feel, but not physically. so it was a mental itch. and that itch managed to effect him so badly he felt it on his bones. strange. and for some reason, as he watched chara slaughter one after another, kill and murder another one of his kin, sans couldn't wrench his eye lights away from the sight. for some reason, he couldn't stop watching as chara singly handledly destroyed his species. for some reason, he followed.

"it's not that bad, anyways. just… morbid curiosity. it wouldn't hurt to just… scratch that itch a bit. nothing will come of it."

and sans made sure to say that one out loud, just to convince himself.

-

oooh pal buddy you do not know what you are in for!!!! you are about to experience terrible suffering at your own hands!!!! sucks to suck lmao at least your chara is just as confused as you are during the process haha! i love swapinverse this is so fun i keep on saying that but i really should write more

[towine]

[flowerfang] to you (unfinished, off the top of my head)

spoilers for ATSV / 16k / oneshot / rated E

summary:

Miguel is—well. Now that Miles thinks about it, he’s not sure what kind of label would suit them. Colleagues, he supposes, but that sounds so weirdly professional. Teammates, though they’ve yet to really work together after the whole ordeal with the Spot.

Enemies, once.

But friends? That’s… new.

(Or: Miles texts Miguel. After everything.)

notes: if you follow me on twitter you may have seen a snippet or two of this fic. i’ve been hacking away at it for some time now—with love! so much love. i feel very happy with this one. i hope you enjoy it, if you give it a read! (and please see the tags before you do)

🩸 read it on ao3 here 🌻