#Ship: Void and Ash

[ashton-ryder]

💬 + jer

Send Me 💬 + a Name and My Muse will Talk About That Person

"Bottom line first and foremost.. I honestly might've died dissociating on those New York streets day one if Jer didn't yank me out of traffic, of course he made fun of me about it for awhile thereafter. Despite being an ass sometimes, there was always kindness and softness underneath it all with Jer, that I knew. I'm not sure if I could ever repay what the Roses had helped me out with since I moved here, welcoming me into their home and family with open arms. But Jer also.. confuses me. Sometimes at least. The difference on the surface and alone with him. Him being so close to Sada, a small doubt always lingered, I tried not to get too close to him but honestly, it's hard not to. There's love there, as with all the Rose siblings, but- it's also ..different. Forget it, I don't wanna talk about it, it's not important. Whatever.. that is, under all that bravado, there's a Jer that not many people know, that I feel lucky enough to know, at the very least." - @jeremiah-rose

[voidselfshipp]

Because of course they had to make fearne and ash cannon. Ifc

[betweenstorms]

God Of The Gaps 01: The Family We Are Fed To Sleep Token x Fem!Reader [next chapter] [all chapters] [masterlist]

You wake in a world of dead gods, with no name and no past. You are pulled into a family not bound by blood, but by devotion. They see something in you that keeps you alive. As you are kept within their crumbling world of rituals and whispers, their strange affection begins to warp you.

“You’ll tear open the sky just to feel something divine, and when the stars don’t answer, you’ll call it fate, not failure. And when the gates finally opened, it was not angels you found.”

You awaken face down in the grass.

There was no wind. No birds, no voice to greet you but your own breath, shallow and foreign in your lungs, as though borrowed. The ground beneath you was cold and mushy, smelling of ash, iron and something softer, something like roses long dead in a sealed tomb.

You opened your eyes and the world that greeted you was wrong.

The trees rose tall and skeletal around you, their limbs twisted upward as if in mourning, not growth. You were in a forest suspended in eerie stillness, draped in odd colours that did not belong in the waking world—ashen greys, dull silver and that unnatural magenta colour, thick like bruised petals left rotting beneath glass. Every leaf, every petal, every blade of grass was stained some shade between these colours.

You sat up slowly, trembling fingers sinking into strange grass, which was soft but wrong, more like velvet than anything living. Fog thickened low across the ground, swirling white and heavy, not like mist but milk curdled in the lungs of the forest, dense and watching.

You were cold.

Not from the weather, but from the inside out.

Cold in your bones. Cold in your mind.

There was a road ahead, if it can be called that. Ivory stone tiles decorated the ground, clean and polished, laid into the dirt with surgical precision, forming a labyrinth of path that led away in every direction, nowhere and everywhere at once, like silver veins carved from old porcelain. No moss grew between the stones. No dirt clinged.

You shivered.

You looked down at your hands, as if they might explain something. They were your hands. You knew that. But whose? Who were you?

Your fingers rose in frantic sequence, to your chest, your throat, your cheeks, as if memory were something you could touch. As if familiarity might hide in the dip of your collarbone, in the shape of your jaw, in a mole or a scar you once claimed as home. But there was nothing. No jewelry. No mark. No tether. Only skin that felt borrowed and a body that no longer spoke your name.

Your name.

You didn’t know your name.

The realization didn’t strike like lightning. It didn’t come like a wave. It arrived like the true absence of sound. A void blooming in your chest, black and bottomless, still as death and just as certain. You didn’t know your name. The panic arrived before memory did, as though your body remembered mourning something your mind had not yet named. It wasn’t frantic. It was surgical. A theft of breath. A quiet slaughter of certainty.  

Your lungs stuttered. Your throat narrowed.

“I don’t—” your voice cracked, barely a whisper.

You rose too fast, and the world reeled with you. The skeletal forest buckled sideways, tilting like a ship lost to a storm. Trees loomed above, their limbs twisted into shapes that shouldn’t exist, like ribs cracked open, reaching to claw the heavens. But the sky offered no anchor. No sun. No moon. Just a pale expanse without pulse or warmth, as if the gods had forgotten to finish it. The branches creaked softly, whispering warnings you couldn’t quite understand.

“Hello?” you cried out into the quiet. You tried again, voice cracking. “Please—”

The fog held the word like breath held in a stranger’s mouth.

No echo. No return.

It was not the quiet of peace, but the silence of forsaken places.

Your knees gave way, and you collapsed like breath leaving a prayer, palms cradled your face as if trying to hold yourself in. A name clawed at your throat, but there was nothing there, just a shape without sound slipping through your fingers. You were shaking now, not softly, no, but violently, as though your bones were rejecting the cage of your skin, as though your heart was pounding to be set free, desperate to escape the body it no longer recognised.

You crouched there like something newly born, knuckles dug into the alien velvet grass that didn’t bend like grass should. The air smelled like time left too long in a sealed room. Stale, and wrong. Tears stung your eyes, but before they could fall—

—you heard it.

Footsteps.

Measured. Unhurried. Close.

Each one fell into the quiet like punctuation, as if they were always meant to be written there. Then, somewhere in the white, something moved. It arrived with precision, with weight, with the patience of something that had never been hunted. It stepped from the fog as if the world itself had been waiting for you to see it. A silhouette began to form.

And when the fog thinned, you saw it—

—saw him.

A man. Or something like one. He seemed wrong in the details.

Too smooth. Too silent. Too deliberate.

He wasn’t tall. No, he did not need to be. He wore black from neck to toe. Velvet shirt tucked into tailored trousers pressed too perfectly, patent leather shoes that gleamed like mirrors and carried no sound, and over it all, a black cloak with a wide hood that swallowed most of him in shadow. And where his face should have been there was a mask, thick and ornate, sculpted from gold and lacquered black, decorated with strange symbols, like something ceremonial or holy, except it wasn’t. The mask didn’t cover his entire face, his mouth was visible through the vertical slits, his eyes and jawline were visible too, but that made him look much more haunting. It was too still. It looked fused to his skull. There were no visible straps or seams. Just polished metal where a face should be.

Only the suggestion of death dressed up like a man.

And he was looking right at you.

You gasped, your body pulling backward on instinct, feeling like a specimen pinned open on a silver tray. The uncanny man stopped just a few steps from you, tilting his head curiously. Not dramatically, not even threateningly, no, but something about the angle was unmistakably predatory, like the way a cat turns its head before it pounces.

“Did you call?” he asked.

The voice was soft, surprisingly warm, but that only made things worse. He spoke as though he were reciting something from memory, not really feeling it, mimicking a peculiar accent of the human kind. Like sound made through teeth not meant for language. You blinked, breath caught in your throat, unable to form a word.

He took another step forward. But not in threat. In curiosity.

And now he was looking down at you.

“Interesting,” he murmured.

The word wasn’t for you.

It was a finding, not a greeting.

“Who—who are you?” you managed to whisper, your voice breaking like a dropped glass.

He stepped to the side and began to walk around you in a perfect, measured arc, circling you. You turned to follow his movements, your body frozen, your limbs stuck between flight and collapse. His polished shoes whispered against the ivory stone.

“You may call me IV,” he said at last.

You stared.

That name meant nothing. It was a number. A placeholder. A cipher.

“What is this place?” you whispered, barely audible. “Why can’t I remember anything?”

He stopped walking.

“You remember how to speak,” he said. “That is not nothing.”

The words came gently, almost like kindness, but they didn’t comfort you, no, they made you shudder instead. His words felt like the patient assurance of something that knew what you were made of, because it had taken others apart.

“Don’t come closer, please—”

Your voice broke as he crouched.

The movement was seamless. It was perfectly graceful, in the same way a snake descending a tree is graceful, uninterrupted and fluid. Effortless. Boneless even. His knees bent too evenly. Like his body wasn’t governed by the same physics as yours, as though it remembered the shape of bones, but no longer needed them.

You looked up through your tears, and the gold of his mask caught the fractured light of this godless forest. It  hovered above your face now, and through the thin slits near the mouth, you saw the faintest stretch of movement. A smile, maybe. But it never touched his eyes.

His gaze held something else, something fondly clinical. The way a scientist might speak to a wounded thing in a jar. He looked at you like he pitied you. Or was it sadness? You couldn’t tell, not with the mask hiding most of him, not with those blue eyes so terribly distant, like someone watching you from underwater. But there was something undeniably melancholy in the way he watched you, as though observing something that had already begun to crumble.

“Please,” a pitiful sniff followed your plea. “Can you help me?”

IV didn’t answer immediately.

Instead, he studied you, his blue eyes guarded yet openly curious, as if weighing something important, something that would change the shape of this moment forever. You could almost hear your pulse, and the way the forest watched it throb behind your ears. It was unbearable. 

Finally, IV spoke.

“Come with me, then.”

You blinked, confusion mixing with dread.

“Where?”

He didn’t respond. Instead, he tilted his head again, this time with a subtle shift of his posture that seemed amused. Still, his gaze remained fixed on you.

Every instinct screamed at you to run and to tear through the lifeless trees, to disappear into the endless fog and hope that somehow you’d find something familiar, something safe. But your feet wouldn’t move. There was nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide. Only this eerie forest, this unsettling stranger, and the profound loneliness that coiled around you like a noose.

Slowly, reluctantly, you stood.

Your legs trembled beneath you, weak with a fear that burrowed down to your bones, but you forced yourself upright, swiping the back of your hand across your damp cheeks.

IV wasn’t much taller than you, but his presence loomed large in its intensity. Like a shadow cast by something monstrous and ancient, something that didn’t live in this world. His mouth still curved gently, as though he found your hesitation strangely endearing.

Without another word, he turned and began walking ahead.

His cloak trailed behind him, not dragging but floating just slightly above the fog, kissing the tiles, leaving you to follow in awkward silence. You stumbled slightly at first, your limbs still numb with dread, but quickly scrambled to match his pace. Your breath hitched as your bare feet met the polished and cold stone tiles beneath you, each step feeling like a judgment from the ground itself. So you sniffed again and quickened your steps, falling into a clumsy stride beside him, trying to match his pace.

As you moved, you glanced around desperately, trying to memorize your odd surroundings, trying to absorb. To remember. To understand. But the forest remained stubbornly unfamiliar. There was nothing here. No animals. No sky. No smell of rain, no sound of wind. Only fog, and ruin, and the haunting bloom of magenta that stained everything like a parasite. Broken fountains lined the path, silent and dry, ancient ruins crumbled quietly in every direction and the shattered remnants of statues. Their marble bodies leaned in uncanny angles, some frozen mid-prayer, others mid-scream.

“Where are you taking me?” you finally dared to ask, voice trembling.

IV hummed quietly, almost thoughtful. “Somewhere safe.”

He offered no further explanation.

You tried to ignore the creeping sensation that something watched you from the fog, eyes you couldn’t see yet felt acutely. Shadows flickered at the edge of your vision, shapes danced and dissolved in the mist, making you flinch more often than you’d admit. It was impossible to shake the feeling that this forest observed you with hungry curiosity.

Eventually, the trees began to fall away and the forest opened into a clearing so large the fog couldn’t even hold it all. It spilled into it like milk into a bowl, veiling the edges of the world until distance itself became meaningless. At its heart stood an massive cathedral, so immense and surreal that your breath caught sharply in your throat. Ancient stones rose high and stark, entwined with thick vines of grey and vivid magenta. It rose out of the earth like the skeleton of a god. Towering spires reached upward, sharp and ambitious, piercing the ashen sky as if attempting to breach the heavens themselves. Its glass windows were stained, but not with saints. They shimmered faintly despite the oppressive gloom, and banners of deep green and faded beige, embroidered with intricate symbols in tarnished gold thread, hung still.

You halted, awe and terror mixing uncomfortably in your chest.

You didn’t even see the top of the building.

It stretched so impossibly high that the spires disappeared into the fog, swallowed whole by the pale sky. It felt less like a structure and more like a monument to something the world had chosen to forget, something ancient, sacred, and wrong.

IV had stopped walking.

“What is this place?” you whispered

He turned back toward the cathedral, his voice calm and steady, filled with quiet reverence and a hint of something deeper, darker. As if he had brought others before.

He held your stare for a long moment. Then, without turning back to face you fully, he said, “This is where you will belong. If my brothers agree.”

You repeated the word under your breath, frowning faintly.

“Your… brothers?”

With those words, he resumed walking, leaving you with no choice but to follow, your heart aching with uncertainty. Like slipping beneath water and not knowing how deep it goes. Each step toward those towering doors felt like descending into an unknown abyss from which you feared you might never emerge.

IV moved like this place answered to him. Like the stones beneath his feet knew his weight, like he’d walked these tiles a thousand times, and you were just another shadow behind him. The entrance loomed higher the closer you came, until they weren’t doors but gates, massive slabs of carved black wood, etched with runes you could not read.

They opened before he could touch them.

It was worse inside.

The cathedral was impossibly vast. Cold and hollow, as though built by something that had only ever imagined humanity, but had never loved it.

The air inside was heavy and thick with the scent of wax, old wood, and something coppery beneath, a metallic tang, like blood held too long in a chalice. The walls were tall, constructed of dark stone and from them hung rows of banners in emerald greens, stitched with more of those strange symbols. Candles burned in impossible quantities. Hundreds. Maybe thousands. Pools of melted wax stained the floors in ribbons of ivory. Their flames danced in patterns that felt intentional, like they were reacting to your heartbeat. Enormous staircases curved in directions that defied logic, vanishing into alcoves and narrow corridors you hadn’t noticed a moment before. Marble columns lined the nave like the ribs of some old beast. Wilted petals littered the floor, silvers and dull lilacs, and their smell was overpowering.

Your head turned and turned but nothing stuck. You couldn’t even recall where the doors had been now. The halls branched endlessly, spiralling staircases and empty alcoves and yawning arches that led to nowhere. You saw statues, some with missing limbs, others with bleeding eyes. Most had no clear faces. Their expressions had been worn away by time, leaving only smooth blank stone where their mouths and noses should have been. You passed a hallway where a black fountain stood still in the dark, its surface smooth as glass. 

You didn’t know where you were.

You didn’t know if you could ever leave.

You followed blindly, each step sounding like it didn’t belong here.

Finally, IV brought you to a chamber that made your breath catch. A great hall opened before you, its vaulted ceiling stretching into a haze of candle smoke and silence. At its center stood an enormous table carved from obsidian, long and glistening like the surface of a still lake. It was wide enough to seat thirty on either side, and every chair stood empty, save one.

At the far end of the table, seated with his back turned, was a man.

The figure wore a long emerald coat, embroidered with golden symbols you didn’t recognise. White and gold shoulder plates rose above the collar, and at his back were black feathers, not wings but something once divine, catching the candlelight like water catches the moonlight. His elegant fingers rested on the arms of a chair carved from the same dark stone as the table.

IV stopped as if halted by some unseen line.

“Vessel,” he said. “I found something.”

The figure turned deliberately, the chair’s legs sliding against stone with the whisper of altar doors opening in a forgotten church.

When Vessel stood, your throat closed.

Your heart stuttered painfully behind your ribs, because he was beautiful. But not in any way you had words for. He was beautiful in the most terrifying sense of the word. He looked like something sculpted by gods who had never seen a human up close. Like something made in worship of a shape they’d only dreamed of. The kind of beauty that made you ache just to witness, like a god pretending to be flesh.

He wore a mask like IV did, but entirely different. It was white, with lines of green and gold that swirled in precise patterns, perfectly clean, so pristine it looked unreal, too perfect, like it had never been touched by dust or decay. But then you saw them. Six vertical slits. Eyes. Six black eyes, no whites, no irises, just glossy pools of darkness, watching you. Each one darker than black, as if they opened into some endless depth where stars had once gone to die. They moved in eerie unison, blinking once, slowly, then not again.

Tears stung again, hot and unwelcome. Your lips parted, your throat dry and tight. There was no air in the room. None that you could breathe. Something inside you recoiled, screamed, at the knowledge that he was nothing like you.

He stepped forward.

His chest was bare beneath the open coat, painted entirely black, the pigment deep and matte like charred obsidian. Gold chains draped across him delicately, shoulders, ribs, collarbones, like ceremonial jewelry placed on the dead. His arms were equally adorned in ink. 

His mouth, exposed beneath the mask, curled into a slow, precise smile.

“What a curious thing,” Vessel said, and his voice—

Gods.

His voice was the most alluring sound you’d ever heard, making your knees weak. Rich and warm, deep and smooth, like honey poured over something burning. Every word measured, placed exactly where it belonged. His accent curved each vowel like silk stretched too tight. You didn’t realise your heart was racing until it hurt.

IV stood beside you, ink kissed hands folded behind his back as Vessel abandoned the books he’d been reading and moved into the centre of the room, his black eyes never once leaving you. His golden chains shifted slightly as he moved.

And then he turned, addressing IV over his shoulder.

“Why did you bring it here?” he asked. The softness in his voice didn’t blunt the sharpness of his meaning. “We agreed that we were done with humans.”

IV didn’t blink.

“I thought,” he confessed, “perhaps it was time we tried again.”

Vessel exhaled a breath you could feel, something almost like a laugh. He crossed his arms over his chest, muscles flexing under the black paint and gold chains. Those six eyes blinked again. Not together this time, two at a time, diagonally. It made your stomach twist. He stared at IV in silence, as if considering whether to laugh or scold. Then he did laugh. A delightful sound, that shook the chandelier high above, though nothing moved.

You blinked, rapidly, your eyes burning.

“And you’ll be the one to convince the others, then?” Vessel asked.

IV nodded once. “If you agree.”

Vessel tilted his head, considering. His eyes turned to you again.

“I do,” he said after a moment. “But this time you take responsibility for the outcome.”

“Understood,” IV replied, his voice light. “I’ll fetch the others.”

Then he turned away with the grace of something no longer tethered to human urgency, like a shadow returning to its source.

“Wait—” your voice cracked before you even knew you’d spoken. “Please—”

But IV did not pause.

He vanished into the corridor you’d entered through together. The flickering light behind him danced faintly, then went still. You watched him go until there was nothing but absence and a breath you didn’t know you were holding escaped you. 

Reluctantly, you turned back.

Vessel was still watching you.

That same small, knowing smile curved his lips. Too precise to be human. It didn’t warm his face, it wore his face instead, covering it like a veil, a performance he had decided to put on, something donned rather than felt. For a seemingly endless moment, the two of you stared at one another in painful silence. The cold sweat at the nape of your neck bloomed with every ragged breath. You took a step back and Vessel’s smile grew wider.

“Do you remember your name, love?”

The term made your skin crawl. It felt theatrical, it was too soft, too intimate, too practiced. As though he had said it a thousand times before and never meant it once.

Your breathing was fast, erratic. You shook your head frantically, arms folding tightly around yourself as if your own limbs could protect you from what he was.

“What—what are you?”

His eyes, all six, blinked slowly.

He didn’t answer. Instead, he leaned back against the chair he had once occupied, crossing his ankles like this was nothing more than a conversation with a guest. His posture said nothing and everything. Your heart nearly tripped over itself as you began to panic.

“Where am I? What is this place? Why—” Your lips trembled as you pressed further. “—why can’t I remember anything?”

You didn’t mean to sound as desperate as you did.

But it was already too late to pretend.

“There may be another time to talk,” Vessel said, almost kindly. “But not now.”

You swallowed the lump in your throat. “Why?”

“My brothers are coming,” he exhaled through his nose. “And they are not fond of your kind. Especially III. So be still, won’t you? He tends to overreact.”

You tried to ask again, but the sound that left your throat was barely a whisper.

“What do you mean—?”

Vessel raised one elegant hand, index finger pressing to his lips in a gesture of silence.

Then he motioned toward one of the many empty chairs.

“Sit.”

You didn’t obey. You couldn’t. Instead, you took a step back. Just one. But it made your heel clip the wall behind you. The weight of the cathedral pressed down against your shoulders. Every cell in your body told you not to trust him, not to lower your guard.

That’s when you saw them.

One was about your height, built like a statue carved for mourning with terrifying precision. His mask was red and black, with the permanent carved frown of a weeping statue. There was no mouth, no expression, just that eternal grimace and those tired eyes. His piercing blue eyes glowed with frost and fury from behind the slits. The rest of him was all black fabric. A dark hoodie was pulled halfway up beneath a vest, and every movement he made was deliberate, efficient. His approach made no sound. Not one.

He felt like judgment given form.

But then—

The second figure staggered in like a thought unraveling.

He moved like something animated by string, too tall, too angular, his frame unnaturally thin, all sharp elbows and spiderlike knees as though his body had been stretched by cruel hands.  The air shifted, turned heavier, as though his fury had a gravity of its own. The slender figure wore a long coat, deep blood red, which swayed behind him like a second spine. His mask, similar in form to IV’s, caught the candlelight and fractured it violently across the room. His white hair hung in wild tufts, falling over the sharp edges of his mask, tangled like thread in a butcher’s hands. His mouth, visible through a jagged tear in the metal, curled in a feral snarl.

And the moment he saw you—

He exploded.

“What the fuck is that?” he spat, finger stabbing the air toward you with such vehemence it felt like a blade aimed at your throat. Jagged lines split the gleaming surface of his mask like veins, as though the mask itself were trying to escape the face beneath.

He did not move like a man.

He paced like a pendulum swung too wide.

“No,” he growled, hands slicing through the air as he turned on Vessel with an accusing glare. “No, no, no. I’m not doing this again. You piece of—I’m not—” he choked on his own fury. “I won’t do this shit. Not after last time.”

“Calm down, III,” Vessel said smoothly. “You’ll frighten our guest.”

“Calm down?” III bellowed. “It’s a human. I can fucking smell it.”

His mask turned sharply to IV.

III took three more steps as if pulled by strings.

“Why is it still breathing, brother?” His accent was harsh, rough around the edges in the way broken glass could be considered art, making you flinch. “We agreed. We fucking agreed to kill every human that shows up. That was the pact and you agreed.”

IV exhaled quietly through his nose, unbothered, standing tall beside Vessel.

“She didn’t come here like the others,” he explained.

“Doesn’t fucking matter!” III was stalking now, circling the obsidian table in uncoordinated strides. His limbs bent too far. His spine curled too deep. Like a puppet dropped in motion and still trying to dance. The coat behind him swept the air like a wing torn from something mythic. “We should eat it,” he hissed, eyes flashing behind the glint of his mask. “Let’s just carve it open and see what’s inside. Flesh always tells the truth.”

You gasped, hands balling into fists so tightly your nails dug moons into your palms. Instinct pulled you back, back, back—

—but the wall was there.

IV rolled his eyes, the motion oddly human.

“You always say that.”

“And one day I will,” III stopped in front of you, abruptly close. His height towered over you now. His head tilted, hair falling sideways, the wild strands sticking to the edge of his mask. You could almost feel his breath through the mouth of the mask. “I should tear it open. Spill it on the floor. Let’s see what’s inside. Let’s see what makes this one worth breaking the rules. So scream for me, yeah? You lot love to scream.”

Tears blurred your vision as you whimpered.

Vessel didn’t look at him. “She’s not yours to dismantle, III.”

“I don’t take orders from you,” III snarled at him like a dog.

“No,” Vessel said softly. “You always fail to listen.”

You shook. Violently. Your heart tried to beat itself to death inside your ribs. And then—

“Enough.”

The voice cut through the rising tension like a blade forged in silence. It belonged to the third arrival, the one who had entered alongside III but not said a word until now.

II.

You hadn’t heard him step next to you. You hadn’t seen him approach. He was simply there and the space he occupied stole the air from your lungs. He regarded you like a problem on a table, a mistake already halfway to being corrected. His eyes, blue glacial lakes, swept over you with the indifference of a doctor examining an open wound that didn’t belong to anyone. His presence chilled the marrow in your bones. Your knees buckled inward slightly as you shrank into the wall, trying to make yourself smaller, make yourself unworthy of notice.

“Bringing another human here was foolish,” II said coolly, turning to IV. “You should’ve left it where you found it.”

You squeezed your eyes shut.

II didn’t speak with disdain or cruelty. He didn’t raise his voice like III or lace it with theater like Vessel. He simply named the truth it was, plain and clinical, and in doing so, reduced you to a thing. A misstep.

A loose thread to be trimmed.

“I—” your voice was a splinter in your throat. “I don’t understand—please—I just want to go home—don’t hurt me, please—”

You peeked through your wet eyelashes, gaze falling upon the man who had just condemned you. But he wasn’t really a man, was he? His clothes smelled like salt and iron and something eerily similar to blood and dust. You wanted to vanish. Evaporate. Be anywhere else. But there was no else. No somewhere else. Just this godless place.

And these creatures craving blood.

A breath hitched in your chest. Then another. Then another. And the tears came, hot and ugly. You couldn’t stop them. They streaked your face in aching lines, washing nothing away. Your mouth opened in a sob, some wounded thing caught between instinct and despair.

III groaned so loud it scraped the air. “Oh, for fuck’s sake, not this again—”

Your sobs earned a tilt of the head from II.

Not sympathy. Not even interest. No. His gaze sharpened with quiet disappointment, as if your reaction confirmed something he’d long suspected. Something unworthy.

“She’s clearly not ready,” he said, voice flat, stripped of emotion.

Vessel, still reclined against the chair like he’d been sculpted there, hummed. A thoughtful sound that curled around the space like smoke. He stepped forward slowly, not with urgency, but with the deliberate grace of something that had already seen this play out.

“None of us were ready,” he murmured. “Yet we were chosen.”

III scoffed violently, as if the words offended the very marrow of his bones. “Don’t start with that chosen bollocks again,” He threw up a hand in disgust, whirling in a circle like the force of his anger couldn’t be contained by stillness. “We all agreed. We are done. This thing is a mistake. That’s all it is. A fucking weakness on IV’s part. A lapse. And I’m telling you right now, I’ll fix it. I’ll fix it permanently. Let me just snap it’s fucking neck.”

II even didn’t bother to look at him.

“What should we do with it?” he turned to Vessel instead.

“Keep her,” Vessel said as though the answer had already been decided.

But II’s head shook immediately, sharply.

“That is not wise.”

“We’ve ignored Sleep’s will to extend the family long enough, and now she’s here. Clearly a warning. Or a message. That means something. ”

“Don’t be a poet,” II muttered.

“Don’t be a coward, then,” Vessel replied, not unkindly. “Some gods inherit children, Sleep creates them and to be chosen is to be consumed. Or have you forgotten, brother?”

IIII groaned, hands rising to tangle in his hair as he turned to face the wall, slamming a palm against the cold stone. “It only means IV is still a sentimental bastard.”

IV’s posture didn’t shift, but his voice cut through the room like a blade.

“Better than being a fucking psycho.”

The word landed like a slap, and III laughed. A loud, guttural sound, cruel and bright like shattered glass in sunlight. “Oh, you wound me, brother.”

The voices swelled like a violent tide, crashing, clashing.

You shrank further into the space behind you, trying to make yourself small, invisible. Your tears carved rivers down your cheeks, uncontrolled, salt on raw skin, and in your horror you realised you were sobbing like a child, hiccuping, curling in on yourself, your body betraying you in every possible way. The tension in the room was a living thing, a monster stalking its own tail, and every time one of them opened their mouth, it sank another claw into your ribs.

III turned on you again, eyes flaring behind his mask.

“Fuck this. I’ll snap her neck. Put her out of her misery.”

Your body seized.

You saw it in your mind. His hands, sudden and precise. The pop of vertebrae. Your eyes wide, unblinking. Death in a cathedral of gods. But before he could move Vessel stepped into III’s path and said, almost lazily, like he was asking someone not to knock over a glass.

“I’d prefer if you didn’t do that.”

III paused.

“Of course you would,” he growled, shoving past him and pacing furiously down the length of the hall. “You’d rather talk. You’d rather hope. You’d rather pretend this ends differently this time. That she’ll be different. She won’t. None of them are.”

And then they all turned. All four of them.

Their eyes on you.

You sobbed again.

The weight of their attention was unbearable. Something primal cracked inside you, and you opened your mouth, voice shaking like a thread caught in wind. “I just want to go home,” you begged. “Please. I don’t remember anything. I don’t— I don’t even know my name—”

II exhaled sharply. Not exasperated. Not kind.

Just done. Tired.

“You were not given a name,” he said flatly.

You blinked. Your vision swam.

“What—” your voice trembled. “What does that mean?”

It was Vessel who answered, not II.

His voice was gentle again. Too gentle.

“It means,” he said, walking slowly toward you, “that you’re in the right place, love.”

You shook your head violently, trying to claw your way back into your own body, burying your face in your hands like you could shut the world out by sheer force of will.

But there was no god to hear you here.

The room seemed to sway around you.

You were suffocating. Drowning even. The air was molasses. The light too sharp.

Everything wrong. Everything wrong.

Everything wrong.

And somewhere above you, high in the vaulted dark where no candle dared shine something began to whisper your name. A name you had not yet learned. But the cathedral knew it. And in that moment, a new kind of fear took root.

Not the fear of death.

But the fear of being kept alive.

“There are some who burn down the temple not to punish the gods, but to feel the warmth of something holy just once.”

This isn’t what I usually write, but I wanted to challenge myself and explore a different fandom for a change.

betweenstorms [masterlist]

[speaknowgirl3184]

We Could've Had Forever

Anakin Skywalker x female reader

On Mustafar, you arrive to confront Anakin. You beg him to come back, but he’s already too far gone. Your heartbreak is the last thing he sees before the fire consumes him.

Warnings: ANGST, mentions of killings, war, fire, death, i think blood idk. (Let me know if there is anything else).

Word Count: 2.1k

Masterlist

The ramp of your ship hissed open to a world made of fire and fury.

The heat hit you like a physical blow. Thick, sulfuric air rushed into the cabin, carrying with it the scent of molten metal and scorched stone. You staggered forward, blinking rapidly against the smoke that curled into the sky in dark, choking plumes. The ground beneath your boots was cracked and trembling, as though even the planet itself was in pain.

Molten rivers cut through blackened rock like veins, glowing with an eerie, pulsing orange. The sky was shrouded in ash, thunder rumbling in the distance. Every breath you took burned, dry and searing in your lungs. The humidity clung to your skin, damp with sweat, and every step down the platform felt heavier than the last, like the Force itself was mourning what had brought you here.

You shouldn’t have come. Obi-Wan had begged you not to. Pleaded, even. “It’s too late,” he’d said. “He’s gone.”

But you had to see for yourself. You had to see him.

One last time.

Your heart thudded painfully in your chest, and your voice trembled as you whispered to the wind, “Anakin… please still be in there.”

There he was.

He stood at the far edge of the landing pad, back to you, a lone figure outlined in hellfire. His dark cloak billowed faintly in the heat, edges curling like smoke. His hands were folded behind his back in a posture so eerily calm, it made you feel sick.

He was staring out across the lava flats like it was something to admire. Like this graveyard of light and life was a painting. Like he belonged here.

You barely recognized him.

The armor he wore was darker than the void between stars, not Jedi robes, not anymore. His hair had grown longer, wild and disheveled, clinging to the sweat on his neck and brow. His shoulders were broader, heavier with the weight of whatever horrors he had carried, or committed. The man who had once lit up the galaxy with a smile now radiated nothing but shadows.

But you knew that silhouette. You had traced it with your fingers in the quiet of countless nights. You had fallen asleep curled against his side, safe in his arms, breathing in the warmth of a man who promised you forever.

You had loved him. More than life. More than duty. More than anything.

“Anakin!” you cried out, your voice raw with grief and the heat burning your throat. “Turn around. Look at me!”

A long moment passed.

And then, he did.

He turned. Slowly. Like a ghost answering a name it had long since forgotten.

For a second, a single, fragile second, your heart soared.

Because his eyes found yours.

And for a moment, he looked at you. Not like a stranger. Not like an enemy. His expression faltered. His lips parted slightly, the smallest intake of breath. Something flickered in his eyes, something not red, not gold, but blue.

Something familiar.

Recognition.

But then… it was gone.

Wiped away, as if it had never been there.

His features hardened. His posture straightened, like a soldier preparing for war. And the warmth you saw was smothered under something cold, something mechanical.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he said flatly.

His voice, deeper. Rougher. Distant.

“And you shouldn’t become this!” you snapped, stepping forward despite the blistering heat that clawed at your skin. “What have you done, Anakin? What have they done to you?”

He didn’t move. Didn’t blink.

But you saw the lightsaber at his side. It wasn’t the one you knew. Not the blue-bladed weapon you’d seen ignite a hundred times in defense of the helpless. No, this one was darker. Sleek and soulless. Its hilt gleamed like obsidian.

Like a grave.

“You turned your back on everything,” you whispered, voice cracking. “The Order. Obi-Wan. The Republic. Me.”

Your throat closed around the words.

“I came here because I thought there was still a chance. I thought I could still save you.”

His jaw clenched. His eyes flickered.

“There’s nothing left to save,” he said.

“No.” You shook your head fiercely, tears stinging your eyes. “Don’t say that. Don’t you dare say that. I know you. You were the boy who fixed broken droids just to make children smile. You were the man who kissed me like I was the only thing tethering you to the light.”

Your voice broke.

“You were the man who told me I was your future.”

He stepped toward you, slow and deliberate. The air shimmered around him, the heat swirling like a living thing.

“That man is dead,” he said.

You stumbled back, as if he’d struck you.

“I loved him,” you whispered.

“He was weak,” he spat.

You swallowed hard. “Then what does that make me?”

Silence.

His eyes dropped, only for a second. Just long enough for a crack to form.

You took a shaky breath. “I don’t want to fight you, Anakin. I didn’t come here to stop you. I came here to bring you home.”

“There is no home,” he hissed. “There’s only power. The Jedi betrayed me. They betrayed us. They feared my strength. The galaxy needs order, and I will bring it. With the Emperor—”

“He’s using you!” you cried, your voice rising with panic. “You think he sees you as an equal? You’re just a weapon to him, Anakin! He doesn’t care about you, not the way I do!”

He stared at you, unmoving.

“I would never discard you,” you whispered. “Not even now.”

And then, you said it.

“We could’ve had a future, Anakin.”

The lava hissed in the distance, bubbling like blood.

You stepped forward again. You could feel the waves of pain rolling off of him in the Force. A storm of guilt, fury, confusion, a child lost in the dark.

“We could’ve had forever.”

Something broke.

His face twitched. His mouth opened. The conflict in his eyes was visible now, the red and gold flickering with something deeper, something buried. The Force rippled around you, tugging at the strings between your souls.

For a second, he looked like he might reach for you.

And then…

His face hardened.

And he ignited his saber.

“You’re standing in my way,” he said coldly.

Your heart cracked, shattered.

“No,” you breathed. “Please, don’t do this. Don’t make me fight you.”

But it was too late.

The red blade screamed to life, and he lunged.

You barely drew your saber in time. The clash sent a shockwave through the platform, your feet skidding across the metal. Heat seared your back as he pressed forward, stronger than you remembered, fueled by rage and pain and something deeper.

Not your Anakin.

Something darker.

“I loved you!” you sobbed as you blocked his next strike, stumbling backward again.

“You betrayed me!” he roared, voice unrecognizable. “You left me! You chose them!”

“I NEVER LEFT YOU!” you screamed. “I was waiting for you to come back! I would’ve followed you anywhere, if you hadn’t set the whole galaxy on fire!”

His blade knocked yours aside. You fell to your knees, his saber a hair’s breadth from your throat.

Then… he froze.

His breathing hitched. His hands shook.

“Y/N…” he rasped. And for the first time, he sounded like himself.

You looked up, eyes wide, tears streaming down your soot-streaked cheeks.

“Please,” you whispered. “Please come back.”

His eyes flickered wildly, blue, then gold, then blue again. Like a battle waged inside his very soul.

Then, he screamed.

A raw, broken sound. He turned and slashed his saber into the stone, sparks flying.

“WHY DIDN’T YOU COME SOONER?!”

“I TRIED!” you cried, falling to your knees behind him. “I tried, Anakin. I swear I did.”

He dropped his saber.

Collapsed to his knees.

His hands gripped your arms like a drowning man grasping for air.

“I wanted forever with you,” he said, voice cracking. “I still do. But I don’t know how to come back.”

You cupped his face, hands trembling.

“Then let me show you.”

And for a breath, a heartbeat, you felt him start to lean in. Your Anakin. The man you had loved.

Then, the sound of a ship. A familiar engine roar. A shadow cast across the platform.

Obi-Wan.

Anakin froze. His grip on you tightened.

“They’re here to kill me,” he said, empty again. Hollow.

“No. No, I didn’t know. They followed me. I didn’t want this—”

“It doesn’t matter,” he whispered.

He looked at you.

One last time.

“I’m sorry,” he breathed.

And then, he turned. And walked into the fire.

You didn’t follow.

-----------

You didn’t follow him.

Not when Obi-Wan stepped off the ship, his expression carved from stone, yet his eyes glistening with sorrow. Not when he approached the platform with quiet, measured steps, like a man walking toward a funeral he had no choice but to attend.

You didn’t move when Anakin turned to face him.

Not when the words between them cracked like lightning, blame, betrayal, disbelief, too sharp to hear over the pounding in your ears.

Not even when the sabers ignited, blue and red clashing in a storm of sparks and fury. Not when the air shook with the fury of their battle, two men who had once been brothers, now locked in a dance that could only end in ruin.

You couldn’t move.

You just knelt at the edge of the platform, right where he had left you, your knees pressed into the blistering durasteel, the heat licking at your skin like punishment. His lightsaber was clutched in your hands, heavier than anything you’d ever held. Not because of its weight, but because it was all you had left of him.

His weapon. His legacy. The last piece of the man you had loved.

And you sobbed.

Uncontrollably. Unashamedly. Until your throat was raw, until your lungs burned more than the air around you.

You weren’t sure how long the duel raged on.

Time lost meaning in the haze of tears and smoke. The world blurred around you, a kaleidoscope of fire and ash. You could feel it all in the Force: every blow, every cry, every flicker of doubt and pain that surged between them. It tore through you like a scream without sound.

You had tried to bring him home.

You had begged. Pleaded. Reached for the boy who once held your hand beneath the stars and whispered dreams of peace, of love, of forever.

And for one precious moment… he had reached back.

But it wasn’t enough.

In the end, he chose the flames.

The moment he fell, you knew.

Even before the scream tore from his throat.

Even before you heard him cry out, your name, a strangled, broken sound that would carve itself into your soul like a scar that would never heal.

“Y/N!”

It echoed across the lava flats, across the ruined sky, across your heart.

And then… silence.

Not true silence. Not really. The planet still screamed. The lava still bubbled. The ash still fell like dying snow.

But everything inside you went quiet. Numb. Hollow.

You didn’t look as Obi-Wan returned, staggering up the platform, his face pale and streaked with ash. His hands trembled as he held Anakin’s saber. The other one. The one that had once belonged to a Jedi, not a Sith.

He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to.

You couldn’t look at him. You didn’t want his pity. You didn’t want his comfort.

You wanted him.

You wanted to scream until the Force bent time and space to bring Anakin back. You wanted to go back, to before the war, before the secrets, before the fall.

But the Force does not change the past.

It only leaves you to live with it.

So you stayed there. Long after Obi-Wan departed. Long after the ship left Mustafar’s orbit. Long after the fires began to die.

You stayed, with Anakin’s saber cradled in your lap and your heart in ruins.

It wasn’t just that he had turned. It was that he had looked at you, even then. Even as he burned. And still… he had let go.

He had let you go.

You didn’t even flinch when the wind shifted, blowing hot embers across your skin. You hardly felt them. You were already burned from the inside out.

And in the years to come, through war, through rebuilding, through exile and silence, you would never forget the sound of his scream.

The way he said your name like it was the last piece of himself he still remembered.

You carried it like a ghost inside your ribs.

Because no matter where you went, no matter what you became…

You would spend the rest of your life haunted by the ashes.

Haunted by the love that wasn’t enough. Haunted by the man who chose the darkness. Haunted by the future that died in the fire with him.

And every time you closed your eyes, you saw him on that platform.

And every time you dreamed, you reached for a hand that would never hold yours again.

---------------

I hope you loved it! Sorry I haven't been posting as much I am just super busy, also I am so mad that Taylor didn't come to the AMAs. Tysm for reading <3

[sinvulkt]

I’ve recently been confronted with how differently everyone approach stories. This made me curious. So guys, I’m counting on you for data, we need to reblog.

(Calling upon the strenght of my (i hope) fandom friends so we get proper statistics)

@cinderfeather @yatsukisakura @bluntblade @tramp-fiction @purpleopossum @starmahgalaxies @purple-iris @tonhalszendvics @retciwrites @vandervoiz @insertmeaningfulusername @pebblish @pat-the-togorian @linzerj @kgjhk @fanfictasia @kefalion @doctorgeekery @asteral-feileacan @dreaminghour @beewaggle @dirtkid123 @ravenite-void @kuraiarcoiris @angst-buritto-wips-writing @mamashenanigans @fancyfrey @hylianengineer @silvercaptain24 @silvereddaye @omaano @piroporopi @mina-jamsin-derulo @doctorgeekery @ash--00 @trickstress333 @kittonafoxgirl @salparadiselost @charlottevader @ravenstakeflight @starr234 @sarcasticfirefighter @numerousbees1106 @akizumy @25centsoda @udekai @unlikecharlie @beguilewritesstuff @lusseia @azzzryel

I apologize in advance if I bothered anyone! (Warn me in dm and i won’t tag you for this kind of stuff again). Hopefully you’re curious as well and want the answer as much as I do. 🎶

[vee-vee-writes]

Alien Invasion (Frieza x gn!reader)

Request: “Idk if you write for him but could we please have a Frieza x female human reader pls? Idk why but I am starved of this! Spare a few crumbs pls?”

AU (events of DBZ don't happen)

Earth was gone. Destroyed in a meteor shower. Officials had predicted the meteor shower and in conjunction with Capsule Corp had made preparations for the evacuation of the population. A random ticketing system had been rolled out to fill spots on the evacuation crafts. Y/N had been fortunate enough to have been allocated a space on one of these ships. 

They had set off on a voyage amongst the stars, searching for a suitable but uninhabited planet for resettlement. After several months of exploration in the dark void of space a planet had been located and settled upon. The ruins of an ancient alien civilisation were present but no sentient species seemed to inhabit the planet. A bad omen that was reinforced by piles of weathered bones strewn across paths and huddled in houses. Genocide, At least that’s what it looked like. Yet after observing the planet for a month and sending scouting teams out no particular evil could be found. Whatever had caused the atrocities seemed to have moved on.

So the remainder of the human race dutifully cleaned up, burying skeletons in neatly dug graves and erecting memorials to pay respects to the unknown peoples. What could be restored of the ruined cities were marked out and the rest cleared to make way for temporary capsule homes and communal structures. Life seemed to be settling, humanity adjusting to their new home. 

After a year on the planet the sky had filled with UFO’s. They’d opened up and the sky had swarmed with alien soldiers all uniformed in the same armour. In the middle a striking white and purple alien floated upon a throne. After it was sure that it had captured the attention of all nearby humans it spoke, “My my isn’t this an interesting sight. This planet was occupied and cleared by my soldiers many years ago after the population refused to kneel to my rule. Such a shame really, they could have flourished under my command. No matter, they got what they deserved for the disobedience. Yet, here I find your species, settled in on the ash of a once great civilisation. I must say you’ve done a marvelous job at rebuilding in such a short time.” 

It’s voice was shriller than expected given its muscular form, yet under different circumstances Y/N would have found it enticing. “Oh how rude of me, I haven’t even introduced myself. I am Lord Frieza, Emperor of the Universe and the owner of this planet. It seems that despite being such a weak race you are rather technologically advanced. So if you point me to your leader or leaders I am willing to strike a deal. You will work for me, as part of my Empire, creating new technologies or you will perish as those on this planet who refused me before you did” Frieza declared his voice laced with amusement, “now who will point me in the direction of your leader?” 

Not a sound was made by the large crowd who had gathered underneath the shadow of the looming invasionary army. “Very well maybe I should show you a small taste of my power to motivate you” Frieza declared. Simply raising a finger towards the largest tower the alien shot out a pink beam of light. For a moment nothing happened and the crowd watched on with bated breath. But then a blinding beam of light flashed followed by an ear bursting boom as the tower was eviscerated. With a smirk Frieza turned his attention back to the crowd. Before Y/N could even process what they were doing, they heard their own voice ring out, “Excuse me Lord Frieza, I can show you the way to Capsule Corp. It’s the location of the family who built the ships that got us here and our provisional government is located there while a new building is being built for them.” 

Frieza’s eyes locked on to the human before him, assessing the being. They weren’t powerful by any means but in truth he admired their bravery in the face of such overwhelming danger. After all, the rest of their race was either too stunned or fearful to react or had begun to dash away screaming. “Very well. Zarbon you will accompany me. Dodoria you will stay here and keep an eye on our soldiers. I am a man of my word after all and no harm is to be done without my orders” Frieza barked out, “Do you know how to fly human?” The stunned expression that danced across their face over the revelation most sentient life forms could fly told Frieza all he needed to know. Lowering his throne slightly he beckoned the human over sharply. “What is your name?” he queried. Frieza was returned with a simple “Y/N, my lord.” “Very well Y/N, we will need a good run down on the current state of the planet, the extent to which you’ve settled, and a great many other things. Since you’ve already proven yourself far more useful than these other humans you will come with us to this Capsule Corp and ensure I am as informed on everything I need to be” Frieza asserted, “now be a dear and tell us exactly where it is we need to go.”

After giving a detailed description of what Capsule Corp and its surrounding area looked like paired with detailed directions Frieza seemed satisfied. “Very well. Zarbon, you are to carry our guest. Gently, these humans are delicate creatures” Frieze commanded. With that Y/N was scooped up by the muscular green alien, cradled awkwardly against his cool armour. “Excuse me” Y/N squeaked, “wouldn’t it be better if I could see where we were going so that I can direct you? I can’t really see anything like this.” Zarbon scoffed at being questioned, “No. With the speed we will be travelling at, your weak eyes won’t be able to see anything anyway. We’ll be travelling off the directions you already gave to get to the area and then figure it out from there.” Nodding Y/N clung to Zarbon. “Let’s go” Frieza ordered, levitating up higher into the air. Following his lead Zarbon took to the air and at jet-like speeds the trio took off leaving the rest of the army staring in their wake.

Read Part Two here

Masterlist

[everwhovian]

PLEASE I NEED A VERSION WHERE INHO DOESNT DIE IN JUNHO’S ARMS ON THE BOAT PLEASE😭😭😭😭 oh mygod

Yes! Good idea! It still hurts, but there's some hope!

(based on this part)

(Warnings: blood, gore, looks like In-ho is dying)

❛ ━━━━━━･❪ ○△□ ❫ ･━━━━━━ ❜

The ocean was still.

Waves lapped against the hull, gentle and rhythmic, as if unaware of the ruins they carried. The sun hovered low, brushing the horizon with pale orange. Smoke curled in thin wisps from the last fires still smoldering on the shorelines in the distance. Most of the players were accounted for now – cattered across other boats, wrapped in silver blankets, some standing, some slumped over in silence.

Jun-ho stood near the stern.

Hands braced on the railing. Shoulders tight. Eyes scanning.

A crackle came through a nearby radio. Woo-seok’s voice – checking names, status updates, triage notes. Kim was somewhere below deck, probably pacing. Captain Park hadn’t said a word in fifteen minutes.

Jun-ho barely heard any of it. His ears strained for only two names.

Seong Gi-hun.

Hwang In-ho.

Every time a number was called out and confirmed, something in his chest twisted tighter.

Nothing yet.

His gaze swept the nearby boats. Faces blurred together – bloodied, sunken, dazed. Some were crying. Others were staring at nothing. All of them marked by the same thing: they’d survived something they never should’ve seen.

He kept scanning.

And that was when he saw him.

A man – roughly his age – standing at the edge of the nearest vessel. His shirt hung from one shoulder, number 388 stamped across his chest in green. There was dried blood on his temple. A blank expression on his face.

But his eyes were locked on Jun-ho.

They stared at each other across the water. Silent. Still.

Jun-ho raised a hand.

A slow, cautious wave. Not sure why – maybe just to acknowledge that they’d both made it to this strange, awful morning. Maybe to offer something that felt human again.

388 didn’t wave back.

But he blinked.

His mouth moved slightly.

Then –

The sky behind him lit up with fire.

The sound hit a breath too late – like the world had waited before it screamed.

The blast tore through the silence, splitting it open with a roar so loud it seemed to shake the ocean itself. A wave of heat rolled out from the island, chasing the fire as it rose into the sky, flames swallowing what little remained.

Jun-ho ducked instinctively, the heat scorching past him as the shockwave hit the ship with a deep, metallic groan. Debris from the island flew skyward, then rained back down into the sea like ash from a funeral pyre.

The horizon blurred. Smoke devoured the sky.

He scrambled to his feet, breath ragged. His ears rang. For a moment, he couldn’t hear anything – not the shouts from the radio, not the rush of footsteps on deck, not even the ocean.

Just the sound of his heart hammering in his chest.

The cliff collapsed.

Jun-ho’s breath seized.

Because neither of the names he needed – the names that mattered most – had been called.

Jun-ho’s blood ran cold.

“They were on the island,” he whispered, more to himself than anyone else. “They were still on the island!”

The one that had just been reduced to fire and rubble.

He turned back toward the horizon.

There was nothing now – no cliff, no structure, no sign of life. Just smoke curling into the sky and the twisted skeleton of what had once stood there.

His throat closed.

Jun-ho’s world had narrowed to a single, burning thought: ‘I didn’t find him.’

His brother was still on that island.

And now that island was gone.

He didn’t remember moving. He barely heard the shouting behind him.

His feet carried him to the railing like they had a mind of their own. His hands were already gripping the cold metal. One leg thrown over. Then the next.

All he could see was the fire. The void where land used to be.

He wasn’t thinking. Not really.

Only feeling.

Terror. Guilt. A hollow panic clawing its way up his throat until it choked him.

“In-ho,” he gasped, like saying the name would pull him back from the smoke.

If there was even the slightest chance – if there was even a body left to hold – he’d take it.

Because he had failed once already.

He wouldn’t live with failing twice.

Then – hands. Strong. Rough. Kim.

He yanked Jun-ho back from the rail, wrapping both arms around his torso as Jun-ho kicked and struggled like a man possessed.

“Let go!” Jun-ho snapped, his voice hoarse. “Let me go! He’s still there – he’s still out there – I didn’t find him!”

“Stop,” Kim barked, his breath close to Jun-ho’s ear. “You jump in and that’s it. No one’s coming for you.”

“I don’t care!” Jun-ho’s voice broke. “You hear me?! I don’t fucking care!”

The grip tightened.

“You’ll die,” Kim snapped, dragging him even further back onto the deck. “You jump in that water, you drown. You hear me?”

Jun-ho struggled harder, screaming now. “Then let me fucking drown! At least I’d be with him! At least I wouldn’t be up here doing nothing while he – while he –!”

He shoved. Clawed at Kim’s grip. But Kim held tight, feet braced, muscles locked.

Then another figure stepped in, Captain Park.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just moved quickly, stepping between Jun-ho and the railing. His hand pressed flat to Jun-ho’s chest – steadying him. Stopping him.

“Enough,” Park said quietly. “Your brother wouldn’t have wanted you to die like this.”

Jun-ho’s head snapped up.

His eyes were wild. Bloodshot.

“You don’t get to say that,” he hissed. “You don’t get to talk about what he wanted. You helped him shut me out.”

Park didn’t flinch.

“You think I care what he would’ve wanted?” Jun-ho shouted. “I’ll drown if I have to – I don’t care! If he’s gone, I don’t care!”

His voice cracked, splintered.

“I didn’t get to find him – I didn’t get to say goodbye –”

Kim tightened his grip from behind as Jun-ho sagged forward, screaming into the air like it might give him an answer.

“I was supposed to get him out.”

No one moved.

The wind carried smoke across the deck. Somewhere behind them, the water lapped quietly at the hull, gentle and cruel.

Jun-ho trembled in Kim’s grip, every breath ragged, every muscle straining to go back – to undo the last five minutes, the last five years, everything.

His legs gave out completely, and Kim followed him down, guiding him to the deck so he didn’t hit the boards too hard.

The wind whipped at his hair. The smell of smoke and salt filled his lungs. He didn’t care.

He pressed his forehead to the wood, fingers gripping the planks.

Everything inside him was breaking apart.

In-ho was gone.

And this time… it might really be forever.

Jun-ho stayed on the deck, curled forward, his breath shaking, his fists pressed into the floor like he could hold himself together through sheer force. Kim knelt beside him, one firm hand still on his shoulder, anchoring him. Park stood just behind, staring out at the smoke-drenched horizon, jaw clenched tight.

Then –

Crackle.

The radio on Kim’s vest hissed. A burst of static. Then a voice: “This is Woo-seok. We’ve spotted movement – two figures on the northern shoreline. Survivors. I repeat, survivors on the beach.”

Kim’s head snapped up. His hand tightened briefly on Jun-ho’s shoulder.

Jun-ho flinched. His eyes opened – bloodshot, hollow. He didn’t speak. Couldn’t.

But Kim was already moving.

He raised his radio, the other hand never leaving Jun-ho. “Copy. Coordinates?”

A pause. Then Woo-seok’s voice again: “Roughly forty meters from where the south watchtower collapsed. Near the old service dock. Can’t confirm identity yet.”

Kim turned to one of the mercenaries nearby – sharp, curt. “Take Li and Tae. Get to the raft and bring them in – now.”

The men didn’t ask questions. They were already moving.

Jun-ho slowly pushed himself up on his elbows, shaky and disoriented. “Survivors?”

Kim nodded, gaze still locked on the smoke in the distance. “Yeah.”

Jun-ho’s heart thudded against his ribs. “Could it be –?”

He didn’t finish the question. Couldn’t.

But Kim glanced down at him, steady. And for the first time since the blast, there was something different in his face.

Not certainty.

But possibility.

“I don’t know,” he said quietly. “But we’re going to find out.”

Jun-ho turned his head toward the horizon again, breath trembling. The ocean still churned. The smoke still curled. Somewhere out there – someone had made it.

It didn’t take long.

The raft cut through the waves fast – too fast for Jun-ho to sit still. He hovered near the railing now, Kim beside him, hand still firm on his shoulder, ready to pull him back every time he leaned too far forward. Park stood a few paces back, eyes narrowed, hands folded tight behind his back.

The others had gathered in hushed silence, watching.

The smoke thinned enough to see them: Tae and Li rowing hard. Gi-hun slumped between them, barely upright. Blood smeared down one side of his face, his clothes soaked and torn, his expression blank.

He looked like a ghost.

But he was moving. Alive.

Jun-ho’s heart climbed to his throat – and then –

Another figure.

At the front of the raft. Draped over the edge, unmoving. Arms limp. Face hidden.

One of the mercenaries shifted. Reached out. Grabbed hold of the body beneath the arms.

They pulled Gi-hun up first. Tae got under one arm, Li under the other. Gi-hun stumbled, breath hitching, and for a moment it looked like he might collapse. But he didn’t.

He raised his head. His eyes met Jun-ho’s.

And he said nothing.

He didn’t have to.

Behind him, Park and Kim moved in to help hoist the second figure up – this one heavier, soaked in seawater and blood. His coat was half-shredded, slung around limp shoulders. His body sagged as they lifted him, arms hanging loose, head tilted.

Jun-ho took a step forward.

Then another.

He didn’t hear the voices anymore. Didn’t hear the sea. Didn’t feel Kim’s hand when it reached for him again.

Because the moment they rolled the body onto the deck, he saw the face.

Bloodied. Pale. Eyes closed.

But he knew that face. Knew it better than his own.

“Hyung,” Jun-ho whispered.

And his legs buckled.

He dropped to his knees with a choked, shattering sound – somewhere between a gasp and a sob – and crawled forward across the deck, gravel biting into his palms, knees slipping in seawater.

He didn’t care.

He reached his brother, hands trembling as they hovered just above his chest, his face, like touching him might break something.

“In-ho-hyung,” he breathed. “No. No, no – please –”

He pressed two fingers to his throat.

There.

A pulse.

Faint. So faint it felt like a dream.

But it was there.

Jun-ho let out a sob that tore from somewhere deep, somewhere buried. He bent over his brother, cupping the side of his face with shaking hands, tears falling freely now.

“You’re okay,” he choked. “You’re okay, I’ve got you. You made it. You – fuck – hyung, you made it.”

His forehead pressed to In-ho’s, his body trembling, his voice unraveling.

Behind him, the deck went silent again.

No one moved.

No one interrupted.

Jun-ho didn’t care that his knees had hit the deck hard. He didn’t care that his palms were scraped raw from the rush across the boards.

All that mattered was his brother.

His hands were already moving. One pressed to In-ho’s chest, the other hovering near his throat. Skin – cold. Soaked through. Blood everywhere.

Jun-ho let out a breath that almost choked him. Then he snapped into motion.

His hands swept over In-ho’s body, searching, cataloging. His coat was shredded. One side of his torso was soaked red. Jun-ho peeled the fabric back, flinching at what he saw.

A jagged wound – deep, angry, likely shrapnel. Still bleeding. Too much. Way too much. He couldn’t even tell if the ribs beneath were broken, but judging from the rise and fall of In-ho’s chest, his lungs had been hit.

Jun-ho ripped off his jacket with shaking hands, nearly fumbling it in the process. His fingers were slick – already red to the wrists – but he shoved the wadded fabric hard against the gaping wound in In-ho’s side.

“No, no, no – stay with me,” he muttered, voice cracking. “Just breathe. You just have to breathe, okay?”

The blood kept coming. Hot. Endless. It soaked straight through the jacket like it wasn’t even there.

His hands started to tremble harder.

He adjusted his grip, pressed harder, cursed under his breath. “Shit – shit, come on, come on – please –”

He looked down and saw the color of his brother’s skin, the stillness in his limbs, and something inside him lurched.

“No – fuck – don’t do this to me, not now.”

He was talking fast now, barely aware of the words spilling out of him.

“I didn’t get to find you just to lose you, okay? You don’t get to do that. You don’t get to die here. You don’t –” His voice caught. “You don’t get to leave me again.”

He shifted his weight, one leg slipping in the blood slicking the deck. His elbow jarred the wound and In-ho didn’t even flinch.

“Shit – shit –” Jun-ho gasped, trying to reapply pressure, trying to fold the jacket tighter, trying to do something, anything, as the warmth drained out of the body beneath him. “I need more pressure – fuck, I need help – I can’t –”

His chest was heaving now. Every breath a fight. His hands were too slippery to hold anything, too unsteady to be useful. He pressed down again and again like it might make a difference.

“Please,” he begged, the word breaking open in his throat. “Please –”

The blood wouldn’t stop.

Jun-ho just pressed harder, knuckles white, but it was useless. The jacket was soaked through, useless now – just a sponge drowning in red. His fingers kept slipping. His wrists were shaking.

He couldn’t tell if In-ho was still breathing.

His vision blurred.

Everything was spinning – panic mounting like a scream in his chest that had nowhere to go. Too much blood. Too much. Please, no. Not like this.

Then –

He felt it. A shift.

Another pair of hands slid over his. Firmer. Calmer. Warmer.

Jun-ho jolted like he’d been burned, jerking his head up, eyes wide, chest heaving like he couldn’t get enough air.

Gi-hun.

He didn’t say anything. Just gave Jun-ho a look – steady, exhausted, unwavering – and gently nudged Jun-ho’s hands away.

“No – wait –” Jun-ho almost pulled back in protest, instinct driving his hands forward again.

‘Don’t let go. Don’t let go. He’ll die if I let go –’

But his fingers were shaking too hard to hold pressure. He could feel how useless they’d become.

Gi-hun didn’t force it. He just stayed there, hands locked down over the wound, quiet in the chaos.

Jun-ho’s breath stuttered.

He moved back, like it physically hurt to do so, and hovered for a beat – lost – until his hands found In-ho’s face.

That was something he could still hold.

He cupped his brother’s cheeks, thumbs brushing across pale skin. Sweat clung to his hairline. There was blood smeared beneath his eye, a cut on his lip. His head lolled slightly to the side.

Jun-ho swallowed a sob.

“Wake up,” he whispered. “Please – please, hyung, wake up.”

Nothing.

He leaned in, forehead against In-ho’s. He was cold. Not gone, but cold.

“You can’t do this to me,” Jun-ho whispered, the words shaking loose from his chest. “You can’t leave now. You hear me? You can’t –”

His hands slid up, cradling the back of his head like it might fall apart if he let go.

“I love you,” he breathed. “So much. I never stopped. Not once.”

Footsteps. A heavy thud beside him.

Kim dropped to his knees, med kit snapping open.

“Gi-hun – stay steady,” he ordered, already reaching for gauze. “Jun-ho – don’t let him drift. Keep him here.”

Jun-ho didn’t need to be told.

He stayed close, kept his voice low, kept whispering like the words might stitch his brother together.

“I’ve got you. I’m right here. You’re not alone. You’re not alone.”

Because if he stopped – if he let silence in – he knew what came next.

And he couldn’t survive it.

Carefully, he shifted his position – slipping a hand behind In-ho’s neck, the other beneath his shoulder – and gently pulled his brother’s head onto his lap.

His fingers threaded into In-ho’s hair, anchoring him there, like if he just held tight enough, he could keep him from slipping further.

“You’re safe,” Jun-ho whispered. “I’ve got you now. Just stay with me.”

One hand was cupping the side of In-ho’s face, the other now resting lightly on his shoulder – afraid to let go, but afraid to touch too hard. He could feel every shallow breath stutter beneath his palm. Too light. Too far apart.

Kim was already working – his gloves already red. He moved fast, precise. Gauze pressed in around the wound. Tape ripped from the roll with brutal urgency. He said nothing about the odds.

Jun-ho watched him work like a man watching a bomb be defused. Every second felt like a countdown. Every twitch in In-ho’s face made his breath catch.

Behind him, Gi-hun held the pressure, steady as ever, both hands braced against the wound. His arms didn’t tremble. He didn’t flinch at the blood. He just stayed there, giving Jun-ho time he didn’t have.

Jun-ho looked at him.

And their eyes met.

And suddenly – without a word – Jun-ho understood.

Gi-hun had dragged his brother through hell to get him here.

Not for redemption.

Not for forgiveness.

For him.

Because no one else would.

Because no one else knew what it meant.

Because even monsters might deserve to be dragged back home.

And even if Gi-hun wasn’t sure who In-ho had been – Front Man, Young-il, liar, killer –

He knew who Jun-ho was.

A brother.

A man who had never stopped looking.

Jun-ho blinked fast, vision swimming. The stinging in his eyes became too much to hold back.

He turned back to In-ho’s face.

And with a hand still cradling his brother’s jaw, he whispered again, “Stay with me.”

Suddenly something shifted beneath his hands.

Jun-ho stiffened.

In-ho’s lashes fluttered, just barely. His brows twitched, the smallest crease between them like a flicker of recognition.

Jun-ho froze. He forgot how to breathe.

The world around him narrowed to two bloodshot eyes – blinking slow, sluggish – and then finally, finally, they found him.

Jun-ho made a sound, something between a sob and a gasp. “Hyung?”

In-ho didn’t speak. His lips parted. His throat worked. And then –

A wet, awful cough tore from his chest, rattling and raw.

Blood bubbled up, spilling down his chin in a thin red line.

“No – no, no, no –” Jun-ho caught his head gently, wiped at the blood with shaking fingers. “You’re okay. You’re okay, just – just breathe.”

In-ho coughed again, weaker this time.

His eyes never left Jun-ho’s.

Jun-ho pressed his forehead to his brother’s, breath shallow and cracking. “You found me,” he whispered. “You stupid bastard. You found me.”

His voice broke.

“You held on. You made it. Just… don’t stop now, okay? Please don’t stop now.”

In-ho blinked again. Slow. Like it took everything in him just to stay in the moment.

“You’re safe,” Jun-ho whispered. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you, hyung.”

In-ho’s lips moved again.

No sound came out.

But Jun-ho leaned closer anyway – ready to catch whatever he had left to give.

His brother’s skin was cold. Damp with sweat. Blood still seeped slowly from the corner of his mouth, but less now.

Gi-hun’s hands were still firm over the wound, keeping the pressure steady, while Kim worked fast beside them, barking quiet orders to one of the medics, gauze stained through, adrenaline rising.

But Jun-ho didn’t look away. He kept both hands on In-ho’s face, holding him steady, grounding them both.

Jun-ho didn’t hear a word of it.

He only saw In-ho.

“Stay with me,” he whispered, voice hoarse and raw. “Just stay with me, okay? You’re not allowed to leave. Not when I just got you back.”

In-ho blinked slowly – barely a movement, like his body was debating whether to keep going.

And then –

In-ho’s lips parted. His voice cracked, barely above breath. “I… love you.”

Jun-ho stopped breathing.

His mouth opened, but no sound came out. His chest clenched like someone had reached inside and twisted it.

A sob escaped him and he held In-ho’s face between both hands like it was the only thing anchoring him to the world.

“I love you too,” Jun-ho choked, pressing his forehead to his brother’s. “I love you, hyung. So much. You hear me? I love you.”

His fingers shook as he ran them through In-ho’s hair, brushing it back. “But don’t say goodbye. Don’t – don’t do that. We’re not done. This isn’t the end. You’re going to be okay. We’re going to be okay.”

In-ho didn’t answer.

But his body shifted faintly – just enough to press his weight against Jun-ho. His breathing hitched… and then steadied.

Kim glanced up from the med kit, eyes sharp. “Bleeding’s slowing,” he said. “Pressure held. He’s not out of the woods, but we’ve got a window.”

Jun-ho sucked in a breath, like he’d just been pulled up from drowning.

He looked down again.

In-ho’s eyes were closed now, but his chest rose – weak, shallow, but steady.

Gi-hun eased back just slightly, still keeping pressure, but letting Jun-ho have the space.

Jun-ho curled closer, one arm carefully wrapping around his brother’s shoulders, holding him like he could keep him here just by refusing to let go.

“You’re safe,” he whispered, softer now. “I’ve got you. You’re safe.”

And for the first time in what felt like forever, the silence that followed didn’t feel like an ending. It felt like the start of something that might still be saved.

Time didn’t return all at once.

It crept in slowly – first in the sound of Kim zipping the med kit shut, then in the cautious shift of Gi-hun’s hands pulling away from the wound.

The bleeding had slowed. The bandages held. And In-ho… was still breathing. Barely. But enough.

“We need to move him,” Kim said quietly. “Get him somewhere flat, out of the wind.”

Jun-ho nodded without looking up.

Gi-hun pushed to his feet unsteadily, blood staining his sleeves, his legs wobbling from effort – but he didn’t leave. He hovered just behind them, silent, like if he moved too far away, it would all fall apart again.

Kim glanced to one of the remaining crewmen. “Help me lift.”

Jun-ho’s breath caught. “Wait –”

Kim turned to him, steady but firm. “We’ll be careful. Stay close.”

Jun-ho nodded shakily, his hands still curled protectively around In-ho’s. He shifted aside, just enough to make room, though every inch of distance felt like peeling skin.

Kim slid one arm under In-ho’s back, the other beneath his knees. Gi-hun stepped in without a word, bracing the wounded side as the crewman took the legs. Together, the three of them lifted.

Jun-ho hovered beside them, close enough to steady In-ho’s head, to brush a hand through his hair.

In-ho didn’t stir.

But his head lulled gently toward Jun-ho’s side, like instinct – even in unconsciousness – was pulling him closer.

Step by careful step, they moved across the deck. Jun-ho stayed glued to their side, eyes locked on his brother’s face, counting every uneven breath. Behind them, the wind was rising. Smoke twisted above the waves like it had nowhere left to go.

Park opened the cabin doors ahead of them, clearing the path. Inside, the light was softer. Warmer. A quiet space carved out of the chaos.

They laid In-ho down on a folded blanket beside the rear bench, Kim already kneeling again, checking vitals, replacing soaked bandages.

Jun-ho sank beside him immediately, dropping to his knees like his body wouldn’t work in any other position. His hands never left his brother.

A minute later, the boat’s motor rumbled to life beneath them, low and deep – an engine finally ready to carry them forward.

Jun-ho didn’t react.

His whole world was narrowed to the rise and fall of In-ho’s chest.

He leaned forward, brushed damp hair from his brother’s forehead again, and whispered, “You’re safe. We’re moving now. We’re getting out.”

His thumb traced a smear of blood from In-ho’s cheek. “You’re not alone anymore.”

The engine groaned louder, cutting through the silence.

But inside the cabin, Jun-ho stayed still – watching. Breathing. Holding on.

Because for the first time in years, he wasn’t chasing a shadow.

This time, he had him.

And he wasn’t letting go.

[wrens-garden]

I think it's fun to compare Skybound and Starbound and see all the similarities and differences.

A couple of similarities I've noticed

Rune and Evren have a pet and a sibling/sibling figure that gets stabby

Both Vast and Aura come from a group of people who use others for energy/power/their own gain

Atlas and Epsilon are both a little scientifically fucked up

Someone's whole purpose is to kill - presumably for the safety of others

Someone's chat is dead people - or at least that's what it seems like

We have one human; this could change

We have someone who does clothes.

Evil bosses/organisations - although we have two now, I think, if we count rionear in general - where leaving could mean death

Someone's been in a coma

Morally Dubious Bioengineering? Does this count if in one, DNA is used to make a ship with consent, and in the other, it's used to alter someone without consent?

People are being used to help the situation they're in - magic in skybound, DNA in starbound

Both Taliesin and Romeo are iconic as fuck /j

Capitalism

Romeo and Asri having doubts about bounty hunting like Vast did, although those two don't seem like they want to stop bounty hunting completely

Differences I've noticed

We have an actual doctor and not people guessing; technically, we have two

Brain worms? Hivemind

People are actually confined to the planet, with a large area to roam compared to small clusters of islands that they could leave

Eldritch horrors. Comes with free mind-melting and an evil book

We have the nether, called the core, but we have it

The void is not trying to kill them, not yet anyway

Using this, there are some possibilities that I think personally would be fun

Asri's brother might not actually be dead, like Ash

Someone's gonna die, Evren is a likely contender, Vick would be funniest in my opinion.

Tad will end up creating a conspiracy board in a paranoid spiral like Virgil.

Polyamory

[aratribow]

What would happen if yanqing died.

I need more angst about Yanqing and jing yuan pls

AHHHHH I ACTUALLY HAVE SO MANY YQ MCD WIPS? That my lazy ass never completed..

But I present you ONE polished thingy. (Don't mind me adding in a ship as well ^^)

An au where Kafka was a bit too late with the spirit whisper, where Jing Yuan was a bit too late to save Yanqing from the shard sword aimed for his chest.

Ps: Yanqing is a bio renjing child here, but Ren didn't know about his existence because he left to get milk and never came back. ^^

Warning: Yanqing MCD

The sun sets, the bird ceases its song, and the lion mourns: (title suggested by @itsredpaint )

He distantly watched as the window curtains flew with the breeze, a chill so familiar. Lying motionless in the assigned bed at the alchemy commission, Jing Yuan felt numb; if the scratchy material of the sheets felt mildly prickly – then he couldn't tell. His barely taken breaths, the only sign of his survival.

There's nothing left.

The momentary fragile trust that took everything, for just a fraction, was broken on a whim.

Another loved one lost to the winds, too young and tender for the graves, too young and tender to wonder if even the ashes will remain.

Jing Yuan was supposed to die there, die at the hands of the Lord Ravager, he had everything prepared beforehand, so why. He was not supposed to be stranded on the mortal world with nothing left of his own, he had already lost plenty, what more was there to lose anymore.

For the moment, he couldn't even recognize if the dull throbbing pain from his chest was entirely the work of Cloud Piercer or not. The lingering remains of Destruction still pulsing through his chi didn't help either.

In the quiet solitude of the night, Jing Yuan's harsh breaths kept him up, the ragged pathetic sound so bitterly familiar.

If he was just a little bit faster…just a little bit faster to save the only sun left in his life.

(The other sun had already been lost to the stars, with nothing left of her other than the telltale bravery of her ill fated luck sewed into the few remaining strands of her lilac hair.)

With a bated breath, he realised that he would never see his retainer again. He would never get to see his dust blonde hair, which, despite being deftly tied up in a high ponytail, always ended up covered in dirt from the spars. The way it gleamed with a gentle sheen of gold whenever Jing Yuan combed through the knotted strands of his freshly dried hair after a long day of work, the action soothing his nerves into a pleasant buzz of tranquillity with Yanqing nodding off on his shoulder. He would never get to see the vivid shade of molten gold in his eyes either, which would crinkle at the edges with a beaming smile at the mention of a favoured sword.

People around General Jing Yuan always remarked as to how his retainer's eyes completely resembled his own, he wondered why, for he always thought that if there was someone who could rival the Sun, it would be Yanqing. not anymore, though

Confined in the cage of his short-sighted immortality, the Divine Foresight mourned. Could he have saved his disciple, his lieutenant, his retainer, his son if only he hadn't undermined the play orchestrated by fate itself? If only he hadn't trusted his life with the phantom of a man once loved and cherished.

Seeing nothing but the blurry lines of the ceiling, he dared not to blink as he let the tears cascade down by themselves, framing his face in a warmth he could only ever dream of now.

Despite being consumed by the guilt of failing yet another, he did not fail to discern the presence that breached the privacy of the room. If not for the silent footfalls, then for the tenseness permeating from the body.

He blinked once, twice.

"He was your son, too." Jing Yuan said, voice barely audible, barely held together against the lump in his throat, threatening to choke him. If not for the dead of the night, void of any activity around, the words would have been lost, blown away by the chilled breeze coming in through the windows.

With eyes still focused on the ceiling, he noticed the body wince in his periphery.

Jing Yuan never thought that it would come to this, but now? Now he wanted this person to mourn alongside him, to share the pain that tore his barely beating heart out and reduced it to shreds. But perhaps it was even more foolish of him to think that Ren would care.

If he had, he wouldn't had left, not when Jing Yuan needed him the most, not when Jing Yuan missed him so bad it hurt, a tender wound damaged again and again with no respite, with no chance to heal, to the point where Jing Yuan felt the kindling fire die within him…and he let it.

The only time he dared to show face was to kill their son, to take away the only light left in Jng Yuan's dying world.

Because what would it matter to Ren when it was Jing Yuan who had to raise Yanqing all by himself. It would be Jing Yuan, who would ever know about Yanqing's child-like antics despite the act he proudly put up for his role as a lieutenant.

It would be Jing Yuan who would remember his pleading eyes at barely the end of the month, and despite the visible disapproval he would still fulfil the wishes, just to see a triumphant smile grace his son's face for winning a war that didn't exist in the first place.

It would be Jing Yuan who would cherish his joy at the agreement of eating outside at a favourite restaurant, relishing in the simplicity of it. It would be Jing Yuan who would know of his boundless determination, his passion, his courage to overcome obstacles at such an early age, his dream of becoming the sword champion...that would remain a dream in itself.

Perhaps…if he had kept him away from the ruthless reality, and if he had just provided the comfort of a father and not the sternness of a mentor, a General, then…perhaps-

Despite being surged by the bitter feelings, he could hardly feel it in himself to move, it seemed to further drown him within the sheets instead. Perhaps it was for the best because he couldn't tell what he wanted to do with his limbs or his body anymore. His grip on reality, failing him.

Before he could choke even further on his misery, he felt a rough bandaged hand coming to rest on his forehead – just then, he finally found his body moving as he violently recoiled against the hand. If it was the tender hand of a lover before, now, it was just the hand of a murderer that dripped with the blood of his child.

Something must have been written on his face besides the silent stream of tears, for he saw the body retreat back quicker than it came to be. He wondered if he would retreat back through the door, never to show face again, just like last time.

But Jing Yuan could care less. If Ren wished to stay for some sick godforsaken reason, just to haunt him in his last moments, then he probably should. Jing Yuan didn't have it in himself to stop him, he'd rather have that same blade plunge through his heart and seal the final deal for him.

He knew the mara wouldn't be long after this, he had lived enough already, and his son was the last straw.

"Baba.... it hurts.." Yanqing said as he had coughed out a string of viscous red that shouldn't be there, not at this age, not now.

Jing Yuan remembered the feeling of pure rage dissipating only to be replaced by unadulterated anguish instead as he collapsed to his knees beside his child. There was a gaping wound that shouldn't have been there-

No, it shouldn't have been there, and yet it was.

Yanqing had laid there, in his arms, seeping precious blood into the ruined tiles of the Dragonvista Hall. Jing Yuan recalled feeling helpless as he watched the blood gurgle from Yanqing's mouth, making it hard for him to breathe. The strength in his tender face long gone as he watched the colour receding rapidly, leaving nothing but pure fear in its wake. His son was scared, scared and he could do nothing to soothe the pain.

He used to pull his son close into his arms, secure him there and read him stories or recount tales from the past at nights Yanqing couldn't sleep. He wonders if he should have paid more attention to the beating heart against him, comforting in the constant rhythm of alive, alive, alive-

His grip on Yanqing faltered as slick blood sluggishly gushed out of the wound on his tiny body. How could someone this small lose this much blood?

Before he could’ve tried to bring his son a false sense of security, the least he could've done for his frightened child, he saw his breath even out and his eyelids flutter shut against the remaining tears streaming down his face. The tears that washed away the grime on his young face only to leave tracks of evident pain behind.

Jing Yuan couldn't do anything when yanqing slowly nudged his face into his neck, with his last remaining strength, to breathe out a final…apology.

"Baba, I'm sorry....I...failed you."

Before he could retort back to dispel the thought, (How had he failed to notice this brewing insecurity? What kind of father-) he felt the body completely slump into his arms, warmth dissipating from his body already.

Oh how he wished for the cold to be from Yanqing's frost, and not from his dying body.

He couldn't remember how long he sat there, but it must have been enough for Dan Heng to approach him and rest a (reassuring?) hand on his shoulder. He might've spoken something but Jingyuan could hear nothing over the blood boiling in his veins, over the unresponsive body in his arms, pulled close to his own to at least share a portion of his own body heat in desperate hopes of convincing himself that his son was still alive. He clutched him tightly enough to probably hurt, but hurting would have been good, it would've meant that he was still breathing.

The haze eventually cleared when he felt the dam finally break in its wake.

Jing Yuan swayed forward into his lap with his hands covering his face, hiding himself from the world, from himself, and from him. He heard a loud whimper before registering an inhumane cry of pure agony, not realising that the sound was torn out from himself.

He wanted to slam his fist into the mattress, feel the wooden frame of the bed break underneath his hands. He needed to let out the pain somehow, but he could find no purchase when he felt a pair of hands firmly, yet gently, remove his tightly clenched fingers clutching the bunched up sheets. He felt bitterly vulnerable as he struggled against the firm hold, pushing him back down onto the bed, the rough material of the bandage grating against his wrists. He cried out at the cruelty that denied him the simple notion of curling in on himself, the need in his body to clutch something, someone close against him growing stronger by the second. What more could Ren want from him?

"LEAVE!” He lashed out, sobbing with broken hiccups. He hated how exposed he felt, having nowhere to hide his face.

"Leave like you always did! Leave like you were always meant to, because leaving is the only thing you are good at-"

The words promptly got stuck in his throat though, as he distinctly felt a drop of tear hitting his face. The following whimper made Jingyuan finally turn back to gaze into Ren's contorted face, his lips pulled into a wobbling snarl with his brows tightly knit together. Ren hovered over him as gold met red and more tears struck his skin as they emerged from eyes barely kept open.

Despite a faint voice in his head urging him to wipe away tears if his past lover, Jing Yuan couldn't find it in himself to be merciful for this once. He has shown enough mercy in this lifetime, he wanted to be selfish for once.

"You killed our son, Ren. It was me who had raised him, and now it again has to be me....to see through his funeral." Jing Yuan weeped, still reeling from the onslaught of guilt. “How many more Ren? How many more?”

If Jing Yuan went overboard with his demands, then he did. The patience meticulously crafted over the years shattering in mere seconds.

He saw Ren violently wince, and it…shouldn't have been as satisfactory as it was, but he couldn't deny the cruel satisfaction of watching the murderer collapse under the realisation of his own crimes. Perhaps this is what Ren wanted to feel as well when he chased Dan Heng across the universe.

Ren finally left the hold around his wrists as he sank onto the ground to his knees, his face dejectedly pushed into the mattress, going completely still despite a hand still faintly holding onto Jing Yuan's own. If it was an apology, then Jing Yuan couldn't tell.

[nevadancitizen]

-> TO LIVE ANOTHER DAY (I KNOW I NEVER WILL)

synopsis: you've always known that you're a throwaway -- another friendly kill. but when you're brought to ghost's world, you discover that there's so much more to life than defending democracy.

word count: 5.1k

characters: player! simon "ghost" riley, self-aware helldiver! reader

trigger warnings: mentions of canon-typical violence, reader is obsessed with and idolizes ghost, nudity (but not in a sexual/suggestive context)

notes: wanted to try my hand at a reverse version of the self-aware cod au. also if you're not aquantinced with helldivers 2, it's okay! it has easy-to-understand lore but i recommend watching this lore video (it's just under twelve minutes and gives a pretty good run-down on what's going on). also inspired by "to liberty and beyond" by jt music, which is inspired by helldivers 2 in turn (✿˵•́ ૩•̀˵)৴♡*

You always knew something was… off. 

Numerous ads and training modules state that every Helldiver is valuable to the continued reign of Managed Democracy and Super Earth. And yes, you’ve seen more than enough shock soldiers die for the cause – mostly freshly eighteen-year-olds that didn’t read the fine print that states that the minimum enlistment for a Helldiver is ten years. 

But that’s the thing. They died. You watched their bodies be ripped apart by bullets or torn to shreds by terminids. 

You never… died. Not really, anyway. 

It was always a split second of hot-white, searing pain, then a moment of darkness, then you were strapped into a hellpod, being sent down for another wave. Mentions of gods or other types of divine beings weren’t really heard of or taught about, so you didn’t know who to thank – or to blame – for this phenomenon. 

(You tried to mention this to your assigned Democracy Officer, but she just dismissed it with a threat of being sent to a Reeducation Camp.)

So you kept it to yourself. You have a habit of taking your helmet off and bowing your head (In prayer? You’re not so sure) and just breathing, taking in the cool thrum of your heart. You never thought you’d relate to the fascism-fueled automatons, but you only feel the warmth of… your God? your savior? when in the heat of battle.

You always think like this in between being sent down – wandering thoughts while wandering the halls of the ship. There’s not a lot of this type of time, so you make sure to savor it.

You’re in this position right now, looking down at your helmet and thumbing over the imperfections picked up from battle. The void-black visor shows a reflection of you, warped and stretched-out. Above the visor is a skull etched into the titanium – the lines are all jagged edges and uneven depths. You don’t remember doing this, but it’s there anyway. You don’t remember a lot, actually, but you’re, once again, told by your Democracy Officer not to worry about that.

You pick yourself up from that train of thought before you go too far. Instead, you put your helmet back on and start to walk the halls of the ship. 

Once you’re past the armory and terminal, you start down the steps to the sleeping quarters. (Because yes, despite being supersoldiers, Helldivers need their rest, too.) 

But then, you snipe something out of the corner of your eye. There’s… a door. A door you don’t remember being there. Light seeps through the small gap where the bottom of the door and the floor don’t meet. The sight causes the ashes in your belly that have gone cold to stir once more.

Your boots clunk on the ground as you walk over to it. It creaks open, as if inviting you. Again, you never remember having wooden doors that creak on the ship – they’re all automatic sliding metal doors, and open with faint hisses.

You push it open the rest of the way and die.

It’s that all-consuming pain that feels worse than any other time you’ve died – like your skin is being torn off the same time you’re being tarred and feathered. The black isn’t just a flash this time, but a few seconds you can actually count – twelve seconds. Twelve whole seconds. 

Twelve seconds doesn’t sound like a lot, but for you, it was fucking terrifying. 

You thought you actually died. It was almost laughable – you’ve survived automatons and terminids and being in cryo, but you couldn’t survive some mystery door? And all that effort without meeting your… you don’t even know what to call it. Guardian angel? Tormentor?

You wake up and, for the first time, aren’t in a hellpod – instead, you’re in a bed. You can move your arms and legs freely, but they feel… numb. Disconnected. 

When you start to look around, you notice everything is white and sterile. There’s a distinct sharp scent of disinfectant in the air, contrasting the musky gun oil and sweat that you know well. 

(You haven’t ever been in a real hospital – the closest is a small supply closet on-ship that was converted into a first aid station – but you’re pretty sure this is an actual hospital, like the ones back home on Super Earth.)

Your uniform is set on a chair nearby, your black-and-yellow cape draped over the back of it. Your helmet is on the cushion of the seat, facing you. Every piece is… oddly clean. There’s no dark brown dried bloodstains or sickly green bug oil.

With shaky hands (which have never trembled before – at least, not to this degree) you rip out the IV and brace yourself on the railing of the bed before standing. Your legs wobble a bit, but straighten themselves out after a moment. 

You take off the paper hospital gown and dress yourself in proper clothing. All the metal parts of your uniform click into place, and your under-armor fits like it always does – perfectly flush to your skin. 

Just as you’re about to push open the door, a man opens it. You’re stunned for a second before taking him in. He’s tall with a beard that looks like walrus tusks, and is wearing military fatigues you’ve seen in history modules. 

Looking at him causes a dull thrum in your chest, like your heart is picking up again. But it’s not him – he’s not your savior.

“Civilian,” you greet before pushing past him. You wave over your shoulder politely. “Praise be Democracy.”

The man makes a stunned noise before grabbing your shoulder and spinning you to face him. He opens his mouth to talk, but you interrupt him by holding a hand up. 

“Please, no touching the armor, civilian,” you say. “This is the property of the Ministry of Defense, as am I. If you wish to enlist, don’t talk to me, but the nearest Democracy Officer available.”

The man pauses for a moment before barking, “What in the bloody fuck are you on about, muppet?”

You huff out a laugh and lean closer to him. He’s tall, but with your armor, you’re taller. 

“Okay, civilian.” You smile underneath your helmet and speak in a lower tone. “I understand that you don’t see a lot of us, so if you want a signature, just ask, okay? I can make it out to your kid who wants to be a Helldiver, or whatever. Tell them to put that M2016 Constitution bolt-action rifle to good use.”

The man stares at you as if you’ve just admitted to secretly being an automaton and are planning to undermine Democracy to institute socialism. He slowly brings his hand away from your shoulder and walks past you. 

“Come with me,” he says simply. 

You follow him after a moment of contemplation. He causes a faint mimic of the warmth, so that’s good, right? And he can’t be dangerous. Maybe a danger to others, but not to you – not with all the armor you’ve got. You keep your hands clasped behind your back to keep from fidgeting as you walk.

“Firstly.” The man holds up a hand, his index finger raised. He doesn’t glance over his shoulder to look at you. “I am not a civilian. I’m a captain – Captain John Price of the SAS.”

“Nonsense,” you scoff. “A captain should always be wearing their armor. A Helldiver is always ready to fight for Democracy.”

You walk a little faster so that you’re not walking behind him, but next to him instead. “And besides, what is the SAS? I’ve never heard of that division, or that ship – whatever it is. I reside on the Dawn of Destruction.”

Price looks at you out of the corner of his eye, his thick brows furrowing. “It’s the Special Air Service. And I’ve never heard of these… Helldivers you’ve been going on about.”

“Good Liberty, that’s nonsense again!” You look over at Price, your eyes trained on him instead of in front of you. “Helldivers are all over the news, the radio sets, the televisions… surely you’re not that shut off? Every colony has some way to communicate with Super Earth.”

“Super Earth?” Price repeats back to you. He then holds up his hand and stops walking. “Nevermind. I don’t want to hear it.”

He gestures to the door he’s stopped in front of. “Go on.”

You glance at Price before opening the door. It’s an interrogation room, like the ones you’ve seen in old-timey movies. 

“Oh, I get it.” You look over your shoulder at Price. “This is like one of those war reenactments, right? You’ve recreated a military base from the original Earth… very impressive!”

Price shoves you into the room (with a surprising amount of strength), leaving you stumbling. You quickly correct yourself and spin around to confront him, but by the time you’re able to do that, he’s closed and locked the door. 

“Ah…” you sigh as you look around the room. It’s all concrete grey with a steel table and two steel chairs in the middle. There’s a mirror taking up the majority of one wall, one which you know is double-sided.

You walk up to it and try to talk to the people on the other side – you know there’s got to be someone there. “This is fun! Which training module is this? I thought I completed every one… is it new? Because I’ve never heard of something like this.”

After half a minute, there’s no response. You wander over to one of the chairs at the table and sit in it. You laugh a little as you rest your hands in the handcuffs chained to the steel.

“I am ready for interrogation!” you announce. “I sure hope no filthy fascist comes in and tries to cleanse me of the beauty of freedom! Because I surely won’t give them a cup of Liber-tea, and I of course won’t deliver it with my fist…!”

You tap your fingers on the table for a minute before slumping back in the chair. This is boring. Most training modules are the type where you’re run-and-gun-ing throughout the whole thing, but interrogation is boring. 

You’re sat like that for a good half hour before you hear the lock click. Your eyes dart to the door as it opens, revealing a man. 

He’s dressed in all black, with a balaclava covering his face. His russet-brown eyes meet yours through your helmet and it’s like you’ve died all over again. 

Heat explodes your chest like you’ve just got a shotgun slug blasted through your belly. The ashes have been blown away, and in its place, a raging bonfire! It roars like a dragon, and it reeks of reverence and prayer.

The man closes the door behind him and someone locks it from the outside. He barely makes it two steps before you stand from the chair, the legs shrieking against the floor.

“My God,” you say softly. 

“Helldiver,” the man greets.

“No, I…” You make your way around the table and stand as close as you can be without feeling like you’re about to catch fire. “Are you…?”

The man nods. “Ghost.”

“That’s it, that’s what you are!” you exclaim. You take a step forward and feel sweat drip down your back. “You’re the… the Ghost. The…”

The one who kept you from experiencing a permanent death? The one who kept you alive just to torment you? The guardian angel who watches your every move? The devil who prods at your ass with a pitchfork? You’re not sure what to say.

You settle on reaching out to him and saying, “You’re my savior.”

Ghost takes a step back. “Savior? I’m not so sure about that.”

“No, but – you are!” You breathe out a laugh and step forward, mirroring his actions. You bend at the knee and the back to make yourself shorter, as if trying to be smaller than him. “I am… I’m a throwaway. Another friendly kill. But you kept me alive! You brought me back after death, I remember dying so many times – y-you don’t get it, you’re my God!”

You strike, quick as a viper, and take his hand. Even though both your gloves and his act as barriers, it feels like your entire arm is engulfed in flame. Still, you keep holding on. 

“You chose me, right? You chose me to fight!” You clutch his hand tighter. “You chose me to spread Democracy, to smite the fascists and… I – I was taught that we are Democracy, not individuals, but you proved me wrong, because you chose me. 

“God chose me.”

A silence engulfs the interrogation room. You’re both frozen in time, living, breathing statues. It’s too hot. Every bone in your hand, wrist, and arm are turning to charcoal. It’s burning. It’s euphoric. 

Ghost starts to pull his hand away, but you bring your free hand to hold it in place, holding yours. “No, please.”

Ghost forcefully yanks his hand away. He drags you forward with the force, and you fall to your knees. The metal kneepads on your legs clang loudly against the concrete floor. 

You can do nothing but look up at Ghost from where you’re kneeling. There’s nothing sexual about it – it’s more like a believer kneeling at the feet of a statue of Christ. Ghost is your God, after all. 

There’s another minute of silence before you bow your head and reach up with shaky hands to remove your helmet. It clanks loudly against the floor as you drop it. 

You can feel Ghost staring at you. The fire burns hotter – the bonfire caught wind and is reaching up into the trees. The branches above are catching, aching to burn.

Tears rim your eyes as you bring your head up to look at him. His stare hardens.

It’s a sight you’ve seen in the mirror many times before. Your face is a mess of unloaded textures, a checkerboard of black and bright purple, with the exception of your eyes and the surrounding skin. But seeing yourself through Ghost’s eyes… 

It’s Rapture. It’s only you and him. A God and his only believer.

“Ghost, please.” A tear slips down your cheek. You don’t think you’ve ever cried before. It’s cool against your too-hot, burning skin. “Let me stay. I want to stay in Heaven, stay with you.”

“This isn’t Heaven,” Ghost says coldly. “And I’m not God.”

“But you are!” you snap. “This is peace and this is comfort and this is you. Don’t send me back to Malevelon Creek, don’t send me back to those godforsaken ion storms and automatons.”

Your voice grows quieter as tears run down your face and drip off your chin. “Don’t send me back to Hell.”

Ghost sighs and casts his gaze to the side. He’s thinking, and it’s plain on the parts of his face you can see. 

You bow your head and wipe your tears away to give him some semblance of privacy. 

“Fine,” he finally decides. “But stop calling me God. You’re starting to seriously piss me off.”

Your head snaps up and you fight back a fresh wave of tears as you nod. “Yes! I’ll – I’ll call you Ghost. No more God-talk, I promise.”

You huff out a wet laugh as you pick up your helmet and fasten it back on your head. “I mean, I’ll try. I promise I’ll try.”

And so it’s like that for a month. Ghost explains the concept of video games (and how you’re from one – but you figured out that much already), introduces you to his team (and forces you to apologize to Price for calling him a civvy), and gives you his blessing to be his guard (even though he doesn’t need one). 

He allows you to tail him around when he’s in a good mood. When he’s not up for it, you sit outside his door like the good soldier you are.

You’re not allowed to have weapons, on account of being… well. Your entire being. The flying spark that could cause a wildfire. The free radical that could split an atom. It’s just better to give you the bare minimum and keep you there.

And you’re more than happy with the bare minimum. You survive on scraps from the mess hall and the moments when Ghost can tolerate you being a little too close. 

But the week-long missions are nothing but pain for you. And yet, every time you meet him on the tarmac, he greets you with a pat on the side of your bicep and asks how you were while he was gone. Maybe he’s doing it to be polite, maybe he actually cares – you don’t know, and you’re willing to keep it that way. 

(In this instance, you’re blissful with your ignorance. Revel in it, actually.)

There’s a faint part of you that thinks that he views you as an abandoned puppy he found on the side of the road that just followed him home. You’re okay with that if it means you can keep being close to him and keep getting away with everything you’ve done so far. 

So you wait, ever so patient, outside his door. You don’t lean against the wall next to it – you’re always standing at attention, even when your back starts to ache from standing so rigid. You don’t know what to do with your hands (on account of having no rifle to hold) so you let them idly hang at your sides, fighting the reflex to fidget. 

There’s a knock from the other side of the door. A sign from Ghost, telling you that you’re welcome to come in.

You knock back with a soft, “Ghost?”

After a few seconds, there’s no response, but you can hear the lock click and unlock. 

You wait for a minute before you open the door and make sure to duck as you enter. (These doors are shorter than the ones back on your ship – they’re not built to accommodate someone wearing Helldiver armor.)

You shut the door behind you and take in Ghost’s room. It’s bare, like yours. Just a desk with a chair, a bed with military-issued bedding, and a closet with a dresser and clothes rod.

As if on instinct, you take your helmet off, leaving yourself vulnerable yet safe. As your time passed here, your skin has become less black-and-purple and more like a normal skin tone – like the color around your eyes has started to seep into the surrounding area. So far, it’s taken over your face and the column of your throat, just barely brushing past your collarbone.

Ghost moves away from where he’s facing his desk in his swivel chair. He takes you in. Takes your new skin in.

You’ve kept your armor clean, just how you both like it. But the upkeep of yourself, as a person, your new hair and new skin, your new nose and lips and beauty marks and imperfections…

Ghost points at you. “Your hair is greasy as hell.”

You comb a hand through your hair and your glove comes away with a bit of grease, just like he mentioned.

“It is.” You look up from your glove to meet his gaze. “What should I do about it?”

“Fucking hell.” Ghost rolls his eyes. “You’re asking me what you should do about it? Take a shower, knobhead.”

“Ah.” You look down at your boots. 

“Have you seriously not been bathing?” Ghost asks. 

“It, um…” You glance up at him, then back down at the floor. “It never occurred to me. Usually I don’t have to.”

“You’ve been here for a bloody month and you haven’t showered once?” he scoffs. 

You shrink into yourself, an embarrassed blush creeping across your face. 

“Christ…” Ghost mumbles. He stands from his chair and points you up-and-down. “Get out of your armor.”

“Excuse me?” A hand flies to the middle of your breastplate, as if cradling it to you like it’s the only thing keeping you decent. 

“You heard me.” Ghost moves over to the door to his bathroom and opens it, then glances over his shoulder at you. “I’m drawing a bath. And you’re going in it.”

You look down at your glove, at the thin sheen of grease covering it. “I… okay.”

Ghost goes into the bathroom to give you some semblance of privacy. You take a breath to calm yourself and exhale with a soft “Sweet Liberty…” 

You carefully lay out your metal armor on Ghost’s bed, leaving yourself in just your under-armor. It’s durable but thin, causing you to shiver as the air conditioning kicks on.

With light steps, you make your way over to the bathroom. Ghost is hunched over the side of the tub, his hands ungloved and sleeves bunched up to his elbows. One of his hands is under the running water, checking the temperature. 

You lean into the doorway and call his name softly. You only lean in a bit, trying to be as unobtrusive as possible.

Ghost glances over his shoulder at you, then nods at the tub. “Come on. Haven’t got all day.”

You slowly make your way in the bathroom and close the door behind you. It’s a small space, and it just makes everything all the more awkward.

“Well?” Ghost prompts. “Will you be good by yourself?”

“I mean…” You look down at the tile. “I guess.”

Ghost shuts off the faucet, then stands and wipes his hand off on a towel hanging by the bathtub. “I’m off, then.”

“But – wait,” you say softly. “How am I supposed to bathe? It’s not full yet.”

“It’s not meant to be full up,” Ghost says. “You’re acting like you’ve never taken a bath before.”

You shift on your feet, your almost-bare soles making a soft sound against the tile. Your silence tells Ghost all he needs to know.

“Come on then.” He sighs and leans back against the counter, his hands on the lip of the sink. “Strip.”

You shuffle out of your under-armor, fold it neatly, and put it on the counter. You’re nearly shaking from embarrassment, but at least it isn’t as awkward as it would be if your body wasn’t just unloaded textures. Your body below your collarbone is built well, but it’s more like a jacked doll that a kid scribbled a black and purple checkerboard on than an actual human soldier. 

Your eyes meet Ghost’s before you duck your head away in shame. 

“Come on,” he repeats. “Let’s get you washed up, yeah?”

You keep your gaze low as you tentatively dip a few fingers in the water. It’s warm, but not too hot. You slowly hook a leg over the edge of the tub and step in. It feels good – not that you have any prior bathing experiences to compare it to. 

Your knees practically buckle as you lower yourself into the water. You sit with your knees pressed up against your chest, not wanting to take up too much space even though the tub isn’t all that small. 

“Good?” Ghost asks. 

“Good,” you parrot back. 

Ghost kneels by the side of the tub. “How’s it feel? Too hot?”

“Okay.” You raise your eyes to meet his. “Feels like… when I’m near you.”

He just hums, monotone, in response. He shifts to sit more comfortably, then pats the surface of the water, sending ripples. “Lean forward.”

You do as he asks, bowing your head so that your face is close to the water. “This good?”

“Yes. I’m gonna get some water on you now.” 

You nod. Ghost cups his hand and dips it in the water before running it down your back. You gasp softly at the feeling – it’s unlike anything you’ve experienced before. It’s like Ghost’s molten touch is seeping into your skin, but instead of fire, it’s a pleasant version of sunburn. 

Maybe it feels duller and better because you’ve been so exposed to Ghost over the past month that you’ve gotten used to it, like exposure therapy? And the feeling when you first touched him was just too much, too fast…

You quickly divert your thoughts away from the theoretical and into the now. Because right now, Ghost is doting on you unlike any other. 

Water runs through your hair, and Ghost threads his fingers through the strands to make sure it gets properly wet. Droplets run down your forehead and drip off your nose.

You turn your head just a little and look up at Ghost sideways. “Is this it?”

“No.” He huffs out a laugh. “There’s shampoo, then conditioner. Then you gotta wash your actual body.”

“Oh.”

There’s a moment where the only sound is Ghost gathering a bit of shampoo in his hands and rubbing them together to create a lather. He scrubs it into your hair for about a half minute before washing it out.

You break the silence as he starts to work the conditioner into your hair. “I never got to ask – the engraving on my helmet… what’s that about? I don’t remember doing it.”

“Hm?” Ghost hums. “The skull? Dead daft, ain’t you?”

“I’m… I could only parse parts of that sentence,” you say softly. “But I can tell you’re calling me an idiot.”

“Yes. I am. You’re learning.” Ghost huffs out another laugh. “Go on, guess.”

“If I have to…” You close your eyes and lean into Ghost’s touch. “It’s a representation of your control over me? As a player, I mean. Not in… anything else.” 

You let out a nervous laugh and hope Ghost doesn’t pick up on your double meaning. But of course he does – you can tell in the way his hands pause for a fraction of a second before continuing their work. He’s too observant for his own good.

With an awkward ahem, you continue. “But that’s the same reason my callsign is Deathshead, right? Because you’re Ghost. You – you gave me your insignia.”

(You had to stop yourself from saying ‘Blessed me with your insignia’, because you promised you’d stop with the God-talk.)

“Dead on.” Ghost turns and rubs a bar of soap on a sponge, then hands it to you. “Scrub yourself. I’m not doing it for you.”

“Where?” you ask. “Like, all over?”

Ghost washes the conditioner from his hands in the bathwater and nods. “Mhm.”

You carefully scrub yourself from top to bottom. The sponge is a bit abrasive, but nice. 

(You’d much rather have Ghost wash you up, to cause the fire you’ve contained in a little wooden stove to flare out of the firebox and through the grill… but you keep that to yourself.)

Once you’re done, you wring the sponge out under the bathwater, then above water. You set it on the side of the tub and look up at Ghost, waiting for instructions. 

He meets your gaze and shifts where he’s sitting on the toilet lid. “Just relax, Helldiver.”

“Not used to this.” You pull your knees up to your chest. “Not used to having… downtime. I was always being sent down, or preparing to be sent down. Democracy was always my guide, but…”

You tilt your head towards Ghost, and he understands. 

“You are, now,” you voice the unsaid thought.

“That’s concerning.” Ghost rests his hands on his knees and leans back against the tank. 

“I know.” You look down at the bathwater and the bubbles floating on the surface. “It’s just… I’ve never felt the peace that we preach. I’ve only known fighting, only violence and blood.”

You look up and meet his eyes. “Have you ever had your legs blown apart by an Eagle Cluster Bomb? Ever been burned alive by friendly napalm? Because I have. I’ve felt my spine split because of an Orbital Railcannon Strike. I’ve been mowed down by friendly Gatling Sentries.

“But the worst thing I’ve experienced here is name-calling and weird looks,” you say. “I’ve been sick to my stomach with worry once or twice, but then I remember you’re a soldier, just like me. You’re trained, and you’re okay, and you’ll return fine. 

“I am…” You lean your head back against the tile wall and close your eyes. “I’m at peace here.”

“I get that,” Ghost says. His voice is the softest you’ve ever heard it. “How long were you deployed?”

“As long as I can remember,” you say. 

“Bloody long time, then, yeah?” Ghost says.

“Yes.” You bring your hand up and rub your collarbone, where skin meets undefined polygons. “But you’re making me human. Less Helldiver, less of an expendable piece of resurrected meat. You’re making me softer. More civilian.”

You open your eyes and look up at Ghost. The expression on his face is… conflicted. Like he didn’t know he could bring this out in someone. 

“They always said that when united under the beautiful Liberty flag of Super Earth, nothing will be able to stop or split its glorious peoples,” you say. “But you showed me that it’s better out here. That it’s… fascism, is what it is. But that’s a secret we keep from ourselves.”

You reach your hand out and lay it over where his lays on his knee. You just barely brush your fingertips over the back of his hand before grabbing it. 

(Another log has been added to the fire, and it’s covered in lichen and dried mosses. It crackles and pops, but you make sure to keep it still contained.)

“Would you believe me if I said that I hate Managed Democracy?” You laugh breathlessly. Even saying it causes a sick feeling in your stomach, like you’ll be found out and promptly dismissed. (Read: put up against a wall and executed via firing squad.)

“Yes.” Ghost glances down at where your hand lays on top of his. “A lot of people hate the government, all ‘cross the world. Don’t you know that?”

“And they’re… allowed to?” You bite the inside of your bottom lip to subdue a smile. “Like, openly?”

Ghost laughs. “Yes.”

“This really is Heaven.” You sigh out the words, an unbelieving smile crossing your face. 

“Not Heaven,” Ghost says. “Just Earth.”

He moves his hand slightly, and you take it as a cue to move away. You bring your hand back, dipping it back in the bathwater. 

“Well,” you say softly. “I think I like just Earth.”

“On just Earth, we bathe regularly.” Ghost dips a hand in the water and splashes your knees. “Now, come on. Let’s get you rinsed off.”

[c-billbaby]

Floating in the debris field of a shattered moon the Money Maker looked for all the galaxy like a derelict wreck, perhaps the victim of one of the endless wars that had burned the Inner Sphere to ash over and over for centuries. The hull of the Union class dropship was carbon scored and pockmarked with impact craters, the obvious victim of hard fighting and long exposure to the trials and travails of space travel. In the darkness exposed wires sometimes sparked against each other sending bright flashes of light into the void.

It was these flashes in the night which drew attention to the old war machine. It was easy to assume it had gone decades or more undetected amidst the heavy metal deposits of the scattered remnants of the moon until a shorting wire lit out like an electric lighthouse to the eternal denizen of the Inner Sphere.

Scavengers.

The spotlights of the Volcano lit the darkness white and cast the Money Maker into stark contrasts of chipped paint, shadow, and ruin. The much larger Outpost class dropship was the opposite of the ruined Union. Blazing fresh orange paint covered every surface and the emblem of Clan Hell’s Horses, a stallion’s head with flaming mane, proudly looked down upon the wreckage ahead as with tiny busta of its thrusters it maneuvered through the maze of stone around it.

It was truly a machine of war, bristling with weapons, its bays designed for BattleMechs and Combat Vehicles stripped bare in preparation for the meal of technology it was about to tear from the bloated carcass of the Money Maker. Its spotlights continued to caress the slowly spinning ruin until they came upon a protrusion from the armored shell that stood cancerous upon its surface.

Lashed down with ferro fibrous cable it clung to the surface of the Money Maker black and gleaming like a spider in its web. What at first seemed to be monstrous hollow eyes inbedded in a metal carapace soon revealed themselves to me the muzzles of massive cannons. The Fenris BattleMech powered upb fusion engine thrumming to life as the twin heavy gauss rifles in its chest rose, adjusted, then fired with deadly accuracy.

A pair of quarter ton tungsten slugs slammed into the cargo loading doors of the Volcano at hypersonic speed and tore it completely from the hinges. Technicians, engineers, and crew were ripped into the void, their screams both surprised and silent. From the far, dark side of the Money Maker a half dozen shadows crawled across its skin, then lit in flame and fire as the battle armor’s jump jets sent them racing towards the breach.

Across the radio channels came the cry of the Money Maker’s mistress, Gemma Orlais in her suit of power armor leading the charge. “Let ‘er have it lads! But don't break me new ship!” Then space was alight with energy blasts, missiles, and explosive shells streaking from the supposed wreckage into the pristine clan machine.

[boneapplet]

From Rust and Bone pt.13

Chronicles of the Lost Primarch

Relationship: Rogal Dorn x oc/afab!reader

Warnings: alluded to illness

Word Count: 1397

Requested tag:@noncon-photobomb @beckyninja @blukitty40k @runin64 @ilovewolvezz

Masterlist

pt 1 | pt 2 | pt 3 | pt 4 | pt 5 | pt 6 | pt 7 | pt 8 | pt 9 | pt 10 | pt 11 | pt 12 | pt 13 | pt 14 | pt 15 | pt 16 | pt 17 | pt 18 | pt 19 | pt 20

Days pass by within the agri-spire, not in peace exactly, but in a kind of uneasy calm neither of them have known in weeks. The structure groans in the wind like an old ship hull, and somewhere above, a broken vent fan clicks every ten seconds like a faulty metronome. Still, it is dry. The power systems are responding—barely. A trickle of energy keeps heat in the walls and gives the storage lights a dull amber glow.

Kessa spends much of the first day resting, her cough raspier than before. The medicine helping—some—but Dorn notices her reaching for the wall more than once, grounding herself like she might fall. She waves him off, always the same: “Not the worst it’s been.”

While she recovers, Dorn sets himself to work. Clearing old grow-trays, dismantling collapsed rail systems in the upper stairwell, and re-routing a pressure seal to close off two of the breached chambers. It isn’t his fortress, not even close—but the act of rebuilding, of doing, offers structure. Purpose.

Kessa eventually joins him. Together, they scavenge broken drones for parts and map the full spire. She shows him the collapsed lift shaft and a sealed armory she’s never been able to open. In turn, he shows her how to secure a barricade using counterweight and tension hooks. In the quiet moments—by the heat of a salvaged thermal coil, or while stitching a tear in her cloak, she talks more.

"Before I had this place, I used to sleep in old vat-pods. Some still hummed when the wind caught ‘em right. Sounded like breathing."

Dorn gives a low grunt of acknowledgement. “How long have you been doing this?”

She shrugs. “Long enough the seasons blur.”

He turns her words over slowly. “Why keep coming back?”

Kessa doesn’t answer immediately. She picks at the seam of her gloves.

Then, quietly: “Because something out here remembers. The land, the machines, even the things we buried. It’s like... if I leave it too long, it forgets me back.”

The agri-spire becomes a kind of limbo—too quiet to be danger, not quiet enough to be safety. A place of waiting. Recovery.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The days shorten quickly. By the end of the first week, the sun barely crests the ridgeline before slipping into a murky veil of ochre clouds. The air turns sharp, brittle. Every breath outside the spire stings faintly, like ash scraped across the lungs. It isn’t the worst of it—not yet—but both Dorn and Kessa can feel the shift. The world is tightening its grip.

Inside, the agri-spire becomes their shelter, their fort. They partition a section of the main chamber for sleeping, clearing the irrigation decks for water capture, and repurpose scavenged panels to reinforce the outer seals. It isn’t secure in the Imperial sense—no fortress walls, no void-hardened gates—but it is enough to hold out against the wind and most things that come with it.

Dorn adjusts to the space quickly. Working with steady, almost obsessive focus—repairing what he can, reinforcing old support struts, even building a crude training rig from a collapsed hydro-frame. He sharpens his blade daily, not because he expects an attack, but because of ritual matters.

Kessa, for her part, moves even slower. Her flare-up has passed with the medicine she’d traded for, but with the cold surrounding them, she never quite regained her full breath. Her voice remains slightly hoarse, and some days she coughs until she must sit down. She hides it when she can. Dorn doesn’t press her.

Instead, he starts doing little things—silently reinforcing the steps where she walks most, adjusting the ration layout to ease her reach, making sure the warmth is centered around their bedrolls even when he takes a colder corner for himself. Neither of them speak of it.

The first blizzard hits four days after they seal the western door. It comes in hard and fast, sweeping across the plains with choking particulate and a shriek in the vents that makes the walls shudder. The beasts below lowed uneasily, clustering in the lower feeding levels where the structure’s warmth holds out longest.

They stay inside for two days, wrapped in scavenged blankets and thick clothes. Kessa works slowly on her notes—old logbooks she keeps, detailing cave routes, collapsed vent maps, and places the earth has split during past seasons. Dorn sometimes watches her sketch with a quiet intensity, as if memorizing more than the maps. One night, she breaks the quiet.

“You ever think about staying here?” she asks, not looking up from her charcoal lines. “Through the whole season, I mean.”

Dorn is seated nearby, repairing the bracing on his scavenged vambrace. He looks up, considering her words.

“You said it wouldn’t hold.”

She shrugs one shoulder. “I’ve stayed here before. Not during a black gale, but close.”

He doesn’t answer at first. “If it holds, it holds.”

Her lips curl in a half-smile, tired but real. “Not exactly enthusiastic.”

“I’m still alive,” he retorts. “That’s enthusiasm enough.”

They fall back into the quiet again, but something has changed. Neither of them is racing anymore. No more forced marches or cliffside scrambles. Just the steady rhythm of survival, and the long silence of a world falling asleep under poisonous winds. In that stillness, something begins to settle between them—not comfort exactly, but the mutual tension of two people who know they might be the only living souls for miles, watching the world die a little more outside the walls.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

When the storm passes, they fall back into rhythm. Each morning, Dorn wakes up first. Stoking the heat vents they’d coaxed into life, carefully rationing the fuel bricks they'd traded for. Kessa waking to the warmth and the faint metallic smell of recycled air, her coughing now less frequent, though never quite gone.

The work is quiet and constant. There is no luxury of idleness—only preparation. Dorn reinforces the storage lockers into makeshift barricades for the exposed entry points. Kessa overhauls the old nutrient processors on the upper tier, tapping into her years of wrangling broken machinery with stubborn hands and low expectations.

One afternoon, Dorn finds her with both arms buried in a pipe junction, grease streaked across her face.

“It’s all corroded,” she mutters. “Water flow won’t hold if a real freeze hits.”

He crouches beside her. “Show me.”

She blinks at him, surprised. “You don’t—”

“I do now.”

So, she shows him. Slowly, methodically. He doesn’t speak much, but he watches her hands, mirroring her movements. Once, her hand brushed his while reaching for a broken valve core. Neither pull away.

That night, they share heat packs and a hard-won meal of preserved root and broth. Dorn chews in silence, but his gaze keeps drifting to her scarf—threadbare, patched at the ends.

The next day, he leaves early without telling her. When he returns, he brings back a strip of weatherproof lining from one of the lower storerooms. Ugly thing—stiff, dark green, covered in old agri-tag stenciling—but it is warm and thick. He hands it to her without a word.

Raising an eyebrow. “For fashion?”

“For your neck.”

She smiles. “Romantic.”

He doesn’t answer, but his mouth twitches just slightly. That is enough. Later, she finds him shaping the length of a pipe into a better tool grip. Crouching beside him and holds out one of her old vent masks.

“The filters are dead,” she supplies. “But the seal’s still good. Could be useful for you if the spire vents turn.”

He accepts it without question. One evening, as dusk bruises the clouded sky, they stand at the spire’s viewing slit, watching the wind scatter ash across the cracked fields.

Leaning against the frame. “Still don’t like the quiet,” she softly says.

Dorn looks at her. “You think the storms have voices?”

“Not the storms,” she retorts. “The things inside them.”

He says nothing, but the way his jaw tightens says it all.

Kessa turns to him, her tone lighter. “Still think you were built for silence.”

Dorn gives a short breath—close to a laugh. “And you weren’t?”

She snorts. “I was built to curse at broken ducts and haul beasts uphill.”

They stand like that for a while, the storm sighing against the spire walls, their shared warmth stretching out like a tether.

[room217prayer]

Tamlin’s week - Day 4 (Powers / Hair)

Day four of @tamlinweek, sorry for day 3, maybe later on I will be able to finish and post it!

But here’s my entry for day four and... EH. I had to. I hope you’ll enjoy it too. ♥

Important Info/Tags: Tamsand is the main ship. There is angst and mention of blood and violence. Both prompts are used for this fic, even if the Hair one is subtler.

Dividers provided as always by @olenvasynyt, I love them dearly.

Enjoy! ♥

As You Shine, I Darken

The screams were still echoing in his mind – the same ones he made happen as he melted and teared apart the minds of the two heirs of Spring.

Had been the ones of his mother and sister just as chilling? Have the two brothers felt the same shiver of glee in killing them?

Perhaps, the difference was that his was born in revenge – he was different.

He wouldn’t kill the defenseless. He wouldn’t kill his mother... he wouldn’t kill him.

Except his father thought differently and so he had marched to do just so.

Rhysand wouldn’t kill them – he wouldn’t – and he did try to stop his father from doing so. Against the High Lord of Night, what powers did he have to stop him?

Nothing.

He had nothing, so he begged and observed as he killed the Lady of Spring.

The chills he felt were completely different this time and he... he had watched.

Saw as her eyes turned empty looking into his and everything froze – ice in his heart – at the image of them being his green ones. The fresh newborn leaves, the most beautiful emerald broke in death.

No. Not him. Not his Tamlin.

He wouldn’t... His anger wasn’t blinding him so much to let him watch as the joyous laughter would turn into ash and poison with his howls and cries.

No. No, he won’t let that happen.

He didn’t need to do anything.

Tamlin himself didn’t let it happen.

With one hit of power, his Father – a High Lord – was killed.

Their eyes met in the destruction.

As violet happen on green the powers of their Courts flowed inside their very souls.

Changing them forever – melting them in an unbroken chain while the blood of their families dripped on the pavement, into the earth.

Rhysand felt the shadows of the Night around him but he could only see the Golden Halo of him.

And while Tamlin cried he –wanted to flee, too unstable, his mind a whirling of signals about the danger in front of him – instead crashed into him.

Wings spread open in a second, before curling around the trembling shoulders of the young – new – High Lord of Spring.

Rhysand hugged his Tamlin face with his bloodied hands, kissing him as the last drops of the Cauldron magic marked them. Light and dark in one deep red string.

Their only salvation or their doom.

Rhysand made it happen as blood rested on his tongue.

He drank it, just as his powers and cries.

He made a home for them in the deeps of his starless void.

Tamlin fought back, his teeth crashed against his before sinking in his lips, but Rhysand took hold of his hairs, his nape in a choke. Both of them drunk on their new powers as blood now flood every one of their senses.

Taste, smell and even sight and touch as violet crashed against teary and furious green. His stained hands, fingers, leaving trails of red in his golden hair.

The High Lord of night couldn’t stop from looking at his bloodied lips – the mark of his lineage staining them – thinking about how beautiful he looked marked by him. How it seemed he had lipstick on.

Drunken, the Night powers making him feel lightheaded, his mind tried to connect with Tamlin’s, searching, trying to bind deeper his hold –

The slither of a blade – and Illyrian blade – rested against the skin of Rhysand’s neck, right where his heart was pumping so much blood as the High Lord of Spring pushed him until he was on the floor with Tamlin sitting on his lap.

He let it happen, he didn’t do anything to stop him, all he did was... stare.

He could only do that, his breath stolen by the sight above him, by the young fae who once was so clear in his innocence that he still kept no matter what.

No matter what was done to him.

What was he made to do.

Now he was so bright in his golden aura and so... impure.

Stained by blood, by rage, by a hurt so deep that its roots were made of steel – a bleeding wound that would not heal.

Rhysand looked at his blonde hair – so bright as the Spring powers where irradiating from every strands – where the blood of his brothers encrusted in them. Could he smell it? Was there a sparkle of joy in his sorrow, knowing they would no more hurt him?

It didn’t matter, as the blade drew a drop of his life essence, as all he could think about was how he wanted to wash away the stains he himself left behind.

Only to cover those golden strands with his own, making so that his smell could never leave him. No matter of many time he cleaned himself.

No matter if he cut everything to the roots, having bled it into his mind where he would haunt him to the end and beyond.

In the feverish of his crumbling sanity – in the retro of it he could hear the wings of his brothers nearby – he pushed against the edge of the dagger, sitting up.

His hands an anchor on his hips, as he felt him – as he wanted to feel him more, needing to go deeper, molding himself inside Tamlin’s body and soul.

“Do it” he whispered, as it cut more of his skin as he watched how his pupils dilated in wonder and shock by his action.

As he tried to grapple his fury to sanity, as both their powers were devouring everything he was.

“Do it Tamlin. End this now”

He was letting him decide, as their family rested dead – as their blood was still warm and their bodies cold.

He was giving him his only way out, as he was back into enclosing him in his shadows, in his darkest night – his fingers touching again his hair, dancing powers meeting in the middle.

Tamlin stared, the blade stilled, ready to slit –

His mouth crashed back into his in a cry, the growl of defeat as Rhysand smiled – as insanity took hold of both of them.

As their powers exploded, the windows cracked and glass rained down.

The walls shook and crumbled.

His mind flew to the starlight pool.

The first sign of his conquest in Spring, now made whole.

And here it is my third fic, for the fourth day! ♥

I like it, but at the same time... I wanted to do more. For it to be more, because I love the concept (will forever scream about them gaining their High Lord powers at the same time) but I fear I didn't do a good job with it.

Let me know if you still liked this short fic! ♥ I will for sure come back to this, because gngngngn I need to explore eveything - and have them hatefuck (spoile: I was going to let this happen here, but, again, time and creativity were not on my side)

Happy fourth day of Tamlin's week, everyone! I hope you have been having just as much fun as I'm having! ♥

See you (hopefully again) for another Tamlin’s week day! ♥

[slytherinlives]

I Feel Nothing For You - Sebastian Sallow

Rating: G

Tags: Hurt, break-ups, denial, angst.

Words: ~700

Summary: Sebastian tries to rid himself of the lingering presence post break-up.

(This is written with a gender-neutral "ex partner" that could be considered x reader if you squint. It could also be anyone else you want to use as a stand in. I didn't go into this with a ship in mind, just wanted to write a drabble of angst.)

[Read on ao3 or below the cut]

The water pouring from the tap was cold enough to cut off Sebastian's blood flow. His breaths coming in heaving gasps as he diligently scrubbed his skin, desperate to remove the lingering touches and their scent. As if he could get underneath and wash away their memory. 

He moved on to his hair next, then his face, before grabbing a nail brush he pilfered from his sister and started scrubbing away all traces of them from his hands. 

Sebastian wanted to be a version of himself that was never tainted by the heartache he felt. A layer of chill bumps formed on his flesh, causing all hair to stand on end and a shiver to wrack through him. It made him scrub faster, harder. Diligent and harsh, whatever it took to remove fingerprints. 

After what was surely an hour Sebastian turned the water off, wrapping a towel around himself before heading over to the sink. He turned the cold water on, then started brushing his teeth just as vigorously. The taste of them had to be removed just as effectively. 

Never existed. 

He repeated in his head for hours now, thinking the more he said it the more it would be true.

Sebastian already tossed and burned every trace of them in his dorm. Every piece of clothing, gift, letter. All of it turned to ashes in the furnace that sat in the middle of the room. It was especially difficult to cast a charm to make any future correspondence from them unable to reach him, but he managed. Hopefully if they tried to send a letter, the post would be sent off to the void. 

Most people probably treated a breakup or heartache much differently than Sebastian is currently. He was probably expected to wallow in bed for days or seem more broken up than he appears. But Sebastian isn't most people. 

Never existed. 

He rinsed his mouth out and wiped away the remnants of water and toothpaste from his lips before tossing the dirty towel into the bin and headed back to his dorm. 

Everything in his wardrobe was now brand new. Sale tags still hanging on the sleeves of the new uniforms, he ripped them off as he got dressed. The bag holding his books was also new, everything that became tainted now replaced. 

Sebastian ran his fingers through his still damp hair, taking one last look in the mirror before heading out the door. Hushed whispers surrounded him as he walked past, the news spreading throughout the castle like wildfire already. He didn't care though, as far as Sebastian was concerned, the gossip was about a ghost.

Before he could enter the great hall, someone stopped him. Sebastian hesitated slightly, before turning.

"Can we pretend like this never happened?" They spoke sullenly, looking at him with tear filled eyes. A mix of regret and longing on their face. Now standing before him and begging for a second chance, to get back together.

They probably meant the argument between them earlier. The shouting, the anger, words hurled at each other so harshly they struck physical blows. Likely referring to the inevitable calling it quits. 

Sebastian swallowed at the words, thinking them over briefly before settling on what he needed. For the first time in years not choosing what he wanted. He regarded them with a blank stare. The same one he would give any stranger he didn't know. "Never happened." He finally spoke, a half-hearted smirk crossing his lips. Then he pushed past them and into the hall, walking over to take his place at the Slytherin table.

This is where the request differed. 

For Sebastian, they never met. Never shared secrets or dreams. Never stayed up late mapping the stars or talking about their futures. Never shared themselves with each other. Never explored around the castle together. Never shared jokes or laughs. 

Perhaps he was being too cruel, acting too unbothered. 

But Sebastian learned a long time ago that when something hurts, it's easier to pretend it didn't happen. Shut yourself off and turn yourself numb. Get rid of everything that reminds you of it. If there's no trace, there's no proof. If you don't feel the burn, then you're already healing.

If you don't want to feel the pain, it's easier to act like it never existed. 

[k-nayee]

CHAPTER 31. IN HIS FATHER'S WAKE

❝Not every father gets a chance to start his son off in his own footsteps.❞

Warrior M.List | Act Ⅳ

Previous | Next

˚＊˚✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ・・✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ⚔️・⚔️・⚔️・⚔️・✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ・・✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ˚＊˚

The sea stretched endlessly around him, its inky waves reflecting the faint glimmer of starlight overhead.

The boat was small, barely large enough to accommodate his frame, yet it cut through the dark waters with purpose. Rhythmic splash of oars dipping into the water was the only sound in the vast expanse as wind thread through the boy’s tangled hair.

Or rather the young man’s.

Though many still called him a boy, he had left childhood behind long ago on the rugged cliffs of Scyros. The years had honed and shaped the restless battle-hungry fire that burned in his chest into something fierce and steady.

His arms, lean and corded with muscle, flexed with each stroke, his mind miles away even as the shores of Troy began to emerge from the shadowed horizon.

The first hint of dawn crept across the sky casting the faintest blush of pink against the endless dark. Greek ships—like scattered flecks of ash against the shoreline—bobbed in the gentle current, their tattered sails hanging limp in the early morning calm.

With a deep controlled breath, he let the oars slip from his fingers, the wooden shafts settling into their holders with a soft clunk causing the boat to drift lazily in the gentle sway of the tide.

His calloused hands reached for the worn leather bag at his feet, fingers brushing over familiar objects until they found what he sought: A parchment folded and creased from weeks of handling.

He stared at it, his chest rising and falling with each breath as memories flooded his mind. His mother’s voice echoed in his head—her stories of his father, the greatest of great, a man whose name was whispered with both reverence and dread across the known world.

He unfolds the paper slowly as if it were fragile enough to crumble under his touch. The familiar handwriting stared back at him bold and confidently. His father’s words, penned with the same assuredness that had carried him through countless battles.

As a child he’d clung to these letters, each one a lifeline to the a he barely knew. He remembers sitting at his mother’s feet, the scrolls unfurling like sacred texts as she read them aloud.

But the letters had grown sparse over time. After the death of Patroclus they nearly stopped altogether.

Patroclus...

A name he’d never spoken but one that felt etched into his bones. His father’s comrade...his lover.

The sorrow in his father’s words had been palpable in those final letters, the grief seeping through the ink like blood from an open wound. He could almost feel the weight of pain. His hand tightened around the parchment causing the edges to crumple beneath his fingers.

And then, just a year before his death, the last letter had arrived. It was different from the others. For it did not focus on war, but of love.

“In the time of my end, I want you to meet her.”

His father had spoken of someone new—someone who had filled the void left by Patroclus, someone who had reignited the fire in his heart. The letter had continued with uncharacteristic tenderness the boy had never read from Achilles before.

The words had haunted him ever since, though it was the portrait enclosed that had left a lasting impression.

“She is more than just the spark who sets my heart aflame; she will be your guide. A means to help you in your prophecy.”

He reached into the bag again to pull out a the piece of tucked carefully between his belongings. It was old but the lines were still as vivid as the day it had been drawn.

Lines and shading so precise; it was as if he could reach through the page, touch the subject as it stared back at him with eyes that seemed to burn through the paper. There was strength, a fierceness. And yet there was a softness too—a warmth that his father had captured with startling precision.

You.

He traced the outline of your face with a calloused thumb as his father’s words echoed in his mind like a mantra that pushed away the fear and uncertainty.

“My love...my heart...”

With a final glance at the portrait, he carefully folds and tuck it back into his bag alongside the letter. The Son of Deïdamia tightened his grip on the oars and began to row once more, the boat slicing through the water with renewed determination.

He would reach Troy.

He would fulfill his prophecy.

And when he found you, the woman who had claimed his father's heart, he would find the strength to face whatever Fate placed before him.

"...my ____."

*･:*:★☽✧⚔️✧☾★:*:･*

The morning sun sat high in the sky pouring over the camp like liquid fire.

The Greek camp was alive with movement—men tending to their wounds, sharpening blades, reinforcing the defenses after yet another skirmish at dawn. A small group of bold Trojans had attempted a bold but foolish attack.

It was a reminder that Troy, even weakened, was far from defenseless.

Inside the council tent, the tension was thick enough to choke on. You stood with Penelope at your right and Diomedes to your left while from across Menelaus sat at with brows furrowed deep in thought.

Maps and parchments lay scattered across the wooden table, flames of oil lamps flickering against the canvas walls. The discussion had gone back and forth for what felt like hours with no consensus having been reached.

“The Palladium must be taken,” you state firmly, leaning forward with hands pressed against the flat surface. “So long as it remains in Troy the city will never fall. We all know this.”

“I don’t disagree,” Diomedes countered, hazel eyes fixed on you unwavering. “But you and Penelope going together? It’s reckless.”

“Who better than us?” Penelope challenged with a tilt of her head. Her voice was calm but there was a steely edge beneath it. “Stealth is needed, not brute force. Who among us is better suited to infiltrate Troy than two who have spent years navigating the shadows?”

Diomedes exhaled sharply. “That’s exactly why you shouldn’t go together. You’re both Ithacan Commanders. If something happens to you, your men will be leaderless.”

“And you think I’d let you go alone?” you shot back, raising a brow.

“I’m more experienced in this sort of mission,” he replied tightly. “And you’re too important to risk. If something happened—”

“Something always happens,” you interrupt. “War is never safe. We’ve all risked our lives countless times. I’m not sitting this out.”

He opened his mouth to argue, but Menelaus raised a hand, signaling for silence. His dark eyes studied him before flicking to you. “Then what do you suggest?”

You straightened. “I go in with him and Penelope stays here. That way we won't lose both if the mission goes south.”

A long heavy pause stretched between you before Diomedes finally gave a slow nod. “…Fine.”

You and Penelope shared a look. And though she wasn't entirely pleased with the outcome, she knew it was best. She simply folded her arms, exhaling through her nose. “Be careful,” she muttered.

You smirked. “Aren’t I always?”

The conversation should have continued—details, plans, strategies—but before another word could be spoken, the sound of commotion erupted from outside. Voices of soldiers rose in volume, urgent and disjointed, growing louder by the second.

You and the others exchanged glances before instinct took over. Your hands moved to your weapons, gripping the hilts as you strode toward the entrance. You were the last to exit, turning swiftly to retrieve your axe from where it leaned against the wooden frame of the tent.

As soon as you stepped outside, the sunlight hit your eyes, momentarily blinding you. Blinking rapidly to adjust to the sudden brightness, that’s when you saw it—

Men gathering. Whispering. Watching.

There was no attack, no enemy breaching the camp’s borders. And yet the soldiers still stood apprehensive, their eyes trained toward the sea. Their murmurs filled the air like the buzzing of insects.

Your heart thumped hard against your ribs as Polites came rushing toward you with something between shock and bewilderment.

He struggled to form the words, his mouth opening and closing before he managed to stammer, “Ithacan troops...s-spotted someone. Coming from the sea.” He swallowed thickly, eyes darting back toward the waves. “He’s alone.”

Alone?

Your brows furrowed. A lone figure approaching the Greek controlled shores was...unusual.

“Polites breathe,” you ordered “What’s happening?”

Polites opened his mouth again, but the words stuck, his breath hitching as if lodged in his throat. You shook your head, raising a hand to his shoulder and giving him a firm shake. “Spit it out! What's w—”

“____.”

You froze.

The air around you felt thinner as if the very earth beneath your feet had vanished in an instant.

That voice. Why does that voice... Why does it sound like—

Your limbs felt too light, almost weightless, as you slowly turned toward the source.

Soldiers parted like waves before a ship as a figure walked through the crowd with measured strides. The sun was at his back, casting his form in a halo of gold, the light bending around him like a favor of the Gods themselves.

And when you saw him, truly saw him—

Your stomach dropped.

The world tilted.

A small instinctive step back made the sand shift beneath your heels. At your side, both Penelope and Diomedes exhaled sharply, as if they too had forgotten to breathe.

Menelaus was the first to mutter aloud with disbelief. “…What in Hades’ name…”

But you didn't hear him. Because all you could do was stare.

His green eyes shone under the morning sun with an unmistakable mischievous glint. His golden curls, longer than you recall, shone brilliantly as it fell in the same wild way down strong broad shoulders.

And that smile—

That arrogant, infuriating, breath-stealing smile that had once made you flushed with irritation and want in equal measure.

The axe slipped from your grip and fell to the ground with a dull thud beside you. Polites barely avoided losing a few toes, yelping as he stumbled back.

The figure—the man before you—smiled wider at your reaction; his voice smooth and unshaken as he took another step forward.

“____,” he said again, his voice laced with something you couldn’t name. “Second-in-Command of Ithaca’s troops. It’s an honor to be in your presence.”

His words barely registered. Your body was frozen, locked in place as your mind struggled to catch up with what you were seeing.

He looked just like—

Your lips parted but no sound came. Your lungs burned, your heart raced, and for a moment you wondered if you were standing in a dream, some cruel trick of the Gods.

Because there, standing before you in the flesh, was—

“…Achilles?”

The man before you blinked. His green eyes flickering before a sheepish smile tugged at the corner of his lips. He shifted his weight slightly, rubbing the back of his neck in a way that was so eerily familiar it made your stomach twist.

“My name is Neoptolemus actually,” he corrects gently.

Without hesitation the young man gave a formal precise bow; his posture rigid with discipline and respect, yet carrying an ease that made it seem natural—as if he had practiced it countless times before.

“I am Neoptolemus,” he introduced steadily despite the lingering hints of amusement in his expression. “Son of Deïdamia, Daughter of King Lycomedes of Scyros…” He straightened as he gave you a knowing look. “...And of Achilles, Son of Peleus of Phthia.”

Your breath hitched.

Achilles had a son?

The words barely settled in your mind before you heard a loud grunt and the sound of metal scraping against metal.

Agamemnon elbowed his way through the gathered crowd. The soldiers parted instinctively, some stepping aside until he finally reached the clearing with an exaggerated shove and mutter of curses under his breath.

His bronze-plated armor was still scuffed, dust and dried blood smudged across his bracers and breastplate. But none of that mattered as he happened upon seeing Neoptolemus’ face.

For a long moment there was nothing but stunned silence.

Then, in a voice loud enough to carry across the entire camp, Agamemnon audibly gasped and blurted out: “Are you shitting me? Motherfucker just multiplying?!”

A few men snorted and someone choked on their own spit trying to hold back laughter, but most of the camp was still too frozen in sheer disbelief.

Neoptolemus’ smile thinned slightly before he let out a slow measured exhale. He turned his head just enough to side-eye Agamemnon, his expression unreadable but his posture still polite.

With a slight tilt of his head, he offered the Mycenaean King a curt nod before calmly repeating his introduction, this time for Agamemnon’s benefit.

At this point the Commander of Greeks was already making his way over to where you, Penelope, Diomedes, and Menelaus were standing at the entrance of the council tent.

Up close, his expression shifted from disbelief into curiosity; releasing a low whistle as he looked Neoptolemus up and down. “Well shit,” Agamemnon muttered, folding his arms across his chest. “How old are you kid?”

Neoptolemus, ever composed, responded without hesitation. “I recently turned eighteen last month.”

Agamemnon let out a bark of laughter, jabbing an elbow into Menelaus’ side, which the Spartan King gritted his teeth through.

“You hear that brother?” Agamemnon grinned. “Barely a man and already walks into our camp like he owns the place. Looks isn't the only thing he inherited aye?”

Menelaus, looking entirely unamused, deadpanned, “Don’t you have a battle to oversee?”

Agamemnon waved a dismissive hand. “Already over. We won...as usual.” He paused, giving Neoptolemus another once-over before muttering, “One thing about Achilles huh...he’s got some strong genes.”

Menelaus exhaled through his nose, unimpressed. “Seems that way.”

Though he couldn’t argue with it—there was a faint flicker in the younger Son of Atreus’ face as his eyes observed the boy. If there was any part of him unnerved by the resemblance he didn’t show it.

Penelope finally snapped out of her initial stupor with a shake of her head before stepping forward. “Ithaca’s Queen, Penelope.” She gave a polite incline of her head. “It is an honor to meet you Neoptolemus of Scyros.”

Neoptolemus brightened instantly as a boyish grin crossed his face. “I know who you are my Lady. My father spoke very highly of you in his letters.”

Penelope’s lips parted slightly at that, brows raising just a fraction. “He did?”

But Neoptolemus’ gaze had already shifted back to you. His expression softened entirely. His voice, quieter, warmer as he added “...Both of you.”

You couldn’t hold his stare any longer.

There was something about him—about the way he looked at you, the way he carried himself, the way his smile lingered just a little too long—that made your chest feel tight.

You could still hear his laughter in your ears...

Still remember the heat of his touch...

The way his arms held you together when you were falling apart....

Your hands clenched at your sides.

Without word, you bent down to retrieve your axe from the ground. And then, without acknowledging anyone, you turned on your heel and started walking away.

Back toward the Myrmidon section of the camp. Back toward Achilles’ tent. Back toward anything but this.

The silence that followed was almost suffocating.

Neoptolemus shifted uncomfortably, the edges of his confidence wavering for the first time since stepping into the Greek camp. He glanced at Penelope, Diomedes, and Menelaus, his brow furrowing slightly before he hesitantly asked:

“....Did I...say something wrong?” His voice held an almost puppy-like uncertainty—unsure if he had somehow ruined his first impression. “If I offended her I—”

Penelope grimaced as she exchanged a look with Diomedes who merely exhaled through his nose and shook his head.

“You’re fine,” Penelope assured him, her voice slightly awkward. “Trust me, if she didn’t like you...you’d know.”

That didn’t seem to fully reassure him, but Neoptolemus nodded slowly, still watching where you had disappeared.

Penelope sighed before turning to the others. “Excuse me,” she muttered, then took off after you, leaving Neoptolemus standing there—more lost than he had been when he first arrived.

*･:*:★☽✧⚔️ BONUS  ⚔️✧☾★:*:･*

The council tent was thick with the scent of burning oil lamps and wine, the air carrying the low murmur of men deep in discussion. The day was nearly done—golden light of sunset seeping through the seams of the tent.

Seated at the head of the room sat Agamemnon who was already well into his wine, reclining in his chair with his chin propped on one hand; the very picture of boredom.

His golden breastplate had been exchanged for a fine embroidered tunic, though the sight of him in clean clothes did little to soften his arrogance. He took another lazy sip as Diomedes continued his report on the day's affairs.

“—and so,” Diomedes concluded, “we commend our King for leading his men in the defense against this morning’s Trojan skirmish.”

Agamemnon let out a noncommittal grunt, swirling his drink before taking another sip. But before any further discussion could take place—

The tent flap suddenly lifted and a hush fell over the room. All eyes turned toward the entrance.

You and Penelope stepped inside.

The change in the air was immediate.

A hushed murmured through the space, though it quickly died down as the Commanders and Kings took in your expressionless face—the mask of quiet control that betrayed nothing.

Beside you, Penelope’s hand never left your arm, her fingers firmly gripping your arm as if to anchor you in place.

Neoptolemus visibly perked up in his seat.

The young warrior had remained silent for most of the earlier proceedings, yet now he was undeniably attentive, his green eyes locked onto you as you stepped further inside.

There was a subtle, almost eager energy about him, though he masked it well—shoulders squared, his expression carefully neutral.

You paid him no mind.

Instead, as you moved through the tent, your gaze found Diomedes. The seasoned warrior met your stare, his scarred features remaining unreadable. After a moment he gives you a faint nod.

With nothing said, you and Penelope take your seats.

Diomedes turned back to the matter at hand. “Now—onto business.” He shifted his gaze to Neoptolemus who immediately rose to his feet at the unspoken command.

“This war is ending,” Diomedes began addressing the room, “and for it to happen we must ensure Troy falls.” He folded his arms. “We cannot do that as long as the Palladium remains within its walls.”

A quiet murmur of agreement rippled across those gathered.

It was Menelaus who leaned forward next, fixing Neoptolemus with an expectant look. “Your father spoke of a prophecy surrounding your arrival,” he said. “Tell us everything.”

Neoptolemus didn’t hesitate.

“I learned of it from Achilles himself,” he confirmed. “Specifically after the death of Patroclus.”

At the mention of Patroclus you exhaled slowly. No one noticed.

Neoptolemus continued. “Troy will only fall with the aid of Neoptolemus of Scyros and the Bow of Hercules. He had written to my mother of it and she told me when I came of age. I spent my years in Scyros training with the best warriors on the island—I have fought in battles across the Aegean, gaining experience against pirates and rogue warriors.”

His words were well-rehearsed, practiced—but there was truth in them. The earnestness in his voice was unmistakable.

And yet, despite the passion in his speech, his eyes drifted to you, as if searching for approval, for a hint of pride.

“My father’s last letter spoke of his time running out,” he admitted, voice laced with something heavy and regretful. “He told me my time to arrive in Troy would come soon after.”

A beat of quiet.

Diomedes gave a slow approving nod. “You seem to be capable enough,” he said. Menelaus hummed. “And you have your father’s strength.”

Neoptolemus straightened. “Whatever plans are made,” he declared, resolve in his expression, “I want a part in them.” His voice was firm.

That caused a pause.

Diomedes and Menelaus exchanged a look, considering the weight of the young warrior’s request. But before either of them could answer a soft sigh broke the silence.

All attention turned as you slowly rose to your feet.

For a moment you didn’t speak. Instead your gaze drifted across the room, across every face present; the Kings, the Commanders, the weary Generals.

“....So much has been taken in this war.”

The words hung heavy in the space.

You let your fingers drift over the worn handle of your axe before clenching your fist. “We have fought. We have bled. And still, we are here.”

A flicker of something sharp passed through your gaze.

“How many years have passed since we left home?” you asked lowly.

No one answered.

“They grow old while we remain here,” you murmured. “Waiting...fighting....dying.”

A slow inhale. A steadying of your shoulders.

“It is time to finish this.”

And then you looked at him...

Neoptolemus.

The one who bore his father’s face. The one who, in another life, might have been nothing more than a passing name in a distant letter.

A soft breath left you as you gathered yourself, forcing every last emotion down to where it couldn’t touch you.

And then, finally—

“…Are you ready?”

Neoptolemus stiffened, his green eyes going wide for a fraction of a second before he quickly masked it with a determined nod.

"To fulfill your destiny..." Your voice was quiet, but there was no mistaking the weight behind it. "To destroy Troy once and for all."

The answer came immediately.

“Yes.”

His voice was calm, but the enthusiasm in his eyes was almost childlike, barely concealed beneath the guise of a warrior. He caught himself quickly, clearing his throat in an attempt to look more composed.

You tilted your head slightly at his reaction. The faintest hint of a smirk curled at the edge of your lips.

“Good.” You took a step closer, your tone lightening just slightly. “Because I hope you make for a believable servant girl.”

The moment the words left your mouth Neoptolemus’ entire face fell.

The tent was dead silent for half a second before—

Agamemnon barked out a laugh, nearly choking on his wine.

[matrixbearer2024]

Suffering

Are you really even living? Or simply surviving doctor? When had immortality turned from a blessing into a curse? More importantly, did you really even care? Or did you only care because you're now all alone?

AKA; Ford internalizing now that he's alone and invulnerable to the sands of time. The same can't be totally said for his mental state though. After all, he's only human.

Songfic based on "Suffering" by Amelie Farren written for my Time Lord Twins AU!

I'm very delulu for my AU- so have a sneak peek into Doc's future with this song fic I wrote. I have three distinct moments for Stanford as the Doctor in my timelord twins AU:

the Doctor that neglects — when he was young and was only a Doctor thanks to his PhDs

the Doctor that regrets — present, where I normally create content for him and where his blog and RP are currently situated

the Doctor that forgets — the far flung future where he outlives everybody and completely embraces being a time lord

I'll be tagging these posts accordingly, but I'd love to talk about his lore much more if you guys are interested!

The sun had long dipped below the edge of the cosmos, surrendering to the sea of stars that now spilled across the boundless sky. Within the TARDIS, Stanford stood against the vast backdrop of that eternal night, the hum of the ship's machinery a constant, soothing drone beneath the cacophony of his thoughts. The silver pill case in his hand reflected the light of a nearby console, gleaming with a sterile brightness that made his skin crawl. He turned it over between his fingers, contemplating the small white tablets that represented his fragile tether to equilibrium.

  I've thrown aside my worries, but the cares they bite me back. I'm taking twenty vitamins a day, for the iron I lack.

  Stanford grimaced, the corners of his lips pulling downward as the familiar bitterness welled up in his throat. He tilted his head back and swallowed the pills dry, feeling them scrape down his throat as if rebelling against their purpose. Sustenance without substance, that was his life now. He no longer needed food to keep going, no longer needed the simple pleasures of living— he only indulged when he could remember to, when the aching loneliness hadn’t numbed his senses entirely.

  I don't need food I don't need sleep, don't tell me that I'm wrong! I don't know what I'm doing— But can you please just play along?

  The first decade had clawed at him with relentless, gnawing grief. Each year afterward seemed to find a new way to hollow him out, chiseling deeper into the marrow of his being until there was nothing left but the echo of old anguish. He would lie awake in the captain’s chair or pace the TARDIS halls, every footfall a metronome counting out regrets. Days would bleed into each other, a palette of shadows smearing over any sense of time. He’d stopped counting birthdays after the 200th, the last one he’d shared with Stanley.

  Why count when the numbers stretched toward an infinity he wanted nothing to do with?

  My head is made of flowers, and my body made of steel. Cause I can't think— Can't hear— can't feel!

  Stanford’s fingers flexed, muscles tightening and releasing as if testing the reality of their presence. The memories surged forward like a wave, unstoppable and suffocating— hands covered in grime and ash, eyes stinging from the smoke that rose like specters around him, the taste of iron sharp on his tongue. He had touched the stars, commanded them, until they burned him to cinders. His mind was an overgrown thicket now, vines of regret and bitterness weaving through every synapse, thorned reminders of a past he could neither escape nor amend.

  When he closed his eyes, he could see them— faces etched into the void, voices calling out in anguish as they fell. Each step, each choice, stained his path with crimson guilt. He felt like a monument to grief, immovable and ever-decaying.

  They say a picture's worth a thousand words, but I disagree. I can't imagine anything Cause I can't see!

  The doctor let out a breath that shuddered its way past his chest, eyes straying to the holographic stars projected across the TARDIS library. What he once chased with fervor and ambition had turned into an unyielding prison. The titles of “healer” and “teacher”, which once filled him with pride, now felt like weights dragging him deeper into the abyss. What good was saving worlds when he couldn’t save his own heart from splintering?

  I won't break the ice though what else Is there to do? Cause suffering in silence is better—

  He could scream, tear at the walls and curse the very fabric of the universe, but he didn’t. The tears had dried up centuries ago, leaving him a stoic effigy among the whirring consoles and glowing monitors. The charade was familiar— a smile that never reached his eyes, words measured and wrapped in carefully crafted ease. He was an actor in the greatest tragedy ever told, where the curtains never fell.

  Than suffering with you.

  The doctor’s gaze dropped to the leather-bound journal resting on the armrest of his chair, untouched for days. The pages within held maps of stars, sketches of constellations, and annotations written with a frantic hand, desperate to capture even a fragment of meaning. The room around him felt cavernous, echoing with memories of Dipper’s quick wit and Mabel’s bright laughter. He could almost hear them, almost see their shadows darting between bookshelves.

  But it was only him, just him, marooned in this endless stretch of time.

  So I jumped out with a parachute, but the ground caught me off guard. Karma for the rules I break, the ones I disregard.

  The temptation to go back, to step through rifts that bent reality and visit those moments, was irresistible. He’d done it before, left the TARDIS hidden among the trees and traced the familiar paths of Gravity Falls with trembling steps. His heart would clench as he watched past versions of himself and his twin squabble over nonsense, the cheery voices of his grand niece and nephew not long to join. Their voices carrying over the wind with the kind of ease that only came before everything shattered.

  I can feel the tension rising. What fate is worse than this? Stuck between the ones I love—

  He’d watch them, hidden in the shadows of his own memories, a ghost to a life he once lived. Cosmic rules be damned. He’d listen to the echoes of their laughter until it felt like it would break him, that painful, beautiful sound that underscored just how far he’d fallen. But even then, he would not dare approach, would not dare alter a single second.

  And the ones I miss.

  Stanford’s eyes shifted to the flickering flames of the library’s fireplace, its light casting restless, dancing shadows across the room. The orange glow did little to warm the chill embedded in his bones. How many Fords, across how many dimensions, would have craved this? A sanctuary lined with knowledge and power, the respect of entire galaxies balanced on a single whispered name— ‘Doctor.’ And yet, it was all as hollow as the space between the stars.

  My head is made of shrubbery, and my body made of stone. Cause I can't for the life of me— reap what I have sown!

  He tightened his hold on the armrest, the leather creaking under his grip. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. It never should have come to this— sailing across time, trapped in a machine that hummed with its own form of loneliness, while he wore a mask that no one ever questioned. It felt like being both the sculptor and the statue, shaping and trapped by the life he’d carved out.

  They say a picture's worth a thousand words, but I disagree. I can't imagine anything, 'cause I can't see!

  The weight of immortality, once so alluring, now coiled around him like iron shackles. What did it matter if entire legions paused at the utterance of his name? What did it matter if beings far beyond human comprehension flinched at the sight of him? It meant nothing without the echoes of laughter, without the warmth of shared stories and the unspoken understanding of his family’s presence beside him.

  I won't break the ice though what else Is there to do? 'Cause suffering in silence is better—

  He filled the silence with companions, short-lived stars that burned bright and fizzled out too quickly. They were there, and then they weren’t. Time was relentless, wearing them down to memories while he stood unchanged. Each one chipped away at him, left him a little more hollow. His only true constant was Stanley, and even he didn’t know the full story. Ford wouldn’t let him, couldn’t let him see that far into the dark.

  Than suffering with you.

  The TARDIS thrummed, a soft, sympathetic sound that vibrated through his bones as if it, too, mourned the lives they’d shared and lost. Ford exhaled, the heaviness in his chest pressing down like a stone. He could carry this, he would carry this— because if there was one thing he’d learned in all these centuries, it was that some battles are never meant to be shared. Some wars are fought in silence, against an enemy that wore your face in the mirror.

  And if the burden grew too heavy, well— he was the Doctor. He would bear it alone.

  He had to.

  I try to sink and never float.

  Some days, the weight was manageable, a familiar companion that settled over him like a well-worn cloak. But tonight, the burden felt insurmountable, pressing against his chest until each breath tasted sharp, like the metallic tang of blood from battles fought too long ago to matter and yet too vivid to forget.

  Stanford’s eyes turned to the viewport, where the stars blinked back at him with their indifferent light. Once, those points of light had been symbols of promise, of adventure and uncharted paths. Now they were cold eyes watching as he drifted— an eternal voyager, bound by his own choices and the mistakes that clung to him like barnacles on a shipwreck.

  Cause my head is underwater.

  The doctor’s fingers found the edge of his sleeve, gripping it tight as though it could anchor him. The silence roared in his ears, the kind that made old wounds ache with the sharpness of fresh cuts. Memories of splintered wood and that familiar bite of ozone filled his senses. The frantic fight, the blinding light, the hole that had torn through his chest— a wound that should have marked the end. He let out a shuddering breath, feeling phantom pain coil around him like a serpent.

  I’m here by choice by my own hand.

  The most damning part was knowing that every fracture, every scar, was carved by his own hand. He’d walked into the chaos willingly, driven by an insatiable need to prove something— to whom, he couldn’t even remember anymore. A need that had led him to make choices that, at best, haunted him and, at worst, had cost him everything.

  I’m a lamb sent into slaughter.

  He ran a hand through his hair, disheveling the silver strands that had once been a youthful umber. The weight in his chest grew heavier, spreading through his limbs. He remembered the moment he’d sealed his fate with a handshake and a grin, signing away pieces of himself to a demon who promised everything and gave nothing but ruin. Even now, the jeers of that one-eyed triangle haunted the corners of his vision, mocking him with every beat of his undying heart.

  I’m aware of my own body.

  Every nerve ending screamed in protest as memories flared to life. The repair box’s nanobots— an endless legion that buzzed beneath his skin— worked tirelessly, a ceaseless reminder that he wasn’t wholly his own anymore. Some days, he could almost feel them moving, an itch he could never scratch. His hands curled into fists, knuckles turning white as he resisted the impulse to claw at the sensation, to rip it out and make it stop.

  I can feel beneath my skin.

  But he didn’t. He never did. The discipline of centuries held him captive, a slave to his own stoic facade. He swallowed hard, letting the tension dissipate as much as it ever could, settling like sediment at the bottom of his soul. The fire’s light flickered over his features, casting deep shadows that made his face look carved from stone.

  I can wash away my insecurities.

  He stood abruptly, the sudden motion sending a wave of dizziness through him. The doctor steadied himself against the back of the chair, eyes closing as he drew in a breath. The act was as much a ritual as any he performed— a way to wash the fractures of his spirit, to convince himself that he was still whole. But deep down, he knew.

  But can’t wash away my sin!

  No amount of time, no act of heroism, could ever cleanse the burgundy that stained his hands. It was a truth that gnawed at him, a constant shadow that whispered during his moments of quiet. He turned toward the shelves, running a finger over the spine of a book he’d read a hundred times but never truly absorbed. Knowledge without purpose— just like him.

  They say a picture’s worth a thousand words, but I disagree! I can’t imagine anything—

  The holographic stars in the library blinked and swirled, shifting constellations that once spoke of wonder and exploration. Now, they were a cruel reminder of all the places he’d been, all the faces he’d left behind. He raised a fist, hesitated, then let it fall to his side. He couldn’t even find the anger to break the illusion.

  Cause I can’t see!

  His vision blurred, not with tears— those had dried up long ago— but with the weight of exhaustion that pressed down on him like a vice. Every accolade, every whispered praise, fell flat, their meaning washed away by the tides of time and repetition. The applause of civilizations felt no different than the hollow sound of silence.

  I won’t break the ice though what else Is there to do?

  The cold chill crept into his veins, a familiar companion that had shared his endless nights. Yet, he dared not crack the veneer he’d cultivated— that smile, that reassuring nod. It was a mask, as impenetrable as the TARDIS walls. To break it would mean shattering the delicate balance that kept him standing.

  Cause suffering in silence is better—

  Stanford’s fingers brushed against the journal again, the touch almost reverent, as if it held the answers he’d long given up searching for. The one story he couldn’t write was his own— each word caught in the tangle of what-ifs and could-have-beens that ensnared his mind.

  Than suffering with you!

  He swallowed back the ache, pushing it down to the depths where it simmered and seethed. To bear it alone was better; it was safer. The doctor would stand, resolute and silent, a guardian of time burdened by its cruelest truths.

  And as the night deepened, the stars outside continued their silent vigil, unmoved by the man who carried the weight of universes in his lonely fractured heart.

Tell me what you think about these two! I've got more drabbles in store for them aside from the content already on both their blogs @gftimelord & @gftimelordstwin! Also posted here on Ao3!