#because this pain has been wrought against him too

[eloquentsisyphianturmoil]

Maedhros built up a high pain resistance from Angband; particularly to the burning sensation. Considering how low he thinks of himself, it’s likely he expected the Silmaril to burn him. He didn’t think he was redemptive, he thought I can take it.

Part of why Maedhros acts so viciously is because that’s how life treated him. I can take it if my brothers die. I can take it if I’m damned for eternity. I can take it if everybody thinks I’m a monster.

He’s proud, and he’s suffering. He won’t back down, he will succeed or be martyred.

[wynnyfryd]

Trailer park Steve AU part 58

part 1 | part 57 | ao3

@steddie-island said i wasn't allowed to cut this lol. cw: angst, canon typical horror, mentions of minor character death

“Lucas called me a ghost today.”

Steve almost laughs, bitter and sharp. Sure. Why not? What’s one more ghost in his passenger seat?

He doesn't really want to talk to her right now, if he's honest. It's been fifteen minutes and she still hasn't apologized for trying to rob him, or explained where they're going, or what spooked her, or why this car ride was so urgent that he had to risk his job for it — a job he actually needs, considering his, well, everything. She's hardly said anything beyond the occasional "turn here" or "next left" while sulking with her forehead pressed against the window.

But he can tell she has something she needs to get off her chest, so he swallows his annoyance and offers, "Yeah?"

"Yeah," she says back. Doesn't elaborate.

He gives her another minute to gather her words, watches her open and close her mouth a few times in his periphery, but nothing comes out. She scoffs at herself and abruptly changes the subject. “Eddie was being extra… well, extra today.”

“Was he?” Steve asks, his bones itching under his skin. He doesn't want to talk about Eddie. Doesn't want to think his name.

“Yeah, he, uh- he was kinda manic? He was, like, running all over the cafeteria and starting shit with Jason Carver...” And he's only half-listening, anger simmering as she goes on and on, because she promised that Dustin didn't put her up to this. Said that this wasn't some bullshit excuse to get him to talk about Eddie or hang out with Eddie or think about Eddie or kiss and make up with fucking Eddie, and now she's just talking about him, and it-

And it hurts; god, it still just hurts—

"....Then he started rambling about how he can’t wait to get the hell out of here when he graduates.”

Searing-stabbing-burning-sharp. Steve clutches at the flare of pain in his chest, the crushed soda-can feeling where his heart's supposed to be. His head pounds. He follows her next direction onto a winding, tree-lined road, the canopy suffocating overhead, and his skin feels too dry — too tight, too small, shrink-wrapping him inside of it, because he knows where they are now. Knows the tilt of the rusted lamp shade, the shape of the weather brick paths. He's tasted the metal tang of this stop sign in his nightmares.

Fuck. Fuck.

"Cool," he grits out as he drives through the cemetery gates. Past stone and wrought iron, past the empty central fountain. He hasn't been here since July. “Good for him.”

“Steve-"

“Why are you telling me this?" he snaps. He throws the car in park under an old oak and turns to glare at her, barking a frustrated, "Huh?"

Immediately, he feels bad for raising his voice. Feels even worse for the way she flinches away. The naked fear on her face, her hand reaching for the door. He takes a long, deep breath and lets it out slowly through his nose. “Sorry. Sorry. Just-" There's a leak inside him somewhere; some infected, gaping hole, and his stupid heart keeps pumping all his blood into the wound. "Why are you-?”

“Look,” she says sharply, "I know it sucks. To talk about him." She's staring at the rows of headstones up ahead, her face gone steely with determination, her shoulders squared, her big eyes wide and a little wet when she turns to meet his gaze. “But whatever you were— whatever happened, it just… it really messed him up.”

Good. "You sound like Dustin."

"Maybe Dustin had a point."

"Since when?"

She throws her hands up, nostrils flaring. "I'm trying to tell you that I think he still cares!"

“Yeah? He’s got a seriously fucked up way of showing it if so!”

“Yeah, well some of us don’t know how to show it!”

And oh.

Oh.

Silence blankets them like dust. Eyes locked; harsh breaths. This has nothing to do with him and Eddie, does it?

Lucas called me a ghost.

Steve sighs and slumps forward, his forearms on the wheel, his chin resting on his wrist. The late afternoon sun is warm through the glass, and his head gives another nasty throb as he looks out over the hill, at the polished stones glinting in the golden hour rays.

His dad is buried here.

A lot of people are.

“Hey,” he murmurs, rolling his neck to look at her. The skin under her eyes is red. "Sorry for yelling."

She sniffs quietly. "Me, too."

He reaches over and gives her hand a quick squeeze, keeping his voice low and gentle. "You know you can just talk to me, right? Max, talk to me. Please.”

Her bottom lip quivers. “It’s nothing, okay?” She sinks down in her seat, crossing her arms to shield herself. “Shit’s just been… it’s just been weird all week. Like- like bad weird, and I don't know if I'm just going crazy, or— I mean, maybe Ms. Kelley's right, maybe's it's just— but it feels like…”

"Like what?"

She holds a hand out flat in front of her; flips her wrist over slowly so her palm faces the sky.

Steve's blood runs cold. He thinks of his own nightmares: the weird visions, the headaches, the persistent haunted feeling.

"I don't know anything for sure," she insists, rushing to reassure him before he can fully start to panic. "Seriously, don't freak out; I haven't, like, seen any gates or anything, it's just— bad dreams. Nose bleeds. I don't know." She hoists her backpack onto her shoulder. "I thought coming here might help."

He catches her by the arm, raking his eyes over her face, looking for any signs of danger. "Is there anything I can do?"

She shakes her head no and tugs free of his grip, and then she's slipping out of the car, letting the door fall shut behind her, and Steve watches her crest the hill while sirens wail inside his head.

—

part 59

tag list in separate reblogs under '#trailer park steve au taglist' if you'd like to filter that content. if you want to be added please comment and let me know (must be over 21; please either verify in the comment or have your age visible on your blog)

[pellucid-constellations]

Hey!!! I just finished reading song of Achilles and I have been crying for the better part of the last hour while reading, hence in serious need of some Bucky comfort. So how about college or lumberjack Bucky (cuz they’re my favorites) who don’t really understand the whole fuzz over books but still holding his girl while she sobs her chest out out about a book (you can change the book of you want), hot tears down her face, ugly crying yknow?

It’s okay if you don’t want to :)) Have a great day 💕💕💕

Pairing: lumberjack!bucky x reader (can be read separately from undisclosed, but also a little reference to it)

A/n: Okay sooo this was so sweet and I had to write a drabble for it!! All this angst I've been writing needs some comfort! :)

~~~

He hears the crying first. 

It’s a terrible sound that constricts his chest each time it meets his ears. Bucky would like to consider himself partially responsible for your tears becoming a rare occurrence, so when he hears them, he experiences an array of emotions—fear, panic, a twisted sort of heartbreak. 

At the front door of his home, Bucky strains his ears to confirm what he’s already dreading. Because maybe you weren’t crying. Maybe you were sick? That wasn’t much better, but at least it was a more concrete issue. 

When he hears the tissue box and the loud meow from Alpine—the closest thing to concern he’d ever heard from a cat—Bucky doesn’t even take his coat off before he’s barreling into your bedroom. 

You startle, puffy eyes darting up to him as he takes up space in the small room. 

And he’s devastated. You hadn’t looked like that in a long time, all tear-stained cheeks and frazzled hair. Bucky considers the multitude of reasons you could be so upset, but then decides it doesn't matter. Not when you’re looking at him like that. 

“Oh, honey,” he coos. His socks make soft sounds on the carpet as he walks over to you, but the action only sends more tears down your face. Bucky could collapse. “Sweetheart, what happened?” 

You don’t say much at first, opting to bury your face into his chest the second he makes contact with the bed. It’s too warm in here for the amount of clothes he’s wearing. Bucky doesn’t really care. You keep crying—Bucky keeps running his fingers through your hair. 

Each sob that leaves your lips sounds more broken than the last, breaking Bucky down bit by bit. He wants to fix this, make it better, but Bucky has never been good with words. He’d been trying, for you. He will try now. 

“Tell me what happened, sweet girl?” he mumbles into the skin of your temple, lips hesitant to leave your skin. He was always better with physical communication. He was also the best at loving you like this. 

Your breathing gets choppy as you try to calm down. Shallow puffs of air meet the stitching of his sweater, and he rocks you as a way to coax a more steady pattern into your lungs. Even though he was wrought with panic, you were okay. Bucky had you, so you were okay. 

“He—he died, Buck,” you eventually choke out. “He died and then there was no—there was nothing—” your words cut off again as more tears soak his chest. 

“Who?” he stresses, although his tone doesn’t give that away. “Who, honey? Someone you know?” 

“No,” you sob. The sound knocks the air from Bucky’s lungs. 

Taking inventory in his head, that means all of his friends are safe, all of your friends. It means your awful family is alive as well, and while that doesn't matter much to him, at least he knows it isn’t the source of your strife. But the pain in your voice, the way you were limp against him and fighting for air. 

Bucky couldn’t understand. 

“Tell me who. What has you so sad, hm?” he tries, voice dropping into an even gentler tone. 

You dig your fingers into Bucky’s jacket, pulling away after a moment. Bucky reaches for you, trying to chase your figure because he wasn’t done trying to make this better, he needs to make you better. But then you slap something into his lap and he’s confused again. 

“Them,” you all but sob, turning back into the material of his jacket. 

Bucky wraps an arm around your shoulders as he inspects the book on his thighs. He’s still lost, but your crying has morphed into sniffles so he asks, “What was that, sweet girl?” 

He’s packing it on with the endearments, but seeing you like this is brutal. 

“In the book,” you explain. “They were so in love. And then he died. And afterwards—Bucky it was awful.” 

Oh. 

A book. 

This is manageable, to Bucky. You’re not in pain and he can handle this. 

He hauls you closer into his chest. You shuffle until your frame is enclosed by his. Bucky’s size had always been something he found inconvenient until you came into his life. Because after that, he found it was good at making you feel safe. A way to protect you from anything. 

Even… a book? 

Surely a book. 

“Hey, it’s alright, I got you,” he hums.

“Never die,” you whisper, and Bucky's mouth twists uncomfortably. 

“I won’t.” 

[kaedekolya]

clarence and his counterparts: man or monster?

So we were talking about Clarence’s new android SSR (Faint Night Light) in the LBC discord server, and it got me thinking about the monster allusions that seem to be a common thread across Clarence’s main stories. Then we discussed the diary entries from his White Day event, and it occurred to me that this monster imagery also ties into his modern-day counterpart – and with that, this post was born.

In other words: is Clarence a man, a monster, or somewhere in between?

[ SPOILERS: Clarence’s main stories and Chrono Theatre diaries. This meta analysis is structured as story-specific sections, namely Godheim, Eden, and the modern world, so you can skip over the world(s) you haven't read yet. No Awakening spoilers, don't worry! ]

- ☽ -

Godheim: Archmage Clarence

First, let’s talk about Godheim Clarence. As the Archmage, he bears a heavy responsibility upon his shoulders – to oversee the Magi Tower, to fight the Glacial Butterflies, and, ultimately, to protect the country and its people.

In order to fulfil this duty that he has chosen to undertake, Clarence seals his heart and shuts others out. He denies his emotions, and resents himself for having these emotions, to the point that he disparages MC for “[acting] impetuously” and belittles her capabilities when she shows concern for Amelia’s wellbeing. Archmage Clarence’s impassivity is his shield against the emotions he views as a hindrance.

Yet he was not always this way. Clarence is a casualty of cruel circumstances, a tender soul torn apart by trauma. When MC is confronted with the truth of the mages’ magic, having witnessed a mage die before her very eyes, she notes that “[there] is no pain or compassion on Clarence’s face,” because “[this] is a sight he has seen all too many times before.” Decades of watching his fellow mages succumb to the Glacial Butterflies that nest inside them, and decades of having to end the lives of mutating mages under his purview, have conditioned Clarence into numbing his heart to such pain. How else could he have stayed sane, after a century of bearing witness to suffering wrought by his own hands?

Archmage Clarence’s disposition is initially described by MC as an “[icy] presence,” but this is the facade that he projects as a defence mechanism, not his genuine self. Clarence is so accustomed to the chill of the Glacial Butterflies within him that he has taken on the frost as a personality trait, believing that his frigidity defines him. He does not view himself as a human capable of warmth; instead, he thinks of himself as a mutant, as an icy monster.

Even so, Clarence cannot deny his innate inclination towards kindness. When he notices that Amelia isn’t feeling well, he tells her to sit in the carriage. When Amelia’s temperature drops, he casts a spell to warm the shivering child up, even as he grumbles that he’s wasting his time and magic. When Amelia’s death is imminent, he tries to send her off in the gentlest way possible, then grants her final wish by conjuring a connection to the water mirror. Clarence may insist that he does not care, but his actions reflect his compassion.

It is this very kindness that steers him towards a path of selfless sacrifice, for the sake of his country and its people. The life of a mage may have been forced upon him, by the man that gave a gravely injured child no other option but the potion that would transform him, yet Clarence learns to harness his power for good. He spends his youth eliminating Glacial Butterflies and protecting the village of the snow plains, and despite the harsh conditions of the path he now treads, he does not hold a grudge against the family that sold him off and thrived in the resulting profit. Instead, he returns to check on them from afar, and when an onslaught of Glacial Butterflies attack, he protects them with every last bit of energy within him.

Still, his family’s betrayal left an indelible mark on his psyche. Back when he’d been given the potion, he’d resolved to succumb to his injuries rather than drink it. Despite his instinctive desire to live, MC notes that his “will to live [had been] virtually non-existent,” because there is “[no] despair greater than being betrayed by your own family.” The young Clarence had not seen a reason to live, when his family had forsaken him. It is only when MC saves him, urging him to live on, that he resolves to survive and repay this debt. Each time MC encounters him in her voyage through time, he is on the verge of death, and each time, his dwindling will to live stems from his despair over those he could not save. What ultimately keeps him alive is the vow he swore to his saviour.

This characterisation is one that carries through his immortal lifespan. Clarence does not live for himself; he lives for others. Whether that means risking his life to defend a village, or sacrificing himself in a ritual to save the country’s inhabitants, the underlying premise is the same – Clarence lives for the person who saved him, and for the promise he made to them. He allows others to form negative opinions of him based on the assumptions they’ve made, in order to keep the secret of the ritual and the Glacial Butterflies from them, because their scorn towards him matters less than their safety. He closes himself off from others, never permitting them to reach out to him, because he cannot allow companionship and compassion to distract him from his purpose. He “[cannot] afford to be sentimental,” because he cannot have anyone or anything clouding his judgement. Better to be the enemy of the state that saves it, than the friend of the state that cannot do anything as it crumbles. 

It is ironic, then, that Clarence’s devotion to his promise leads him from striving to live and fulfil it, to voluntarily dying for that same promise. His life, his existence itself, is secondary to the promise he has made. He will live to protect the world for his saviour, but if the only way to protect it is to die, then die he shall. Perhaps he views it as a penance of sorts, an atonement for the sins he’s committed. Perhaps he believes the new world would be better off without a monster like him.

For all his calculative callousness and stoic solitude, Clarence is deeply self-aware. Not only is he conscious of the suffering he inflicts and the ramifications of his actions, but he also ruminates upon his sins until they turn to guilt in his gut and self-loathing in the deepest recesses of his soul. He does not turn a blind eye to the pain he witnesses; instead, he looks it straight in the eye, internalises it, and forces himself to feel nothing at all.

Clarence may appear to have no qualms about exploiting people and reducing them to cogs in a plan greater than its constituent parts, but his interactions with Amelia prove otherwise. Right before he sends her off on what is meant to be a suicide mission, his carefully-crafted defenses slip, and he asks whether she hates him. Clarence believes that he has failed to live up to the Archmage’s title, that he has fallen short of being a “guiding force for all the mages” and a “protector.” He condemns himself for his callous strategies and merciless manipulation, since he has been treating people like chess pieces and “using them as [he sees] fit.” He disparages himself for “[standing] by on the sidelines, safe and sound.” He believes others hate him because he’s given them all the reasons to, because he deserves to be hated, because he, too, hates himself. All this while, he fails to recognise that he has taken on the greatest sacrifice of all – the burden of leadership, of decision-making, of being responsible for all the blood on his hands.

This downplaying of his own suffering, alongside his disregard of his own well-being, is what drives Clarence to self-sacrifice time and time again. When a theory about the Glacial Butterflies begins to take shape in his mind, he does not test it out on one of his mages, because he does not view them as expendable despite what he claims. Instead, he uses himself for his experiment, slicing his chest open and bearing the agonising pain in order to ascertain the truth of the magic within him.

On the verge of being overcome by the Glacial Butterflies, despite having prepared for this eventuality by shackling his limbs, he makes one last selfless request. “My Lord, you must kill me before I turn,” he entreats, willing to relinquish his own life for the safety of others. Even when Philip protects him from the Glacial Butterflies, refusing to kill him, Clarence believes that there is no place for him in the future that his Lord envisions.

Decades later, he still echoes this same sentiment. “There is no future without sacrifice,” he tells Lars, and he does not see himself as part of that future, does not see himself as deserving of that future. Archmage Clarence thinks of himself as a monster, not a man, and a monster is better off dead than alive.

It is a revelation, to him, that Amelia does not hate him. MC does not hate him. Lars, Alkaid, the mages that carry on the legacy of the Magi Tower, none of them hate him. They do not view him as a monster; they view him as a martyr, a protector, a saviour. Someone who did his best, and gave his all. Archmage Clarence leaves behind a legacy through his sacrifice, spurred by the human heart he still harbours deep within.

- ☽ -

Eden: Falcon Clarence

Next, we have the Falcon Clarence of Eden. The lone ranger of the desert, the mercenary that eliminates Sandswimmers with impeccable precision and works with no one else.

“A bait that only knows how to cry is a burden,” his mentor tells him, and Clarence internalises that into his cognitive framework and guiding compass. It is “the first lesson Liore taught [him];” that he must prove his worth in order to live. His scent lures the Sandswimmers to him, and so he must make himself useful by seeking out danger.

Valued only for his utility as bait, Clarence learns that his worth is determined by his fighting skills. With no other way to survive, he becomes a NEOS by fusing Sandswimmer gems into his body. Clarence pays the price of this acquired power through the gradual erosion of his memories, but that is far from the only thing he has lost. His decision to accept the integration of these foreign, beastly objects into his body has changed him irrevocably. He thinks of himself not as a human, but as a mutant being only one step away from becoming a monstrous Lost. Still, he endeavours to “remember [his] humanity,” because he refuses to become a “mere weapon [that knows] nothing but destruction.” Falcon Clarence understands that he is, by definition, a monster, but he refuses to relinquish the last shreds of his humanity.

In his first encounter with MC, he is rational and pragmatic as always, scrutinising her motives and seeing no reason to work together. Years of solitude, with no one else to depend on, have honed Clarence’s reflexes into an “instinct for self-defence.” Yet his reaction to MC’s request reveals that his solitude has been shaped by circumstance, not entirely by choice. When MC explains her reason for seeking out Eden, even though it does not sound particularly convincing, Clarence accepts it as sufficient and agrees to lead the way. Despite the potential risk of allowing a stranger close, he offers MC a ride on his motorcycle. Subsequently, he continues to help her out, defending the children’s shelter and giving her the gems he’d collected, even as he refuses to follow her any further.

Falcon Clarence claims that he works alone, but everything he does is for the sake of protecting others. He fights in the desert to protect the shelters from Sandswimmers, and he fights in Eden to protect Lin and the other NEOS from the Lost. He brings MC to the NEOS Association, so that she can rest for a night and learn essential skills from Lin. He knows that the night is dangerous, so despite his own preference for working alone, he ensures that MC has a community of protection around her.

Even as he dismisses everything and everyone else as burdens, his actions speak otherwise. Despite having met MC for only a single day, he offers his assistance to her time and time again, from rides on his motorcycle to filling water bottles with her. He could easily leave her to fend for herself, but he chooses not to leave her behind even when that would be the easier way out.

Perhaps the reason Clarence refuses to work with other people is that he’s afraid. Afraid of dragging them down, afraid of becoming their burden. He fears that history will repeat itself. He cannot bear to lose someone he cares for again, so he refrains from caring about anyone at all. Each time Clarence chastises others for being a hindrance, he is reproaching his past self for his inadequacy. Each time he risks his life to protect others, he is atoning for his failure to save his mentor.

MC says that she understands how Clarence feels, because “acting alone means nobody will be hurt because of [him].” In a way, acting alone also protects himself from being hurt. It is a defence mechanism born from his past, when he had to “learn to accept [his] losses” from a young age. He couldn’t afford to grieve Liore for long, not with the constant threat of the Sandswimmers, and so he could do nothing else but “live on with what memories [he] had left.” He’d forced himself to harden his heart to his emotions, but he could not suppress them entirely.

Clarence blames his moment of weakness, of emotional folly, for causing Liore’s death. It was her humanity, even in her final moments as a Lost, that held her back from killing him and caused her to die. He regrets his choice to this day, and perhaps it is this survivor’s guilt that pushes him to fight harder until he reaches the brink.

It is this same guilt, alongside his resolve to not lose anyone else he cares for, that drives him towards self-sacrifice. When he realises that MC needs a soul stone – his soul stone – to open the door within Central Control, he unflinchingly raises his gun to his head, as if it were the natural and logical decision to make. He is ready to offer his life without a moment’s hesitation, because that is the utility he can offer in this moment, in order to keep MC safe and help her achieve her goal. She has given him a reason to fight, and he will die trying to fulfil it.

Ultimately, it is his encounter with MC – and the companionship which blooms from it – that saves him. Without demanding anything in return, she cries for his pain, fights by his side, and shoulders his burdens with him. Clarence doubts his humanity, even as he holds fast to it, since he is all too cognisant of the monstrous traits within. In turn, MC’s unwavering trust reaffirms the humanity within him, reminding him that he is worthy of living.

Falcon Clarence may not be fully human on a biological level, and he may still succumb to the effects of the monsters within him from time to time, but he has managed to preserve his heart and his humanity. His tale is one of healing, of opening up, and of learning to value himself for who he is and not what he can do.

- ☽ -

Modern World: Clarence

Finally, let’s circle back to modern-day Clarence. At first glance, he’s the calm, collected, and capable Student Council president, who always seems to have affairs in order and circumstances under control.

Then, in his Chrono Theatre diary entries, we learn that he had a psychiatrist observing him from a young age, due to his gifted aptitude and exceptional intelligence beyond that of his peers. This revelation sparked a discussion in the LBC discord server, which spurred this message of mine that then became the basis for this meta post:

Clarence is well-versed in decorum, but that doesn’t necessarily mean it comes naturally to him. It’s likely that he learned social etiquette by picking it up from observing how other people behave, so he knows the appropriate responses to give and the socially-acceptable ways to carry himself. However, because this social understanding is not an innate trait but a learned one, there are often times when he doesn’t recognise the need for social niceties, and instead his instinctual response – founded on his internal logic – comes through.

One example of this can be found as early as his second interaction with MC, after she paints an artwork of him:

The polite thing to do would be to express interest in or appreciation of the finished product, regardless of one’s actual feelings towards it. However, Clarence “doesn’t show the slightest interest” in MC’s painting. Does this mean that he doesn’t care for it, and doesn’t see the need to put on a pretence? Quite the contrary. Instead, it’s because he thinks he doesn’t have anything useful to offer in response, and thus he stays silent.

Here, we see a disconnect between how Clarence understands the world, and how other people tend to view it. While most people would appreciate receiving praise or validation, Clarence doesn’t particularly see the need to receive either, and thus doesn’t immediately think of giving them to others. Rather, he takes a more pragmatic approach, focusing on utility; a piece of work deserves feedback for the effort poured into it. However, as a law major, he does not have sufficient knowledge or expertise regarding art. As such, he believes that his feedback would not be useful, and thus it is better not to say anything at all.

This ties into how Clarence views himself as his roles, and the functions he can serve. He understands that he has worth, but he evaluates this worth through his services as the Student Council president, or his contributions as a law intern. When he assists others, he doesn’t think of it as going out of his way to help them; instead, he views it as part of his rightful duty.

As a result, Clarence doesn’t view himself as simply “Clarence.” Rather, he thinks of himself as Clarence, the Student Council president; Clarence, an upperclassman; Clarence, a friend. If he can fulfil someone’s needs through a role that he holds, he will do it, even at the expense of himself.

We see this most prominently in Clarence’s “Break Time” R card story:

When the senior who’s supposed to interpret for an academic speaker falls ill and fails to attend, Clarence steps up to fill their shoes last-minute. William notes that Clarence can be counted on to show up whenever and wherever he’s needed, and MC agrees that he’s “the only one who’s up to the task.”

However, what most people don’t recognise are the sheer lengths Clarence will go to in order to fulfil his duties. On top of his regular responsibilities, filling in for the interpreter caused Clarence to “[burn] the midnight oil” preparing for the speech, and taking care of the sick speaker meant that Clarence could not sleep for two days. He doesn’t recognise that he’s constantly going above and beyond, because to him it’s a given, but he is in fact pushing himself past his limits, and past the line that most people would draw.

It’s interesting to examine MC’s thoughts here, because she interprets Clarence’s willingness to take a nap as a rational understanding that he needs to rest in order to keep functioning. However, this only happens after MC coaxes him into taking a break. If she hadn’t intervened, Clarence would have continued pushing himself until he completed his task – he was already at “the brink of collapse,” and he “only agreed to sleep after [MC] practically begged him to.” Clarence prioritises his responsibilities to the point that he does not recognise his own needs, and thus neglects to take care of himself.

Although modern Clarence doesn’t think of himself as different, or as anything less than a person, it’s evident that he views himself as the roles he fulfils rather than simply as who he is. In turn, this mindset is reflected in his behaviour, which then shapes other people’s perceptions of him. This is how Clarence becomes characterised as the aloof and intimidating Student Council president in the students’ eyes, even though he cares so deeply and helps out so much; most people are unable to look deeper and see Clarence as the person that he is, because he perceives and presents himself through the lens of his roles.

As such, other people often view Clarence as different from themselves – as if he’s operating on a different wavelength, or existing on a separate plane entirely. Modern Clarence’s genius sets him apart from his peers, but more than that, his perspective of himself winds up alienating himself from other people. Clarence views himself as like others, but others view him as unlike them. He blends in well enough, but he doesn’t quite fit in; he has a place in society, but he doesn’t quite belong.

- ☽ -

Clarence, across time and space

Out of all the Clarences thus far, modern Clarence is perhaps the most well-adjusted, and this reflects the importance of having a support system. Godheim Clarence and Eden Clarence were isolated from a young age and survived alone throughout most of their lives, whereas modern Clarence had family and friends around him. He may not have had the most conventional childhood, but he grew up with his older sister Jaclyn and his close friend Luca, and he also had his psychiatrist Ford observing and monitoring his development. Subsequently, after he enters St Shelter Academia, he gains a circle of friends he can rely on, such as William, O’Connor, and, of course, MC.

Expanding upon Clarence’s St Shelter Academia bonds, we see that Clarence has people around him who genuinely like him for who he is, and are willing to support him unconditionally. O’Connor affectionately refers to Clarence with a nickname – “Shi-kun” in the Japanese voiceover, or “Little Si Lan” in the Chinese one – and for all his devious teasing, it’s clear he looks out for his Student Council successor. As for William, he may whine about Clarence’s by-the-book discipline, but his clumsiness and complaints do not preclude him from helping out when needed. For all that Clarence often chastises William, he still relies on him to assist with Student Council matters, and he knows William is someone he can trust.

Compared to these two, MC is a relatively newer connection, but her bond with Clarence runs deep. Right off the bat, she’s able to meet him on his level and banter with him, and he lets down his guard enough to subtly tease her for trying to trick him. As their relationship develops, Clarence grows to trust her, sharing his inner thoughts and admitting his vulnerabilities. MC is a safe haven for him, and she understands him on a level deeper than most. While the other students may fear Clarence for his aloof disposition, or hesitate to approach him due to his detached rationality, MC sees the earnest sincerity woven into his actions and the warmth laced through his words. Others may think of him as an unfeeling robot or a terrifying monster, but MC loves him for the human that he is.

There’s a subtle but interesting juxtaposition here, in which Godheim Clarence and Eden Clarence – both possessing monstrous mutations within them – view themselves as monsters while most others do not, whereas modern Clarence – wholly human – views himself as human while most others do not. All three Clarences are keenly aware of what constitutes them, allowing this biological understanding to shape their perception of themselves, but they do not recognise that their actions paint a different picture to others.

Regardless of the world he inhabits, Clarence constantly straddles the line between man and monster. His selfless nature and dutiful diligence often lead him to self-sacrifice and superhuman feats, creating the illusion of a monster – but beneath this facade lies, always, the heart of a human.

- ☽ -

thank you for reading!♡

if you have any thoughts about this post, i'd love to hear them! responses are always welcome, and my ask box is open~

up next: android clarence, and the inevitability of tragedy. where is the line between human and machine? stay tuned for my thoughts on clarence's awakening main story!

[arabaka]

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ miguel o'hara x spidey!fem!reader. CONTENT WARNINGS: oops, all berries (i.e. angst) no smut but minors/ageless blogs go away. depictions of traumatic events. insinuations of anxiety and ptsd. WORD COUNT: 1.4K PSD CREDIT!!! ˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ love note from the author: this is PART 2 to PURGATORY but you can read this by itself ig... i'm not your mom ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Okay, let’s actually try to get through this, shall we?

My name is – Actually, not important. 

I was bitten by a radioactive spider… But something tells me you already knew that. Wait, how many of these have you sat through? Holy shit– that many?!

But can any of those guys say they’ve been through space and time, universe after universe, only to get stranded in a total vacuum void? 

You try to bang your head in exasperation but with nothing to cushion you, you end up pulling enough full-body revolutions to make an Olympic acrobat jealous.

Cut to a stretch of groaning that follows you around like a white flag.

Because it sure as hell feels like it’s high time to give up. He always did say you never knew when to quit. You didn’t see it as a bad thing then but now… With a little zero-gravity perspective… 

No, no, no– the last thing you want is to give him the satisfaction of being right.

This phase comes and goes. You call it the I-can’t-not-hate-you-you-sent-me-here-in-the-first-place stage. 

Grief is fluid, okay?

You despise it all the same. Because when you’re like this, all you can think about is him. Him and the last time you looked into those jaded crimson eyes. 

There’s the silver lining you were looking for when it comes to your multiverse communicator finally giving out.

At least you never have to see how heartbroken he looked ever again, perfectly recreated pixel-by-fucking-pixel.

Now if only your actual memory would degrade the same way.

Because you still see it when you close your eyes, you see it all. The strike of terror flashing like lightning in the reflection of his dilated pupils, having come as a harbinger of a terrible, terrible, irreversible decision. The taut coiling of the fists he keeps at his sides, his claws coming in– not because he can’t help it but because he feels he deserves it. 

“Miguel !!!! What the fuck?! How could you do this to me!?” You wail, lungs rotted with rage as you punch haplessly against the cocoon swiftly crystalizing around you. Panicked and like a caged animal, your eyes frantically scour the ceiling for an escape but you can only see your wild desperation repeated back to you in the many rubied eyes of the Going-Home-Machine.

I knew that was a stupid fucking name for you.

You never thought you would be on the other end of this wretched thing, be the little fly caught in its web and when you look at Miguel, eyes wrought with a pain too much for even Spider-Woman to bear, you look pitiful like prey too. Your chest spasms with a choked, “I…” Your fists, weak with emotion, unfurl and give way to open palms. Your breath ragged, when you pick your head back up at Miguel you let him have it.

“I loved you.” You say it with canines bared with poisoned malice, rage finally boiling over into heated rivets of tears down your cheeks. 

And Miguel, he’s never looked more destroyed. 

You swallow a sob, gulping so hard it rocks your chest. Your bottom lip warbles. You’re not good at this tough guy routine.

You never were.

“You can’t let it get to you.” Miguel’s voice, direct and to the point, precedes him in echoes as he makes his way to the high corner you’ve wedged yourself in.

Angling your body away from him, you avoid your superior’s gaze. Superior, because right now he’s not your boyfriend. He’s your commander. 

“You’re terrible at comforting, has anyone ever told you that?” You call back, deadpan tone as good a deterrent as any. You sniffle, your throat clenching when you try to stuff the remainder of your cries down. When you finally wad up all your feelings for later, you turn back to face him with a mock look of happiness on your mask. “Who said I’m letting it get to me? I’m not letting it get to me. Sounds like you’re projecting.”

And because he’s your boss right now, not your lover, he sighs in frustration. “Mierda... I’m trying to help you.” He says with two fingers pinching the skin between his knitted brows after his headgear dematerializes. “You’re going to get burnt out at this rate. You know we can’t save them all. We’ve been through this.” 

Your body coils into itself, trying to self soothe but it’s not working. Miguel’s voice starts to fade into the background, the cacophony of architecture collapsing and screaming, my god the screaming, overtaking your everything just then. 

“You need to get past this–”

“Fucking hell, Miguel– Could you stop acting like my boss for one fucking minute and just be my boyfriend?!” There’s no denying how savagely ragged the last mission made you now that you’ve ripped your mask off. Your eyes are red and puffy, swollen from the tears you thought were safe to shed. Your lips are littered with little slivers of cuts from biting down too hard when you first tried to keep the devastation from bubbling up to the surface. 

His body stills, as does yours.

You’d never seen Miguel cry. Not until that day.

It wasn’t bawling. It wasn’t even whimpering. It was a single drop that ran down one cheek, you saw it for a fleeting second before he rushed over to hug you, his hulking body cradling yours in what you thought was love.

But you’ve realized since then that it wasn’t out of love. It was out of grief. Grief because he had to let you go. You weren’t strong enough for this.

And he wasn’t strong enough to watch you go through it again.

Or so he thought. But no, true agony was watching you now, jailed in a prison of his making. 

True agony would be spending a lifetime away from you.

“Stop the machine!” Miguel’s order rasps in his throat, a prominent vein down its column bulging and only worsening when Margo doesn’t move as fast as he would like. Frustrated and scared, Miguel rushes to the maze of computer mainframes, his hands a blur as he hopes just one, any one will abort a process already…

94% of the way in.

“Miguel!” Margo’s voice finally comes into focus, “Miguel, you have to stop– the machine–”

“You can either help me or get out of the way.” 

Margo stops but that isn’t good enough either.

Big hands, far too roughly, grab at her shoulders and toss her aside in a frenzy. He can fix this. He can. 

“Miguel!” 

Even the whites in his eyes are splotched red when he turns back to you but finds you weren’t even looking at him.

Your face to face with a machine on the fritz, the massive technological arachnid drawing too many strands from too many places, mixing timelines to override another– corrupting the chrysalis it had nearly finished making.

“I can fix this, Miguel but you have to– Miguel, stop!” Margo’s screams are devastating, shrill and choked as she tries to remedy the situation but her fingers go limp. Limp because she knows. 

There’s no fixing this.

The spider’s arms start jerking sporadically, its long limbs with metal claws ripping the timelines it just crossed. The connected strands start to glitch, the bot’s failsafe commands trying to pull through but it can’t fix what it can’t stop.

You watch in horror, too scared to move much less breathe, as the glowing lines stretch and tear, their dimensions ultimately being warped by…

A black hole.

“Miguel, wait–”

Your hand instinctively reaches out, memories of all the times he’s caught you just like this flashing in your mind like a flipbook animation. Only, he can’t save you this time. 

No one can.

Thaaaaattt’s enough emo for one day, I think.

You tuck your knees in, slowly folding into yourself as your spin cycle finally comes to an end. Your chest is wound up tight, your heart drumming so loud you feel it in your eardrums. You just want this to end.

A sob creeps up the column of your throat, your eyes already seared red with the tears you refuse to cry. In a rush of emotions, far too many for you to isolate, you rip off the communicator band around your wrist and send it flying to nowhere.

At least, that’s what should have happened.

Instead, your accessory’s open-ended trajectory, well–

Meets an end.

A black hole appears from what looks like a ripped stitch, its growth unstable and its edges weathered. You have to investigate, it’s the first anomaly you’ve seen in this vapid world and possibly your only way back home.

Home. 

You imagine Miguel.

So you dive, not knowing where this will take you but…

The bad thing’s already happened. How much worse can it get?

[saintmurd0ck]

our loss

masterlist

pairing: matt murdock x reader

summary: matt doesn't really know what to think, now that you're not his anymore

warnings: breakup, established relationship, sadness and grief, crying, feelings of numbness

a/n: i'm going through something. please bear with me.

Matt doesn't know what to say. How to respond. Or how to communicate his feelings; words, thoughts, desires and damnation all left unspoken.

He replays your voicemail more times than he can be bothered to count, because for the moment, it feels like that's all he has left. He knows it isn't entirely true, because you're still here — living, breathing, in the apartment two blocks down and to the left he's become so familiar with — but you're not his. Not anymore.

He knows your routine intimately, being that it's a Thursday night. Usually, you're out at dinner with one of your hometown friends, ordering the same thing every time, adorned with your favourite red lipstick that you'd leave on the sides of his neck. It scares him that he doesn't quite know what you're doing now. He could always take his cane and meander towards the city, taking a route he's committed to memory, letting his brain wander but his feet carry him subconsciously to his destination. Then, he could simply listen. Drown out the wails of the city, the hopes and dreams that manifest and shatter in the same minute. 

He could focus on you, and the salt distilling in the air, your body-wracking sobs, or the kind of silent cry that has your mouth open in an unending, soundless scream. Maybe you've buried your face in the pillow — his pillow — clutching one of his shirts and wishing, begging, somehow, for the pain to stop.

But he won't do that.

It'd be too tempting to make his way up; hell, to scale the side of the building, just so he could hold you and remind you that you're safe, that you're loved, and that you'd have a man who'd raze the whole world at your command, Catholic values be damned. 

Matt contemplates all of this for a second, having resigned himself to his sofa, his head propped uncomfortably against the armrest and his plaid blanket draped haphazardly over his torso. He blinks slowly, feeling the tension building in his temples and jaw, letting his hands curl and unfurl not into fists, but muscle memories of tenderness. It's like his hands know what they're missing, instinctively moving into the same positions he'd take up when holding your waist, when caressing your face. 

He murmurs a sound, what he thinks is a butchery of your name, laying there unceremoniously as his heart squeezes over and over again, as dread and loss and grief twist in his stomach. 

Why does it feel like every time something good happens to him, it just as quickly is taken away? He knows what you'd say — that this is untrue, that it isn't his fault, and he shouldn't beat himself up for things out of his control. But it's hard not to default to his programming in times like these. He tries to move past, to edge his thoughts along, perhaps not for himself yet, but for you.

He shuffles downwards, allowing his head to fall flat on the seat and his feet to hang off the edge of the couch. He thinks that his shivering could be attributed to the cold, or simply the fact that he doesn't really know what to do next. He's bristling, his own body unsure of whether to send blood to his muscles or his brain.

All his relationships, or the meaningful ones, at least, have crashed and burned in the sense that they failed and he moved on. It's always been simple: never hang onto one person for too long, because you're too important, you've got too much at stake to hold onto dead feelings. 

You're different. 

You're the ray of sunshine in his otherwise bleak life of justice and bloodstained glory, the grounding tether to the tangible world. Goodness was wrought from your warmth and love. 

He grits his teeth, shoving down the pangs of nostalgia: of nights spent in his bed, of the softness of your lips on his skin, of the unadulterated joy you'd unearthed.

A breakup won't change the fact that you still make him whole. It won't change much, truth be told. It's the little things, however, that have begun to fall away, like the fact that he might not be privy anymore to your innermost thoughts, that you're beginning to plan your future without him in mind.

He thinks back to an analogy he once heard: one about a well-loved plate, one that's been dropped and pieced together time and time again. The plate is still round, still held together by glue that has stood the test of knives and forks, of microwaves and dishwashers, of constant use. 

Except now, there are chips around the rim, sometimes appearing a few at a time, others days or weeks apart. They won't damage the structural integrity of the plate, and they shouldn't be used as an excuse to throw it away, but they mar its surface. Each chip is a loss in its own right, however insignificant or large. They can be repaired over time, but for now, they exist. 

As wounding as they are, Matt needs to allow them to exist in order to move on, because dwelling on them, wanting to throw the whole dish away without recognising its beauty or resilience would be a waste. At least he thinks it's the right answer.

He reaches for his phone on the coffee table. As much as Matt finds the notion of seeking help difficult, and often irritating, the hollowness in his chest demands to be shared, to be discussed and picked at until he can't bother to dissect it anymore. He aims to call Karen because he's positive she out of all people would know just what to do, but he hits play on your voicemail again.

You're crying. 

"Matt," you start, bursting into sobs at the mere utterance of his name. "I just... I don't even know if I want to leave you this message. I don't know what to say to you, only that I needed to say something to you." There's a shaky pause, a jagged breath, and your voice trickles to a whisper. "I loved you, Matt. I love you. I would've done anything for you. I would've gone anywhere you asked. And I don't know how to look at you without wanting more, without craving what has been and what could've been. Maybe someday it'll be different, and we can start fresh," — you hiccup, and Matt reels inwards, his lip quivering at the sheer agony in your words — "but we need time to figure that out." You sigh, plaintively.

And as he listens to your next sentence, he mouths the words in sync with you. They taste foreign, they're a sore in his mouth, but it's a kernel of light nevertheless. It's a drop of gold swirling in the inky mess of his soul.

"We'll find our way back to each other."

He whispers the next words out loud, doing his best not to talk over the voicemail version of you. "I know we will."

[milkyplier]

@selkies-song I wrote this for you when you weren’t feeling well, and I intended it to be longer but ran into some troubles. Regardless I hope it brightens your day 🩷

"Legend, can you get the pitchfork?"

It's a simple ask, but his headache filters it through layers of honey, so that by the time he registers what's been asked of him, Malon is watching him with concern.

"Is everything alright, Veteran?"

Legend swallows, words caught in a dry, gummy throat.

“Yeah.” He rasps. “I’m fine.”

He turns to walk back to the barn, but a dizzy spell freezes him in his tracks, and he squeezes his eyes shut.

Goddesses, was it always this hot out? Where was the cloud cover? Hadn’t it been overcast this morning? The light is making his head hurt even worse.

“Veteran. You’re ill.”

It’s not a question.

“What? No, I said I’m fine.” He scowls at the ground. Farore, it’s hot.

“You’re clearly not, dear. You’ve been sluggish and silent all morning. Look at you, the only thing keeping you on your feet is the Hero’s Spirit.”

“I’m fine. Just tired, nothing I haven’t handled before.” He is tired. He’s also in pain, but Malon doesn’t have to know that, and besides. He’s always in pain, the result of years of adventuring without always being able to take the time to care for himself or heal properly.

“I’m fine.” He repeats again, and with a little more firmness.

Malon reaches out and grabs his wrist before he can. His skin is freezing.

“You’re cold.”

He frowns at her. “What? No, I’m—it’s blazing out here.”

She frowns back. “You don’t feel cold?”

“No!”

Malon places her hand against his forehead.

“Well no wonder, you’ve got a fever. And look at you, all glassy-eyed and pale.”

Legend pulls away, scowl returning, wrought with anger at being cornered.

“I’m fine.” He hisses, insistent.

“You’re sick,” Malon replies, equally unyielding. They stand for a few minutes, glaring each other down, before Malon’s gaze is drawn over Legend’s shoulder. Legend follows it, and winces as he sees Time approaching. Time will side with Malon, he has no doubt.

“…I came to inquire about dinner on the Champion’s behalf, but I see I have stumbled into an argument.”

“Of a sort,” Malon tells him tensly.

“That does not inspire much confidence.” Time takes his place beside his wife. “It’s not too heated, is it?”

“Quite, actually, it’s got a fever.” Malon looks up forlornly at her husband, and then back at Legend again. “Our Veteran is sick.”

“Oh?” Time raises an eyebrow, eye now trained on Legend, who does not meet them. Time doesn’t say anything, but somehow he pulls all the information out of Legend faster than Malon did, and with less effort.

“I’m fine,” Legend snaps defensively, feeling raw under Time’s one-eyed gaze. He’s getting sick of the phrase. “I swear, I’m just a little tired. It rained yesterday, made my joints hurt and stuff, I’m just feeling the aftereffects right now. It’s fine.”

“Legend.”

It’s just his name. Not even his name, his nickname. And yet, the way Time says it, Legend knows immediately that he’s lost the battle.

“You have put up an excellent fight up to this point, however, it is truly bordering on pathetic.”

It hurts. Probably because it’s true. It gets worse when Time steps up next to him, putting a hand on his shoulder and lowering his voice.

“I know it is not easy to remember when you’re safe. To stop pushing yourself out of habit, out of that underlying pressure to keep going because that is what you have learned. To keep going, because the fate of Hyrule is in your hands, and you cannot afford to waste so much as a second. And I’m sorry. I’m sorry that you had to learn that, and I’m sorry that because of it, you don’t know how to recognize and take advantage of situations like this. Situations where such pressure does harm, not good. You’re in a safe place, Link. Hyrule’s fate is not is your hands, not in a way that pushing yourself will help. You are not alone anymore. There are people who will pick up the slack while you recover. There is time to heal, so take it. There is strength in recognizing when you are weak, and stepping back to change it.”

Legend desperately wishes Time were not so wise. Suddenly, his fighting against Malon feels silly and rude. He doesn’t even really know why he was arguing with her, what it would have accomplished. He nods numbly. It was hot a second ago, but the clouds have returned and in their shade, he’s cold.

“M’sorry,” he whispers.

“Don’t be. It’s a hard lesson, one we heroes are terribly unprepared to learn.” Time squeezes his shoulder gently before releasing him. “Now, go ahead and let Malon walk you to the house. And I say that because if you don’t walk, she will carry you. I had to learn that the hard way.”

Time chuckles and Malon huffs.

“You heroes and your selfless tendencies.” She turns to Legend, expression softening. “Come on, dear. You’ll feel better with a hot cup of tea in hand.”

[lena-in-a-red-dress]

When Lex winds back with an open palm to slap her, Lena sees it coming and refuses to flinch. As a result, she gets to see his utter bewilderment up close and personal when long fingers reach out and grip his wrist before the blow can land.

His confusion only grows as he traces the offending hand up the arm to where it connects not to Lena, but her counterpart. Lena catches her eye, and sees her own smug smirk enjoying the rarity of a befuddled Lex.

His consternation shifts to a sudden shout of pain when the grip on his wrist tightens, snapping bone. Satisfied, Lena's doppelganger releases Lex with a shove, allowing him to shuffle pitifully back to regain his composure.

As his gaze quickly bounces between them, Lena's counterpart comes to stand beside her, shoulder to shoulder.

"We'll make it easy for you," Lena drawls. "We're both real."

"Impossible," Lex hisses. "The multiverse was extinguished--"

"But not alternate realities." Lena's double tsks. "I would have thought you'd be smart enough to figure that out." She turns to Lena. "Perhaps your Lex has dimmed, somwhat."

"Dimmed!" Lex scoffs. "That isn't what the public says--"

"Come now, brother. We all know how quickly public perception can shift. After all, weren't you the first to call me a monster?"

Lena's counterpart tugs her black coat open to expose the kryptonite in her chest. Lena sees Lex's gaze light up at the sight of it. Disgust fills her.

"It's almost a shame you won't survive the hour," Lena's double continues. The stone in her chest slowly grows brighter as her smile turns predatory. "I think you would have liked what I've become."

Lex scoffs again, though the sound is clearly weaker than he intends. He looks to Lena. "You would kill your own brother?"

Lena looks at him coldly.

"They say the first time's the hardest."

------

Kara is too late to keep Lex alive. She doesn't know if he deserved the rescue, but she also isn't sure he deserved the immolation that has left him a charred and smoking husk.

When she arrives at the warehouse she finds both Lena's standing before their brother's corpse, their features identically indiscernable as they look long and hard at the consequence of their actions.

It's her Lena who turns to look at her first.

"Feel free to judge, as I'm sure you will," she says coldly. "But we both know he never should have been resurrected."

At that, the doppelganger turns as well. "Let's hope this time it sticks." Kara spots a flutter of motion at the edge of her vision, and looks down to see the doppelganger's fingers brush softly against Lena's. "If it doesn't, you'll know where to find me."

In the days that follow, Kara keeps her distance. She wrestles with the feeling in her chest the comes from seeing the Lenas so gentle with each other, yet so cold to everyone else. But still, when she catches wind that Lena has found the way to return the doppelganger to her own reality, Kara swoops into the lab just as the portal springs to life.

To do what, she isn't sure. To stop her from returning? To ensure she goes through?

"Your world has suffered enough," she ends up saying, hands on her hips.

The doppelganger meets her gaze undaunted. "You know nothing of my world, or the structure it requires to recover from the destruction you wrought."

Kara doesn't know how to respond. In the end, she simply doesn't. They stare at each other for long moments until Lena cuts in.

"She can't stay here," she clips out. "If she does, we could both experience entropic cascade failure."

Kara cuts eye contact with the doppelganger to flick her gaze towards Lena. Sensing her confusion, Lena fails to hide the roll of her eyes.

"It would be bad. For both of us."

So the doppelganger can't stay here. Kara is relieved, because she can't stomach the thought of keeping her here, so close to Lena and so full of rage and kryptonite. She can only hope that her friends in that other reality have survived, and can continue to fight against this Lena's tyranny.

When she says nothing, the doppelganger turns towards the portal without so much as a goodbye to her counterpart. But as she nears the event horizon, Lena herself calls out to her.

"Lena!"

The doppelganger pauses.

"Remember what I said." Lena holds her counterpart's gaze. "The future is yet unwritten."

The doppelganger remains silent.

"Your measure isn't taken by the love you receive," Lena continues. "It's measured in the love you give."

The doppelganger says nothing, but Kara can almost swear sees something about the woman soften.

Without a word, the doppelganger turns and disappears into the glimmering portal. When it shuts down behind her, the lab is thick with silence.

"Lena--"

"I gave you everything I have. Everything I am," Lena's gaze remains locked on the portal's control panel, but her jaw is sharp with restraint. "And you gave me nothing in return."

Lena's last words to herself ring in the silence between them.

It's measured by the love you give.

Lena finally meets Kara's gaze.

"So what does that make you?"

[mt-musings]

The Last Silverboughs

Halsin struggles to put his past to rest, but it's haunting him in more ways than he realizes. He'd thought his time in the Underdark was long behind him, an unpleasant pitfall of youthful hubris, but remnants of his captivity remain, the youngest of which unwittingly stumbles to his rescue.

Lythra can't stop running from her past--hasn't, since she managed to make it out of the Underdark. She has no love for Menzoberranzan, or her House, or anything she left behind in the dark. Or nearly anything.

Still, she'd rather die than return--a prospect all the more likely with a tadpole jammed behind her eye. But perhaps, with the help of a renown druidic healer, she can go back to what remains of her half-life in the sun.

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7

Read on AO3

Gods below, what had she gotten herself into?

She was a fool, as usual. Not a fool—an idiot. 

The world had narrowed to a single pinpoint, becoming only Astarion, only his hands, his mouth, his teeth, his body pressed against hers as if he meant to consume her. She couldn’t catch her breath, couldn’t form a thought, couldn’t do more than drown in him and the pleasure he wrought from her body. 

She trembled as his fingers ghosted over the scars that covered her skin, as they lingered on the more vicious ones, on the lessons her mother had carved into her skin. She’d expected him to recoil at the sight of them, at the feeling of their raised surface that covered nearly every inch of her, but he’d hardly paid them any mind, except to figure out which were more sensitive, which made her shiver against him. 

There was pain—pain from his fangs piercing her throat and pain, at first, from his initial few thrusts into her, but she relished in in, letting it ground her for the first time since she’d lost herself to his touch. 

Pleasure was foreign and overwhelming, but pain—pain helped her to reorient the world, to know up from down and where she was meant to fit in-between. To stop herself from being lost in the wave of affection, in the onslaught of new sensations, of skin on skin and being held—

He’d promised to make her lose herself in him and she’d been too stupid to see the warning in it, too stupid to realize it wasn’t simply the sort of sickly sweet words he liked to throw around between biting complaints and snarled vitriol, and she’d fallen for it, fallen hard, judging by the clenching of her heart in her chest at the way he held her, in the way he absently brushed a stray lock of hair out of her face, eyes lingering on her face with an almost-softness she couldn’t quite place. It made her ache in an entirely different way, made her wonder what it would be like if he really cared, if it wasn’t just because he was bored and they were both dying unless they could find a cure.

“You think too much, darling,” Astarion said, offering her a cheeky smile with a flash of teeth. “You wear it all over your face.”

She opened her mouth to respond but he snaked his hand between the pair of them, circling the little nub at the apex of her thighs, and all she could do was whine as thought escaped her once more. She wasn’t sure how much more of this blissful torture she could stand, felt as though she was a bowstring about to snap. Yes, something was most certainly wrong, the sensations too much, pleasure verging on a new sort of agony that she was sure would break her, would drive her entirely mad—

Something snapped and her vision went white, her body shivering with waves of white-hot pleasure that forced tears to her eyes, tears that she didn’t even register until she came back to herself to notice Astarion chuckling at her as wiped them away with his thumb, breathing hard. 

She stared up at him, dazed and a little breathless, her body trembling in unfamiliar way. His perpetually perfect hair was mussed in a way she knew he would hate, but she found endearing, the curls standing on end and falling into his eyes. She reached out without thinking and cupped his jaw, gently trailing her thumb along his cheekbone. His brow pinched for a moment before his face slipped into its usual curled amusement. She dropped her hand to the forest floor, unsure of what to make of the flash of emotion. 

“Speechless, darling? I have that effect on people,” he quipped easily. He rolled over so they lay side by side, looking up through the branches at the star-dotted sky, hands cushioning his head. They lay like that for a long time, the only sounds their breathing and the muted rustling of the forest creatures. 

All at once her exhaustion hit her like a brick. She knew she should slip away, back to the camp, but she couldn’t force herself to get up, couldn’t force her eyes to remain open.

~~~

Astarion broke his trance just as the sun began to crest over the horizon. Lythra had curled closer during the night, one arm draped over his chest. She shivered, slightly, though enough that he wondered how it didn’t force her from her trance. Then again, if he had to guess, he’d wager she’d actually passed out after all the fighting and sex, not to mention the blood loss. She’d passed out after the first time he’d fed from her too, though he’d nearly lost control of himself that time, draining her so much that she was sickly and unsteady for a day and a half after, though she hadn’t complained. 

She rarely complained.

He carefully rolled out of her grasp, refusing to look at her as he pulled on his pants and boots. He stood, basking in the sun’s golden light, trying to ignore his roiling stomach. He should be pleased—his plan had gone just as he planned—better even. He never would have guessed she’d make as easy a mark as she did, that she’d fall for the act so hard. After all, she’d told that wicked priest that he couldn’t make her beg, not with his barbed lash, and yet she’d submitted so readily to him. 

She’d stared up at him so sweetly, so trusting that he hardly would have believed it was the same elf who confidently ordered the lot of them around, who decided who was worth wasting their time to save, who deserved it.

Surely, he’d make the list now, remain on it so long as he provided mind-numbing enough sex to keep her hooked. He only needed to keep it up until she helped him kill Cazador, then he could be done with the whole nauseating charade. 

“Why do you have Infernal runes carved into your back?” Lythra asked, voice more of a rasp than he was used to hearing in the morning. He whipped around, brows furrowed. He hadn’t heard her wake.

“What do you mean, Infernal? What do they say?”

“I—I’m not sure. I only recognize the script.”

He stared at her for a long moment, fighting back a terse reply. Infernal? What in the literal Hells had Cazador done to him? For all he knew it was some sort of pact carved into his flesh, some sort of additional control over his person. He’d need to find someone to read it, to tell him what it meant, since that was beyond her, along with seemingly all scholarly pursuits, judging by the way she’d simply throw books at him and Gale without even bothering to glance at them. 

“We should get back to camp, I don’t want to waste any more time out here,” he spat, sharper than he meant to. 

Her face fell, and she stared back at him, uncertainty and hurt glinting in her eyes before the mask slipped back over her features and she smiled, turning to gather up her clothes. He turned back towards the sun, pretending to not notice.

“I’ll—I’ll head back in a bit. I’m going to take a quick bath in the river first.”

He didn’t respond beyond a nod, keeping his face raised reverently toward the morning sun. She didn’t linger like he would have expected, didn’t dawdle and wait for him to say something more, to ease the tension that had settled over the little clearing. She had disappeared by the time he glanced back over his shoulder, any trace of her presence gone from the blanket they’d shared the night before. 

He sighed, a little of the disgust unfurling from his chest, though something nauseating and leaden still lay in the pit of his stomach. It felt different from the usual repulsion he felt after bedding some poor fool for Cazador. Perhaps it was because she wouldn’t simply disappear the next day like his other conquests, that she’d remain close, a constant reminder of his base manipulation, of the depths he was willing to stoop to get what he wanted. 

Or perhaps it was because fucking her hadn’t felt as detached as the way he’d perfected, that there had been moments when he could have sworn there was something almost like affection that flashed across his cold, dead heart. Maybe it had been something about the rare, fumbling vulnerability, the almost unsure way that she had deferred to him in the act and after, eyes softening to something that hardly resembled the sharp, nearly severe usual set of her face. 

He didn’t know what possessed him to follow after her, why he cared—he’d only slept with her to secure her protection, her allyship, after all. She was just another poor fool to seduce for his ends, too stupid for her own good. 

Not stupid. Naive, and terribly so, something he hadn’t expected after weeks of her hardened competence, her detached efficiency in killing. 

He froze as he reached the tree line, the river gurgling only a dozen paces before him. 

Lythra sat on the edge of the water, her knees pulled into her chest. She hadn’t bothered putting on her clothes properly and he could see all those scars he’d felt the night before for what they truly were—cruel, precise things, ranging from long silvered to still pink. It took him a second to realize she was crying—not just crying, but sobbing, silently, face pressed hard into her knees. She shook, her, knuckles white with how hard she held herself, as if she’d shatter into a million pieces if she let go. 

He knew that sort of crying, the sort of desolation that dragged it out. He swallowed hard at the realization that he was most likely been the cause. 

He’d never have thought he’d see her as anything remotely fragile—after all, she’d been the same little monster that, when confronted with a blade pressed to her throat hadn’t hesitated to headbutt him in the face, who had snarled at him like a beast about to savage him before the tadpoles had connected them. 

It was hard to reconcile the beast of fangs and claws that he knew with this fractured little creature that seemed to be breaking right before his eyes. 

He turned away silently, shame and disgust filling him more than they already had. He’d known he was using her—intended to from the onset, but somehow it was worse knowing he was cowering behind some dreadfully fragile thing, that she knew, or at least suspected. 

No, he was being a fool. He need only placate her, keep her enthralled enough to prevent her from even considering turning her back on him. Though he would guess now that he’d have some work cut out for him, to counteract this misstep. 

He hadn’t thought she’d realize his games fast, or that she’d realize at all. He thought her the sort of person to view sex as a way to blow off steam, as a pleasant diversion—after all, she was one of the most emotionally detached people he’d ever met, to the point that for the first few days of their acquaintance he’d doubted she felt anything more than a beast might, perhaps even less. 

And yet here she sat alone, shattering so profoundly he nearly had the urge to step out from the tree line and attempt something akin to comforting her. Instead he turned, silently padding back towards camp. 

~~~

He couldn’t help but stare as she returned, hair wet and streaming down her back. She looked the same as she always did—perhaps her eyes were a bit red, but not enough to cause alarm. In fact, he doubted he’d have even noticed if he hadn’t caught her crying at the riverside. She caught him staring and offered the same smile she always did, though he saw it for what it was now—a ruse, a mask, and a good one at that. He watched her cross to the fire and take a bit of what was left over for breakfast before walking over and sitting at the far end of camp, away from everyone else. It wasn’t unusual—she was hardly what anyone would call social. Sure, she checked in with everyone in their motley band, ensured they all had what they needed, but given the opportunity outside of their quest to deal with the tadpoles she seemed to prefer solitude. He watched Scratch dart over and throw himself down at her side. She gave him a small smile, mouth full. There was a hint of that softness he’d seen last night in her eyes, even if they remained guarded. 

He bristled slightly as Halsin stood and crossed to her, sitting crosslegged in front of her. She glanced at him, expression blank as she nodded, turning back to her food. He could see Halsin talking at her, though he was too far to hear anything. She hardly seemed to look up and seemed to answer even less, though it didn’t discourage the oaf. 

That was all he needed—a genial, brick wall of an elf swooping in and stealing his insurance policy the moment he made a misstep. He stalked over, intent to put the man in his place. 

“So there’s either the mountains or the Underdark to get to Moonrise?” She was asking, jaw tight as she stared at the dirt. 

“That’s right. Though I wouldn’t recommend spending a second longer in the Shadow Curse than strictly necessary. It’s deadly.”

“More deadly than the Underdark?”

The druid’s face turned stony. “Much.”

Lythra swore. “I suppose that leaves us without much of a choice.” 

“Darling, I would have thought you’d be pleased at the chance to return home for a brief respite,” he said, flouncing down and inserting himself into the conversation. 

“Overjoyed,” she spat back, nose wrinkling in disgust as she rose sharply to her feet. “We still have to deal with the creche before we leave. Be ready to leave in an hour.”

[acourtofladydeath]

TTBW Chapter 2

Cassian's healing journey beings, and Emerie tells her story.

New tags include discussions of cycle/period discrimination.

Start reading under the cut or on AO3!

Tensions were high outside Cassian and Nesta’s room at the House of Wind. Emerie, Azriel, and Rhysand had been sitting in the hall over a day as Madja and a team of her best healers worked on their friend’s mangled wings. Nesta refused to leave his side. Madja allowed her to stay in the room only as long as Nesta agreed to follow all instructions and stay out of the way, which she had. There was no time to fill anyone in on his status. While the camp lords had not intended to kill Cassian, the combination of the paralytic, faebane, and the shock to his system from trauma and blood loss had caused his body to shut down quickly. 

Rhysand had never seen Madja call for so many extra healers. Typically she brought along an apprentice or two to train. On particularly bad occasions, like after the King of Hybern had shredded Cassian’s wings and Azriel had been stabbed by Jurian, he and Morrigan had lent a hand. Madja called for six additional highly trained hands, and specifically refused the help of any apprentices or the Inner Circle. Such a thing was unheard of. 

As they waited, Emerie leaned against the wall, arms folded and one leg kicked back. Rhysand had slid down the wall several hours ago. Now his legs were bent up to his chest, elbows rested on his knees, and his head hung heavy in his hands. Azriel stood rigid by the window, unable to break his stare from Cassian’s door. Emerie watched him flex his hands and knew what ran through his mind. She knew what he must be reliving after what Cassian had endured because she was reliving it too. Their scars ran deep.

Loss, damage, physical, mental, and emotional pain that no amount of training could prepare anyone to live through. This was trauma in its purest form, and Cassian was not the only one injured. Emerie shut her eyes tight as she tried to push away the memories that had threatened to consume her from the moment Nesta had recognized the agony in Cassian’s wings through their bond the night before. The images and phantom pains that Emerie still fought back daily had only gotten stronger after what she’d witnessed in that tent.   

Hours later the door to Cassian’s room opened and Madja, exhausted and flecked in more blood than anyone was comfortable acknowledging, entered the hallway. Rhysand was instantly on his feet. Azriel remained still, but Emerie took a step off the wall, arms still crossed and wings held in tightly to stave off the pains. Rhysand quickly approached the healer, expectation written across the wrought lines of his face.

Madja stared down at the floor. This healer, a female whose skills went beyond all others, one of the only people in all of Prythian who could order the High Lord around, could not meet his eyes. Rhysand’s eyes bore down on her. Emerie tried to give him the benefit of the doubt, tried to remember that he was in pain, but she did not like the way he looked upon his master healer. 

With a deep breath, Madja raised her head and squared her shoulders to address Rhysand. Her face was schooled in a practiced calm as she began to speak with a steady voice. “We have stopped the blood loss, and managed to prevent amputation. His organs were shutting down and we almost lost him, but I am now sure that physically he will survive this.” 

“His wings,” Rhysand cut in, voice hoarse from lack of use and water. As he continued to speak his tone was harsh as he asked the question Emerie already knew the answer to. “Will he fly again?”

“No,” Madja said, voice firm and sure though it sounded like she did not want to be. “His wings were too damaged and there was noth-”

“You have to do something. He can’t not fly,” Rhysand said, voice rushed and angry as he took one step toward the healer. “He has to fly, Madja. You have to do something. His wings have been bad before, and you’ve always fixed him.” 

Emerie watched as some small part of the healer permanently broke, and she stepped forward to try and prevent the crack from growing further. “Thank you, Madja, for saving his life. We are so thankful. Is there anything that you need us to do?” 

Madja looked gratefully at Emerie for a brief moment before she responded. “No, thank you dear. Nesta has all the instructions and we will visit again soon. He needs rest before we work again.” 

Emerie smiled warmly at the female as she kindly nodded her response. Madja ushered the healers, all in various states of dishevelment, out of Nesta and Cassian’s room before they left the House of Wind together as one with Morrigan as their guide. Em watched them leave as she used her body to create a barrier between the healers and the High Lord. Azriel still had not moved from where he stood, eyes locked on the door that was once again shut. When they had gone and she was certain they were out of ear shot, Emerie turned angrily upon the males behind her. 

“Are you proud of yourself,” Emerie spat at the High Lord, who was still fuming mad about the now undeniable fact that his friend would no longer be able to fly. 

“I’ve done nothing wrong,” Rhysand retorted as anger rolled off of him in dark waves. 

Emerie cocked an eyebrow at the High Lord, her hands on her hips. “Oh yeah? Nothing wrong? You do know that your words have an effect on people, correct? You had no right to guilt her like that.” 

“I did no such thing. I simply asked-”

“No,” Emerie said back. She wanted to shout, but she knew that Cassian and Nesta did not need to hear this right now. To try and preserve their peace, Emerie worked to keep her voice low, yet strong. “By bringing up the past times she was successful, you just confirmed to Madja that you believe this was likely her biggest failure to date. And it’s not. There’s no way to recover from the wounds he received. He’s lucky to be alive right now.” 

Continue reading on AO3.

[comatosebunny09]

The Games That Play Us [ Another Version ]

Genre: Smut, Modern AU

Content Warnings: Language, Exhibitionism (?), Vibrator, Cum Eating, Female Ejaculation, Choking, Cunnilingus, Anal Play, Facef*cking, Female!Reader, P in V Intercourse, Spanking, Pet Names, Fingering, Dacryphilia (?), Jealous!Kyojuro

Rengoku Kyojuro has never been a jealous man. But if he ever were to succumb to the green-eyed monster’s influence, it would look something like this:

He asks if you are “alright, darling?” with a tone doused in honey and a knowing grin curving his lips through the dissonance of the restaurant. You haven’t touched your drink yet, the condensation of it staining the table. But he knows why you won’t so much as move.

Kyojuro pats your thigh with a massive, torrid hand, squeezing with more force than necessary. Fiddles with the tiny, plastic remote in his coat pocket, turning the dial clockwise ever so subtly. Your breath hitches, and your thighs quake, a pained sound flittering from your throat. He can’t get enough of it—reducing you to utter mush in front of your friends. 

Tengen queries if you are “feeling okay?” from across the table, concern furrowing his sparse brows. Hinatsuru reaches over to squeeze your hand, noting the sweat on your temple, your lip clenched between your teeth, and the glassy look in your eyes. Suma and Makio share twin looks, worrying about whatever could have befallen their dear friend.

You simply nod, afraid to speak because you don’t want to publicize your plight. Don’t trust your voice to work just yet. You instead lean over, releasing soft, sodden whimpers into the curve of Kyojuro’s shoulder, loud enough for only him to hear. He gathers you into his side, a languid arm slung about your shoulders to ground you. “What was that, darling? Faster?” he murmurs into your heated ear, cranking the dial up another notch. When you intake a sharp breath, he makes the executive decision to depart.

Kyojuro excuses you both from dinner under the pretense of you coming down with something nasty—a fever, a cold, cramps. It isn’t a complete lie; you will be coming from something very soon—his fingers, his tongue, his cock. He hasn’t decided yet. Wants to prolong this torture as long as possible. Your friends bid you wary farewells whilst he guides you from the booth. You toddle behind him in your too-tall heels through the parking lot, freezing and fighting to keep yourself upright, your body wrought by pleasure.

He tucks you so tenderly into the passenger seat of his Challenger, you wrapped snuggly in his thick jacket. You paw at him like a needy kitten, overwhelmed by the cologne and earthy scent saturating his clothes. His name falls listlessly from your quivering lips before he shuts the door behind you, maneuvering himself to the driver’s side with assuredness drenching every step.

A telling smirk cants his lips as he drops the controller into the cup holder once he’s settled behind the steering wheel, the engine of his convertible purring to life, mirroring the mild vibrations taking place amid your engorged warmth. He throws his hands up in mock surrender. Promises not to touch the offending remote whilst driving—a momentary reprieve for your aching cunt whilst he swerves out of the parking lot in pursuit of your home.

You try to reduce the severity of your sentencing. The leather seat squeaks when you reach over the center console to toy with Kyojuro’s belt buckle, fixing him with puppy eyes in his peripheral. He chuckles, the sound smooth and viscous like chocolate. He’ll play your game just this once. Lifts his hips to let you tug his slacks southward, enough for his heavy cock to spring free from the confines of his briefs. It thumps menacingly against his belly. Globs of saliva dribble down the sides of your mouth at the sight of it—at the thought of it twitching on your tongue.

You suddenly fill the air with obscene slurps as you suck him off so skillfully, lapping at the pulsating, forked veins of his dick like a woman starved. He groans throatily, tangling his fingers in your hair to urge your further down until the wispy tendrils curtaining his sex tickle your nostrils. You choke on him, saliva and precum pooling at his base. You gag around the sensitive head, molten tears leaping to your eyes. The pulsations and fist-like vice of your throat send him into a frenzy. He ruts up into your mouth after you slide under a red light. Mutters, “Mmm, fuck. Suck it. Take it, baby, take it,” his head lolling back to crash into the headrest, chest heaving with restrained desire.    

He coats your tight throat soon after with gooey ribbons of cum, keeping your mouth in place, forcing you to drink up his briny cream. Warns you “not to miss a single drop, lest you prolong your penance.” You draw back with a crisp gasp once he releases you. He bites his lip at your visage. Revels in how your rouge lipstick smears across your cheek and your mascara runs from your lashes, intermingling with tears.

“Mm. Darling, you are a sight to behold.”

Kyojuro purposely drags his fingers across the torrid, meaty flesh of your inner thigh, ghosting over your pussy. It hiccups around the steadily humming, neon-pink chunk of silicone nestled within. He’d tucked it there after you defied him. Licked your pretty cunt into submission. Worked the little egg betwixt your taut walls after bending you over his knee and raining a succession of cruel slaps down onto your ass.

He whips into the carport of your home, barely concealing the glee pulsing beneath his skin. He wastes no time plucking you from the passenger side. Presses you harshly against the door, marring you with open-mouthed kisses and nips and obscenities sang into the junction of your shoulder whilst he pistons his hips against your ass, his convertible rocking with each undulation.

Kyojuro doesn’t afford you time to open your front door. He drops into a lounge chair on your porch, dragging you onto his lap with him, your spine melding to his chest.

The punishment has just begun.

Your panties a distant memory, Kyojuro proceeds to stroke your pussy into a slobbering mess. Forces your thighs to stay open, coaxing them further apart with an iron grip the more you struggle to close them. He strums your clit with his middle finger. Delicately plucks at your swelling pearl like a harpist, working in tandem with the vibrator pulsing inside to send you spilling towards the edge.

“Fuck me, Kyojuro,” you breathe into the inky night, mindful of your volume. Wouldn’t want to wake your slumbering neighbors now, would you? Your voice is nevertheless desperate, and you’re damn near crying. A glistening stream of saliva coasts down your chin. The fucked-out expression sits prettily amongst your features whilst he curls his unoccupied hand around your neck and squeezes.

Who are you to tell him what to do? You’re the one in trouble, remember?

Kyojuro suddenly extracts the vibrator from you with a vulgar pop, the toy clattering on the ground as he replaces it with his generous, aching cock. He doesn’t move once he’s inched his way in. He just lets you sit on his lap, entranced by how your cunt greedily swallows him to the hilt. He makes it his mission to have you creaming on his dick whilst he strokes your clit with renewed vigor; wants to bring you as close to an orgasm as he can before he hunts his own pleasure.

“I’m sorry, my darling,” he croons, his nails imprinting crescent moons into your thigh. “I can’t hear you too well. Would you mind speaking up?”

“—said I’m close, Kyo! So fucking close!”

At that, he smacks your clitoris once. Twice. Massages the driveling flesh in messy arcs, chasing the tight coiling in your stomach, the beginnings of your peak furling through you like smoke.

“Are you going to cum for me?” he rasps, fawning over you with such tenderness, timbre incredibly gentle despite his sinful ministrations. “Going to cream all over my cock, baby? Hmm? My beautiful little princess.”

“Oh, fuck, Kyo! I’m—”

“That’s it, darling. Cum. I want you to.”

It takes but a few more taps to your swollen clitoris for you to come undone; to saturate his slacks with your nectar. It pours in scorching rivulets down your legs, splashing onto the concrete below. A ring of your cream adorns his cock, causing Kyojuro to smirk in triumph. He licks a candied stripe up the side of your neck. Peppers your skin with hot kisses whilst you battle to control your breathing. Your limbs feel slack and so very heavy, your body lulling against his. Once your mind has descended from the heavens, you feel Kyojuro encase your chin with his callused fingers, forcing you to gaze into the smoldering flames of his irises.

“The next time I tell you to block your ex-boyfriend, I expect you to follow through, my love.” Kyojuro chuckles darkly, a warning swimming beneath the currents of that tone. He swiftly unsheathes his hardened cock from the warm suctioning of your cunt, much to your dismay. Just as you’ve begun to adjust to the sensation of emptiness, your eyes shoot open when that very same dick prods at your puckering anus.

“If this happens again, I will destroy this pretty little asshole of yours next. Do you understand, my love?”   

[bcbdrums]

Remember Me

AO3 | FFn

A Soul Eater story. Short missing scene from episode 40.

Inspired by this amazing fanart.

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

Remember Me

"Will you remember me, after I'm gone?"

"What?"

Stein listens to the familiar way the response is voiced. Timbre high, breathy, with the final consonant punctuated just enough to add weight to the question. He can read the weapon's thoughts in that single word.

What does he mean by 'gone'? Why will he be gone? What will be the cause? And the meaning that grounds Stein to the moment the most—don't go.

"I think..." Stein continues, not answering the spoken nor the implied questions, "I would like to be remembered."

"Stein you're... It's... You're stronger than this. I know you are."

"Hmm," is the slightly sighing, slightly scoffing response Stein gives.

He begins to turn his head up from where it's set back against the wall, and the pain the movement causes brings him a greater awareness of the environment.

He is in the very back of his lab-home, in a small room little used except recently by Marie. Someone has drawn back the curtains that keep the world from getting inside, allowing sunlight to break through and illuminate the destruction his madness has wrought. Furniture overturned, objects torn apart, everything scattered across the floor as if a robber had broken in and a fight had ensued. And there is blood staining everything, because there is always blood.

Stein wonders what injuries will be revealed when he finally does try to move.

The skittering creatures and dark hands that threaten to squeeze the life from his throat have gone. So has the rain of blood that was nothing like the real thing now that he can see it before him. He's aware of a slight chill and realizes one shoulder of his coat has fallen down his arm, but he makes no motion to correct it. His glasses are gone too.

He wonders what brought him back this time, can't remember any specific word or action that did it. Only that the pressure, the madness, retreated suddenly. And then he became aware of a familiar, welcome soul at his side.

In his periphery, less than two feet distant on his right, he can see the dark trouser leg of the weapon standing next to him. He's not leaning against the wall but facing it instead, and Stein painfully tilts his head up just enough to see that Spirit has his left arm folded high on said wall and his forehead is rested against it. His eyes are closed and his face is twisted in anxiety.

Stein licks his lips, tastes drying blood. He stares.

If this is to be his last true moment of sanity, he wants to memorize every detail. He wants to recall the way Spirit's brows pinch together as they always do when he's stressed. The way the skin of his cheeks have paled indicating it's not anger that has his mouth twisted into a snarl. The way his hair just brushes his shoulders, and how that one longer strand falls across his face and yet never seems to bother him.

That hair. It's always been better, somehow, than the blood that Stein can feel seeping out of him in undiscovered wounds. Better than the trails of it he can see on the floor, than the dark stains of it on Spirit's cuff. Somehow Spirit's hair has had more life to it than blood ever can. Perhaps because it doesn't control life, the way blood does, so can never herald death. Or perhaps simply because it's so near his expressive eyes.

Stein suddenly blinks out of his study. Blood. On Spirit's cuff. He reaches out unthinkingly and touches it, so lightly that the weapon doesn't notice.

"Did I hurt you?"

Spirit opens his eyes, and Stein forgets where he is as clear teal eyes fix upon his face.

"No," Spirit replies with a slight shake of his head, and Stein believes him.

Spirit is staring down at him. Despite how expressive his eyes are, and despite how Stein spent the better part of five years simply staring at them, learning to the read them and know his weapon's thoughts... He doesn't know what Spirit is thinking.

"Will you...remember? Me?" Stein voices again, the words heavy with their years of memories, and he knows the look that enters the older man's eyes then.

Pain. Fear. Words he wants to say but holds back with his breath.

Spirit's lips part in silence, and when he does glance away he bites his lower lip and gives an uneasy sigh. Stein slowly sets his head back against the wall and lets his gaze drift over the room, to a panel of sunlight on the bloodstained floor.

It occurs to him then... This is the only time since Lord Death brought them back together that they've really been able to be alone, to talk as just themselves. Not as duty-bound meister and weapon, not as teachers at the academy, not as doctor and death scythe... But just them. He wonders if Spirit knows it too.

Of course, he thinks ironically, he has to barely have a hold on sanity for the conversation.

"If...if I say yes..." Spirit begins hesitantly, and Stein can't help the slight warmth that curls through him. Spirit could never deny him anything. "Will you promise me, Stein..."

Stein shifts slightly, focuses his gaze on Spirit's bright, unblinking eyes.

"Will you promise me you won't give up?"

For a moment all is still. And then the corners of Stein's mouth make an almost imperceptible turn upward.

As much as he has learned to read the weapon, likewise the older man knows exactly how to read him and follow the trail of his thoughts to every possible conclusion. And Spirit isn't wrong in what he is thinking.

A bitter ache settles over Stein's chest, because he knows now that that path is closed to him.

"I promise."

The choking darkness begins to lift, and the resolve in his own voice surprises him. But it shouldn't, really. After all, Stein could never deny Spirit anything.

Spirit doesn't turn, but he does reach down to where Stein is seated, his fingers lightly curled and hovering near the meister's shoulder. When Stein reaches up he's surprised to see blood on his knuckles, but then a vague memory of striking out at the creatures and the groping hands reminds him of the source of the small wounds. He wonders how the other more serious ones he can feel occurred while he was lost to the madness.

The touch, slight though it is, is like electricity. Warm and life-giving and making him believe he can at least try to follow through on the promise. He allows Spirit to help him to his feet, takes a moment to let the dizziness pass as he presses his hand to a wound at his hip, the act of standing causing it to re-open. He takes a slow breath through his nostrils and doesn't say anything.

"Let's ah...let's go back to the lab," Spirit says a little uncertainly, starting slowly for the corridor. He makes no move to release Stein's fingers, and the meister follows obediently. "Where's Marie?"

"She's..." Stein trails off as his brow furrows. Where is his other weapon?

In the doorway Spirit pauses, turns to look at him as he puzzles over the question. Stein listens to his sigh and doesn't need to look up to know disappointment will have joined the other emotions in the teal eyes.

"Have a seat," Spirit says, finally releasing the slight hold on Stein's fingers to gesture to the eyesore of a couch that Marie had placed in the great room of his office.

Stein swallows and slowly steps past Spirit, releasing the pressure on the wound in his side. He straightens his coat before sitting, hoping the weapon won't notice the more serious wound, and then tips his head to rest on the back of the couch and closes his eyes against the spinning of the room.

A multi-colored, multi-legged creature flickers through the blackness in his vision, and Stein opens his eyes again.

"I'm supposed to be reporting to Lord Death. I'll...see if I can find someone to clean up that room for you. All right?" Spirit says and starts to turn for the door.

"Spirit."

The meister is relieved to see his weapon stop immediately, turn on his heel and the muddle of emotions in his eyes melt away into nothing but concern. But the words Stein had been about to say have left him, his mind falling blank under the kind gaze from clear, teal eyes.

Apparently words aren't necessary as Spirit approaches the couch and kneels in front of him. A hand settles on his shoulder and Stein again feels the electricity, the warmth. Not a true resonance, because he doesn't dare expose Spirit to his mind the way it is, but just enough of a connection that he feels he can actually make good on his promise.

"Please." Again, the timbre of the weapon's voice rises. The word comes out on an exhale, and the end of the word is precise.

Stein simply stares, again memorizing as much as he can while his mind is his own. The crystalline intensity of teal that seems to stare straight into his soul. The feathery halo of red that perfectly frames gentle cheekbones and a strong jaw.

It's almost enough to banish the dancing of technicolor creatures that are beginning to swarm the edges of his vision again. Almost. But he ignores them if only for one last moment of clarity. One last look at his weapon.

"I..."

"Please, Stein. Don't give up! Try to fight it!"

Stein's voice is lost again, lost somewhere between the dark forest of hands that waver behind the protective shield that surrounds him with his weapon's presence, and behind the sincere care of a friend.

"I have to go... Just try. I'll come back."

Spirit's hand leaves his shoulder, taking the warmth with it. The creatures skitter closer and the dark hands eagerly surround the weapon as he retreats, moving past him and snaking slowly toward Stein. He draws his elbows up to the back of the couch as if readying to flee, but the rest of his body is as lead. Too weak to fight anymore. Except...

"I'll try," he echoes, and Spirit stops at the door and looks back at him one last time. Stein's gaze pierces beyond the eel-like arms coming closer and the bright things hovering near his feet to look at the grim set of the weapon's jaw. But his eyes rise higher, to a pair of narrowed, giant yellow eyes above the door and a forked tongue that flicks toward him suddenly.

His throat tightens, and he lowers his eyes anxiously to the weapon.

"I'll come back."

It's on that promise that Stein sets his hope as everything closes in. Spirit vanishes through the door, taking his radiance and sound mind with him, and then the whole of the lab wall seems to disappear to be replaced by three massive, ominous eyes arranged like rosebuds, red and twitching and bleeding evil that sings toward Stein with dark purpose.

The strange, dazzling creatures skitter upon the sofa toward his knees. The eyes blink and a static begins filling his ears, getting louder and louder until he can hear nothing but noise and the fearful hammering of blood in his ears. The forked tongue darts out of the swarm of arms to lick his face as the black hands get closer, only inches away now.

Stein closes his eyes to all of it. Pictures teal eyes and red hair, clings to the image. And as he feels the creatures attack and the hands close around his throat, before the madness can steal his breath fully, he parts his lips one last time.

"Remember me."

[fatgumsurpremacy-remastered]

It's been a really long day for me. Whenever you get the time can I request Soldier hugging reader to help them because they are tired and overstimulated from every little thing? Sounds are too loud and people talking is painful to listen to. Sometimes hugs just work.

Of course my friend, today was that day for me too

Tw: descriptions of overstimulation

The world was a hum buzz, men’s voices burned into your ears. The vibrations taking to long to leave before coming back with a vengeance. Your body shook in frustration, and you could feel your palms sweating as you inched your way out of the door and into the hall.

Your head felt like someone had replaced it with a plushies, but even the feeling of your head felt like too much to carry. Each sway of your body wrought itself with discomfort, you swore you could hear your tendons groan under the weight of yourself. Your muscles twitching irked you to no end.

You were an open nerve and everything was grappling at the chance to yank on you.

The fluorescents in the hall nearly drove you to your wits end. Everything sounded like a swarm of flies. Touches, even that of the socks in your shoes had you cringing at the feel.

You tried to breathe but the feeling of air entering your lungs put pressure on your mind that you could use for something else.

You chose to slump against a cool concrete wall at the dead end of the living quarters. Face in your palms you stared through the crack between them, hoping your brain would allow you to space out.

The day has fizzled by and left you with oodles of work expected to be finished. On top of that the rowdy men you worked with were having their bi weekly poker match. A game you’d obligated yourself to the day before, without thinking of the repercussions.

You’d left without saying excuse me, blanched and exhausted from the day.

You felt greasy, and in need of sleep. Every gust of air brought attention tot he discomfort you felt being inside you. You wanted to curl up in a ball and relieve some pressure, but you couldn’t bring yourself to move.

You spaced out completely, not making any move to get up.

You weren’t sure how long you had stayed like that. Enough that now, your initial frustration turned to melancholy, and all you needed was a gentle hand.

You were left with your thoughts.

Hours went by, and eventually something warm came by.

Then another,

Some would stop, then keep going. You wondered if you looked like you were asleep, you wondered what was going by.

It wasn’t until it stayed that you broke your thoughts. You turned bleary eyed towards soldier. He’d sat down, and stared the same as you.

And you weren’t sure how long or why he did.

His hand was closer to yours, and you slid yours under him, taking in the feeling of warmth.

He looked at you with concern, as if attempting to ask you a question indirectly.

“You’re warm.” He nodded, grunting in response.

Solly understood when to be quiet, even when he wasn’t usually so.

“It’s hard seeing a teammate like this.” He noted, running his thumb over your knuckle. “Cant have you running scared on me private.” He set his helmet down to get a better look at your face.

You looked away, and he did the same, looking in the same direction instead. His goofy face held a somber expression.

“You seem a bit shell shocked son- what’s wrong?”

“Everything soldier.” You stated frankly, pulling yourself back to him. He sat cross legged to keep focused on you.

“Everything was busy today, and I couldn’t keep up. I had no time to decompress before I was thrust back into interacting. Then I left without saying goodbye.”

“That was rude.” He said bluntly, but without a trace of malice. You sent him a confused look before continuing.

“I’m sorry,” you said sincerely, “it’s just- when things get too loud I have to take some time away from the situation. It’s hard to stay put and deal.”

Soldier only nodded, not fully understanding what you meant by what you said.

“Is there anything that might help this issue of yours?” He asked genuinely, urging you to tell him.

You opened your arms after a minute of thinking. He wasted little time taking you into his arms and dragging you to him.

Your head lay comfortably on his shoulder, and you hummed softly to him as he rocked side to side. The warmth from his chest eased the tension inside you. And you appreciated the time he took out to sit with you.

You swore you felt like crying. His hand rubbed small circles at the top of your back, over your uniform.

He pulled back after a long time spent like that and stood up. He picked his hat up off the ground and extended you his hand.

“I’ll match you to your quarters private.”

“Thank you solly, it helped a million.”

“Proud to be of service!”

[lady-grace-pens]

FOAD Excerpt [10]

In honor of hitting 90k recently, here’s the first half of the scene I’m on! Might not be a lot, but these last few scenes have been climactic. I believe this much is okay! Though I might catch up on some tag games to make up for it.

Taglist: @wordwizards @flowerprose @serafyyn @isabellebissonrouthier

•••

Notes of lavender and eucalyptus tingle my nose long before my eyes flutter open. Once I do, I’m greeted by the matching candles burning atop a coffee table.

Apollo cups my cheeks through a window across the room. I make attempts to sit up, but, seeing how my body grieves its very existence, I lay back on the couch, splaying my curls over a pillow cushioning my head.

The blanket on my lap is a shaggy red carpet more than anything else. Upon closer inspection, I can’t say I recognize it. Then, I suppose that isn’t saying much; I’m not typically one for decoration and Cal has her own tastes. I snuggle into it and make myself as comfortable as I can with a raging migraine and cramps galore.

A black and white movie, Circe ‘39, plays on the television across from me. I’ve seen it before. At least a dozen in the past year alone. Pierre is quite fond of it. One of those romantic dramedies they were insane about back then. Charming for its age.

A smile crosses my lips. Though the volume is muted, I can recite it by heart. All the jokes Pierre would laugh at, the overzealous acting, the wondrous costumes.

The only sound comes from a kettle hissing in the other room. Straining my ears against it reveals soft humming, though I can’t distinguish the voice.

“Cal? Pierre, is that you?” I call. “Bring me the painkillers, won’t you?”

Arthur responds, prompting me to sit up.

“They’re on the table next to you. But wait wait before you take any!”

I find the bottle of medicine on the coffee table next to the candles. Beside each lies an olive wreath crown. I take it into my hands, running my fingers over its cheap golden leaves. Glitter clings to my fingertips.

Footsteps trail the clinking of silverware and china. I return the crown to its rightful place. Arthur enters the room carrying an antique serving tray. He transports each of the items onto the coffee table. Teacups, each with a stick of vanilla, croissants, and a bowl of mixed berries.

“Long before you woke up, I went and did some shopping. Everything should be fresh from the baker’s and the supermarket just outside of town. Had to get a bloke to drive me there, because… well.” He shrugs in his total lack of driving experience. “Anyway, I know it’s not much of a feast or anything like you deserve, but… I didn’t want to leave you alone here and… Have I told you about the man that drove me? You’ll likely know him, but he’s quite the interesting fellow. Older gent by the name of—”

He chirps on about old man Longhorn, a local vet of the Second World War turned cattle rancher. Excellent at storytelling and terrifying children into behaving without lifting a finger. I’ve no doubt the car ride between them would’ve been lively.

As I reach for the pain killers, I’m caught by the interesting choice of fashion I’m in. A white rib-knit varsity sweater, complete with low v-neck and stripes. While I do own items similar to this, it’s not mine. The sleeves swallow my wrist. It must’ve been rolled up often. Something I rarely do.

I shovel an indiscernible amount of pills in my mouth and wash them down with some tea. Chamomile, my favorite, yet it sits oddly upon my tongue. It’s wrought with copper.

Spiders tap at the back of my neck. My teacup clatters on the tray. I fold into myself, mind flicking between the blanket, the crown, the sweater, and the candles. New details of my surroundings seep through the cracks that have become of me. The wallpaper isn’t familiar. The couch is all too wrong. The wood is far too dark. Trinkets smirk at me from their thrones, shoved in every corner available.

This isn’t my home like I assumed it was. I’m at Arthur’s. Alone. Wearing his sweater and nothing more.

This realization drags along my guts. I draw into myself, teetering off the edge of the couch. His babbling vanishes in the tides of my shallow breath.

There’s something wrong. There’s something severely wrong and I can’t… What happened? How did I get here? Oh God, what did I do?

The copper in my mouth revolts. It leaks through the slits of my teeth and I do little to stop it. It douses the sweater and the blanket and pools on the floor, all while I sit there with a cracked jaw and glassy eyes. More blood than human. Least that’s the ideal.

Perhaps I don’t need to mangle my organs or cheat with theories of the fatal flaw within me. What led to the fingerprint bruises and scratches tracing Arthur’s neck. God only knows the mess hiding beneath his shirt.

Perhaps Matthieu was right.

“Emily.”

My name is a weight upon his lips. China shrieks, luring me to the impression of his feet vanishing from the chair opposite. My blood turns to ice. I skitter to the farthest end of the couch. The wooden arm juts in my pits. It’s not enough to escape him. The only thing I’ve accomplished is ensnaring myself further.

“Can we talk about last night?”

[cosmicjoke]

Okay, just started “Memnoch the Devil”, and just one chapter in I’m starting to feel my heart give way, lol.

Lestat’s fear of this thing that’s following him, and how much he wants David with him, and how much he fears David is going to leave him, is breaking my heart. 

There’s obviously an aspect of Lestat’s relationship with David of a father figure, or Lestat seeks in him a father figure, like with Marius as well, and just thinking about how that connects with his relationship with his actual father kills me.  Lestat never abandoned him, even though he would have had every right to.  But he went to him when he was sick and dying, and kept him with him.  I always thought Lestat’s love for his father, despite how badly the man treated him, was touching and heartbreaking in itself.  Lestat needed a father growing up, but of course, all he got was judgment and cruelty and disapproval.  And we see how that continues to effect him to this very day, with his obvious fear of David’s disapproval, how it still shocks and confuses him that David even came to him, or that he’s willing to stay with him.  This is further testament too to Lestat’s continuing to see himself as this unlovable monster, the shame he feels for being what he is, and it’s just as painful to see as ever.

But just seeing his fear play out of abandonment is devastating, because he’s so used to it.  It’s like he’s trying to brace himself for it.  He’s scared out of his mind here, and he needs someone with him, he’s seeking some kind of comfort, and his shame in that is also so sad and speaks to the kind of emotional damage his childhood has wrought on him.  But he’s battling between the fear of what’s stalking him and the fear of being left alone, and both seem just as powerful.  Like how he feels envious and despairing over David having been taken in and accepted by Jesse and Maharet, and how close to Jesse he must be.  And I don’t think this feeling in Lestat is born out of greed, or possessiveness, I think it’s born out of a fear of not being good enough for David.  Of course David would rather be with Jesse and Maharet than him.  He’s the one after all that wronged David by turning him against his will, and he’s a perpetual disappointment to everyone in his life anyway.  He doesn’t understand why anyone would love him. 

Like this part, when David is trying to keep Lestat on track, because he keeps changing the subject and talking about seemingly random things

“Lestat, your mind’s wandering.  What’s the matter with you?  Why are you afraid?”

And Lestat responds with

“You want to go back to Jesse and Maharet, don’t you?”  I asked suddenly, a feeling of hopelessness descending on me.  “You want to study for the next hundred years, among all those tablets and scrolls, and look into Maharet’s aching blue eyes, and hear her voice, I know you do.”

Letat seems just as terrified to me here that David is going to abandon him as he is of this stalker, just as afraid of being left alone and abandoned for something and someone better.  This really kills me, because it underscores just how much Lestat really isn’t so much of a vain narcissist as he believes, but rather just someone who seeks attention and acknowledgement because he’s certain that nobody really cares about him, that nobody really could, and he’s always pushing to prove it, always pushing because he’s certain eventually others will have to see and admit what he sees and thinks about himself, that he’s this evil being that doesn’t deserve their love.  He’s so certain of it that it’s almost like it’s a torment to him, that others still seem to care or say they care about him, like he’s always just waiting for the other shoe to drop, for them to suddenly realize what he is, and when they do, they’ll leave him.  Better, he thinks, to just force them to see it and get the inevitable abandonment over with.

David says to him, when explaining how much the other vampires wanted to know how Lestat survived his encounter with the Body Thief

“And I don’t think you know quite how you alarmed them, and how much they love you.”

Lestat replies with skepticism, asking

“They love me, do they?”  I said of the others, the remnants of our revenant species around the world.  “I know they didn’t try to help me.”

We see this with Lestat as a recurring theme, this belief that no one could really, truly love him, and it’s entirely tied, I think, into his inability to really love himself.  He’s grown to completely hate himself.  When he says this line here, while describing the thing that’s stalking him, the way it follows him while deliberately makes it known to Lestat

“Damn it, I’ve done this to mortals myself and it’s so vicious.  God!  Why was I ever created!”

It’s what makes his claims of vanity so sad in a way, because for every instance of him calling himself beautiful, or bragging about his charms or abilities, he also calls himself a monster, or shows self-disgust like in the above quote, and refers negatively to his need for attention.

When David tells him that this thing following him obviously is only interested in him, and not any of the other vampires, Lestat thinks

“I was crestfallen.  I am proud, I am an egomaniac of a being; I do love attention; I want glory; I want to be wanted by God and the Devil.  I want, I want, I want.”

You always get the sense with Lestat that his egotism is more of an act than anything.  He really thinks lowly of himself.  He sees his need for attention as a distinctly bad thing, and acknowledging it here brings him pain.  It’s yet another consequence of him having grown to accept this idea of himself as this irredeemable monster, as this greedy and evil being.  He sees his desire for acknowledgment and love as some sort of testament to his worthlessness. 

And we see this again, we see the shame he feels in wanting and needing love, and his continual surprise whenever anyone actually expresses love towards him, or promises to stay with him.

“I sat still, conscious of stupid discomforts, that the place was stuffy, that the perfume was not really perfume, that there were no lilies in these rooms, that it was going to be very cold outside, and I couldn’t think of rest until dawn forced me to it, and the night was long, and I was not making sense to David, and I might lose him... and that Thing might come, that Thing might come again.

“Will you stay near me?”  I hated my own words.

“I’ll stand at your side, and I’ll try to hold on to you if it tries to take you.”

“You will?”

“Yes,” he said.

“Why?”

Lestat goes on, after David tries to explain that they share a special connection that Lestat doesn’t have with any of the others, and speaks about Marius being angry at him for not becoming his pupil

“Well put.  That is what he believes.  Oh, but he’s angry with me for much greater things than that, you weren’t one of us when I woke the Mother and the Father.  You weren’t there.”

Again we see from Lestat just this constant, unfailing fear of and certainty in the disapproval of others, and again I think this ties back into how he grew up, and his experiences with Nicki and his early life as a vampire.  He’s talking here about how Marius is so angry at him for screwing up, for having caused something he never meant to cause.  It’s completely like a child who feels mortified at having disappointed a parent.

And again we see this awful shame he has in his own need for comfort, when he asks David

“Yes, could you get us some rooms there?  Actually I have mortal agents who can do this sort of thing, I don’t know why in the world I’m whining like a fool in this place, asking you to take care of humiliating particulars...”

And again here, when David offers to stay with him for that night

“No, go on, I have to finish this one.  I need you, I really need you.  I needed to tell you, and to have you with me, the age-old venerable human needs, but I don’t need you at my side.  I know you’re thirsting...”

And when Lestat forces himself to leave the hotel without David, we see what an awful struggle it is for him

“I laughed.  I leant to give him a quick kiss on the forehead, so swift others would not make anything of it if they saw it, and then swallowing the fear, the instantaneous fear, I left him.”

This shame and humiliation Lestat feels in needing David with him, in needing any kind of comfort, once more, I think, ties back into what he was taught growing up, that to really need and seek comfort from others was a shameful thing, and a burden on those he sought it from.  It’s so sad.  And particularly I find it sad because Lestat himself is such an affectionate, loving person.  He really is.  He loves to lavish gifts and affection and attention on those he loves.  He wants contact, he wants intimacy, but he’s completely convinced and fearful that if he seeks it, he’ll be rebuffed and told he’s being a pain or a nuisance.  We see that at the beginning of this chapter too, when Lestat goes to hug David and he’s so uncertain that David will allow it, or want it

“I wanted to kiss him, and suddenly I did put out my arms, rather tentatively and politely so that he could get away if he wanted, and when he let me hug him, when he returned the warmth, I felt a happiness I hadn’t experienced in months.”

It’s just really such a heartbreaking thing to realize about Lestat, how much he wants and needs love, but how certain he is that he doesn’t deserve it, and how his experiences throughout his life have taught him that his need for it is this shameful thing, and that his seeking it from others is somehow an awful burden on them, that it makes him greedy for wanting it.  Just the way he says here that he held out his arms in a way that would make it easy for David to get away from him if he wanted to... ah, that hurts man.  Like Lestat is so convinced that David WILL want to get away from him, because that’s what Lestat is used to, people’s eventual rejection.  And the tragic sweetness of him always being so surprised, and so overwhelmed by happiness at something as simple and common as a hug being returned... God, it just speaks volumes about the damage neglect can have on a person.  Lestat calls himself greedy for wanting the simplest and most basic of human contact, something which should be available to and freely given to anyone, and which no one should be made to feel bad for wanting.  But Lestat feels like the world’s worst person for wanting it.  Damn.

[authormorganlawson]

I’m Trapped in A Cage and Buried Underground Because I Won’t Get into Heaven

It’s the middle of the night. I’m driving too fast. Music is screeching out of my truck’s rickety speakers. I use my phone—something that you shouldn’t do while driving, I know that, but I also shouldn’t be driving this fast, not on these icy roads—to take a picture of the radio, to throw it up on social media, let the world know I’m free.

But I’ve never been free. I’ve always been trapped

                                   a bird caught in a cage

                                   pounding its wings against iron

                                   a skeleton in a coffin underground

                                   rattling its bones against mahogany

I’m staring out of the window, I’m choking on soil

My rosary, the beaded one with an Archangel Michael medallion hangs from my mirror next to a necklace with the Black Order pendant, and now the pendant and a crucified Jesus are clacking against the radio screen. It annoys me. Clack, clack, clack. The Black Order isn’t important—simply an ode to a show I like. But Michael does nothing for me. What’s the point of this rosary? Why do I have it?

God and all of His angels have long since abandoned me in the time of my destruction

                                   left me all by myself with my bleeding wings

                                   in the iron wrought cage that I built for myself

                                     left me all by myself with my shattering bones

                                   in the mahogany coffin I built for myself

I’m staring out of the window, I’m choking on soil

Headlights fly past me in a blur and I by them, with my own blaring headlights. I lose traction for a split second, when my tires spin on a patch of black ice, and my heart lurches and nestles itself into my throat and hardens there. I try to swallow around it, but I can’t. I can’t.

I pray for the strength of Michael and the love of God to save me

                                   Michael’s sword slicing through the iron bars

                                   And letting my wings spread wide and free

                                     God’s almighty hands pulling open the lid of the coffin

                                   And letting my putrefied lungs fill with sweet air

But they don’t. I’m staring out of the window, I’m choking on soil

I picture my truck careening into a ditch and air bags slamming my head back into the headrest. I picture my radio cutting out and music to be replaced with the crunching of metal and shattering of glass and of bone. I picture myself reaching the Pearly Gates, my feet nestled in the clouds. I picture meeting Saint Michael the Archangel and saying, “I kept a medallion of you in my truck so that your strength could always be with me.” I picture him shoving me from the clouds, to fall with no wings, and saying to me, Lord rebuke you. I don’t picture this because I see myself as Lucifer, of course. I’m not quite that foolish. I picture this because like Lucifer, I am no longer worthy to feel the love of God. I’m not sure why that is, but He certainly has not loved me in a long time.

So, I don’t send my truck and I into a fast, painful death.

                                   I lean my back against the cage of iron

                                   And let the blood dry in my tired wings

                                     I lay back into my wooden coffin

                                   And let the air eddy out of my rotting lungs

I will always stare out of the window, and I will always choke on soil