#grateful for ao3 nowadays

[puppiquil]

But at night time when there was nothing to do and the house was all empty, I'd always think of quizilla….

[lxveuntold]

wondrous | lmh (m)

summary: pregnancy is strange and uncomfortable and even kind of gross, but your loving husband is always willing to show you just how desirable and wonderful you are.

pairing: lee know x fem reader

genre: smut

word count: 5.2k

rating: mature (18+)

warnings & features: profanity; pregnancy; some body insecurities; binary gender talk; graphic sexual content; pregnant sex; dirty talk; lactation kink; creampie

author’s note: rewritten for stray kids and reuploaded from my old blog. hope you enjoy!

{ click here if you prefer to read on AO3 }

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Slamming the car door with more force than necessary is childish, and if your husband were here, he would probably tell you so. Well, maybe not in such blatant terms. First, he would probably ask you to explain what led you to such pissy behavior, and your answer would be that you’re frustrated and out of patience.

You hate that your patience is in such short supply these days. You know you are going to need all of it and then some when the baby comes.

You rest one of your hands on the crest of your bulging stomach and sigh softly. “I’m sorry,” you say to the ever-growing baby within. “I guess you might need to be patient with me, too, if it’s not too much to ask.”

The tears well up unbidden. That happens often lately with your hormones on the fritz. Evidently something as mundane as a shopping trip to the mall is enough to upset you nowadays. Then your mind dwells on how you should be grateful to be in a position to buy the things you want and need whenever you want, and that only makes you sob harder.

You allow the silly little breakdown to run its course, knowing it will be better to sit and let it out now before you drive home.

After a few minutes, you sniffle and wipe your wet cheeks in shame. After a couple more minutes of deep breaths, when you are certain you are stable enough to drive, you start the engine.

The commute home gives you some time to decompress, and the sight of Minho’s car in the driveway lifts your spirits. He told you this morning that he might have to work late this evening — which was fine by you since it translated to having more money for the pending expenses of birthing and raising a child — but having him home is even better.

A loud clang and a muttered curse greet you as you enter the front door. It may not be a polite reaction, but you can’t help but smile at whatever your husband is struggling with in the kitchen. You sling your shopping bags onto the couch and go to rescue him.

Minho is bent over at the waist, rummaging through a bottom cabinet with his backside to you. You take a moment to ogle the fit of his jeans appreciatively before making your presence known.

“Hi honey, need some help?”

He flinches and whirls around. “Heyyy, doll! I didn’t hear you come in.” He hastily combs his fingers through his smooth brown hair as if to compose himself for you.

“That’s because you were busy tearing down the kitchen, from the sound of it,” you laugh.

He does not even dispute your joke. He just groans in frustration and kicks his foot out behind him to close the cabinet. “Where do we keep the rice cooker? I swear I’ve looked everywhere.”

“Did you look here?” You pull open the correct cabinet near your calves and squat down to retrieve it. He rushes to stop you.

“Hey, hey, let me get it.” He comes over and crouches with you only to put his hands on your hips and guide you back up with him. “You shouldn’t exert yourself. I have a bun in that oven, lady.”

You snort loudly. “Don’t I know it. My whole day was an over-exertion, though. I think I can handle stooping over to grab the rice cooker.”

“Oh?” His face becomes concerned, eyebrows wrinkling and pink lips pouting adorably. His hands begin sliding up and down along your sides. “What was wrong with your day?”

“Oh, I’ve just decided I hate shopping for maternity clothes now,” you say, sighing heavily. The statement is so frivolous it makes you cringe, but the rest of your unimportant complaints come flooding out anyway. “They’re all so unflattering, not to mention it’s so uncomfortable trying them on. Getting undressed and redressed is such a pain in the ass. It’s like a whole fucking workout now, I swear to god.”

“Ah, I bet. Poor thing,” Minho says without a trace of condescension to his tone, and you envy his patience. He pulls you in for a hug in his strong arms, and your swollen stomach bumps against his flat one.

Inspired by his understanding, you continue unburdening your rather meaningless worries into his shoulder. “It was so crowded, too. I hate how everyone stares at me all the time just because I’m pregnant. And I especially hate when other parents come up to me and give me advice or tell me stories about their own pregnancies, like I fucking asked.”

Minho laughs and massages his fingertips into the back of your head. “I think they’re just trying to be kind and helpful. They only mean well.”

“Yeah, well, it’s also super annoying.”

“Sorry. What can I do to help?”

You shake your head and step back from him. “Right now I just want to shower and change my clothes. I’m not kidding about that ‘workout.’ I’ve been sweating for hours and I feel disgusting right now. The boob sweat is strong under this sweater right now.”

“Well, we’ve got a towel right here.” He whips the dish towel off the handle of the stove with a flourish and holds it up with a cheeky grin. “Let me help you.”

You laugh. “You want to dry my boobs off with that?”

“It’s clean!”

“Don’t be silly.”

“You’ll be glad for my silliness when our baby comes,” he says, dropping the towel to start tickling you mercilessly.

Your stomach muscles heave with your fit of giggles, and the baby starts kicking to join in on the commotion.

“Ah! No t-tickling, damnit! The b-baby doesn’t like it.”

“No?” Minho stops his playful torment and cups your stomach on either side. It only takes a second for him to feel what you mean. “I think maybe she does.”

“Or he. The baby could be a boy, you know.”

The two of you have decided to keep the gender a surprise until the birth, but that does not stop your husband from speculating.

“Could be,” he says a bit dismissively. He kneels down on the tiled floor so his face is level with your belly-button, which has recently begun to protrude outwards like the rest of you.

He runs his fingers along the surface of your stretched sweater and says quietly, “I just have a hunch that it’s a girl. She’s feisty, like you.” He places a sweet kiss on the top of your belly, then speaks directly to it. “Sorry about the tickling, sweet baby girl. Daddy was just making Mommy laugh to help make her feel better. I have something else that might make her feel better, though.”

“What is it?” you ask.

“Come on, I’ll show you.”

Minho interlocks his fingers with yours and leads you up the stairs — which have become quite the strain on your knees lately — and to the baby’s room.

The moment he pushes open the door, you see exactly what he means. The crib now resembles a crib and not a scattering of wooden pieces strewn around the floor the way they had been for weeks. The inside is lined with blankets and stuffed animals, and the mobile you chose is hanging above it. It could hardly be more picturesque.

With this, the nursery is complete. The painting had been finished a couple months ago, and the other pieces of necessary and decorative furniture have been set in their places for quite some time as well.

“Wow, you actually finished it?” you say. “How did you have time to do that after work today?”

“You were gone for longer than you realize,” he says, chuckling. “I took half the day off to come home and surprise you, but you weren’t here, so I decided to surprise you with this instead.”

“Consider me surprised,” you say with a smile. You squeeze his hand before letting go and walking over to the crib. You give the rail a little shake to test the sturdiness of your husband’s handiwork, and your eyebrows raise in satisfaction at the result.

“I only had to start all over again once,” Minho says proudly, sidling up beside you and gliding a hand along the small of your back to rest on your hip. His thumb traces little circles into it.

“You did a great job,” you say, turning in his hold to wrap your arms around his waist in return, albeit with a bit of difficulty due to your belly getting in the way.

“Glad you like it.” He leans forward to plant a kiss on your forehead, then your nose, then down to your chin, then back up to your mouth. You smile and chase after his lips when he pulls away, and he laughs as he kisses you again. “Come on, let’s sit for a bit and get you off your feet. Dinner and a shower can wait a little while longer.” He moves over to the rocking chair in the corner and takes a seat, then pats his lap invitingly.

“Min, I’ll crush you,” you say with a shake of your head.

He shakes his head right back. “Oh, stop it. No you won’t. You’re not that heavy, and I’m not that fragile.”

He starts beckoning you by stretching his arms out and repeatedly opening and closing his hands. The action is irresistibly cute, so you relent. You toe off your shoes and go to sit on his proposed seat. You try not to rest too much weight on him as you sit on his knee, but he ruins your position by taking your hips and dragging you further up his muscular thigh.

“Put your legs up on me,” he says. “If it’s not too uncomfortable for you, I mean.”

You do as he says and turn sideways to hoist your legs over his other thigh. Minho holds onto your knee with one hand and wraps his other arm behind your back to keep you in place.

“There we go. Is this okay?” he asks.

You shift and wiggle until your back is relatively comfortable. “I think so. Are you okay?”

He smiles and squeezes you reassuringly. “I’ve got my beautiful wife on my lap... we’re sitting right where we’ll be rocking our baby when she — or he — is born... I’d say I’m pretty perfect.”

You take his word for it and sigh in content, leaning into him and resting your head in the crook of his neck. He lays his cheek against your head and pushes his feet off the floor to begin gently rocking the chair as it was intended.

For a few moments, the two of you sit and rock in silence until Minho begins humming softly. Something mellow and baritone. The melody is one you recognize, but the lyrics to that particular song elude you. You’ll ask him about it later. Right now, the vibrations from his throat and the steady thrum of his heartbeat are lulling you peacefully. The faint scent of his cologne and the warmth of his body seep comfortably into your skin.

You tilt your face up to kiss his throat appreciatively for the comfort he is providing. He hums out of tune at your gentle touch, and you kiss him there again. This time you take a bit of his flesh into your mouth with a delicate suck, and he hisses in a short breath. His reaction spurs you to do it again, and then again, until the honey skin is left pink from the teasing.

“Mm, that feels really good, babe,” Minho murmurs. The pet name makes your heart flutter a bit; it was used so frequently at the start of your relationship, but over the years it has become a bit more rare. It makes you feel a little sexy, even in your sweaty, bloated, and achy state.

“Yeah? Should I keep going?” you ask. Your lips ghost over his neck, and your fingers begin trailing down the center of his chest.

“Please.” There is a slight rasp to the syllable that makes you feel proud considering you have barely even done anything to him.

Your fingers find the hems of his sweater and white t-shirt and begin tugging at them. “Do you mind if I take these off?”

“Not at all.” He shrugs out of his cardigan then lifts his arms so you can have the honor of pulling up his shirt to toss it aside. The taut muscles in his chest and abdomen twitch as your fingertips graze them. Before you get to the waistband of his jeans, Minho takes your wandering fingers and stops you.

“Wait,” he says. You look at him curiously. “You said you had a rough day. I should take care of you.”

“Oh? How so?”

“Well, I figured I could start by getting you out of your clothes, and then we can see where things lead.”

Sex with your husband has been infrequent over the course of your thirty-week pregnancy so far, but it has occurred. The doctor assured you there are no complication risks involved, even when this far along. Your pregnancy is perfectly healthy, and sex is not harmful to the baby, so you and Minho are free to continue your normal sex life.

The problem is you don’t always feel up for sex. Between your various aches and the increasing challenge of finding a comfortable position, you sometimes have to wonder if an orgasm is really worth the trouble. But it has been a while since your last release, and you trust Minho to be caring and attentive, so you nod in agreement.

He guides you to stand up from his lap, and you allow him to remove your shirt. The sheen of sweat that has been building for the greater part of the afternoon is made even more apparent when the open air meets it.

“Ugh, I still feel gross,” you mutter under your breath. The inkling of sexiness you felt just moments ago is already gone.

“You don’t look gross,” Minho says. He scans you from head to toe before settling his gaze on your chest. “Will you take your bra off for me, please?”

You hesitate a few seconds, then unhook the restrictive garment and shrug out of it to let it drop to the floor. The moment it is gone, Minho reaches out to grasp your hips and slide his hands up along the expanse of your stomach. His warm, tender touch sends a shiver through you, and the baby begins fidgeting again. Your husband must feel it, too, because he smiles up at you brightly.

“God, how did I get so lucky? You are so beautiful.” His tone carries real sincerity. “Especially with your body like this, carrying our child. You’re so fucking… wonderful.”

You automatically let out an unflattering snort of self-consciousness as you think of the new stretch marks striping your breasts, hips, and stomach. You can’t even bring yourself to look at them right now.

“I mean it. It’s true,” he insists. His eyes drop to your bare stomach to look at what you will not. “It’s amazing how you’re able to grow a baby inside of you, just because I came in you.”

There is laughter in your breathy exhale. “Gee, you make it sound so sexy, Min.”

“But it is sexy. You’re growing hands and feet and… eyes inside your womb right now, this very moment.”

You wrinkle your nose. “That doesn’t sound sexy at all. It sounds scientific.”

“Yeah, but it’s also kind of magical, isn’t it? And just think about it: you’ll be able to feed the baby with your body, too…” Minho folds his bottom lip between his teeth for a second as he studies your chest with great interest. “Just look at these perfect tits, getting all swollen with milk for our baby.”

He starts to squeeze, lift, and massage your breasts reverently, completely undeterred by the stickiness coated on the undersides of them from your sweat. A quiet moan rumbles up from your throat.

Even though he is being gentle, the stimulation is still enough to make your nipples begin discharging a thick fluid that is slightly yellow in color. The sight of it kind of embarrasses you, even though it is completely natural. Your doctor explained that it is the “pre milk” before your body begins producing normal breast milk after the birth.

“Min…” you fret with a nervous giggle. You peel his hands away and take a step back from him.

“It’s okay, babe,” he says. He stands up and rearranges your hands so that he is the one holding yours. ��It’s just your body, don’t be ashamed. I told you, you’re beautiful. You’re wonderful. You’re amazing.”

He lifts the heavy mounds on your chest again and presses them together as if to get a better view of the wetness seeping from them. He swipes his thumbs over both of your wet nipples, then casually sticks one of his thumbs in his mouth as if he has done this many times before.

“Mm, tastes sweet,” he says.

“Does it?”

“Yeah. Can I… do you think I could...” He trails off in a puff that sounds like he is the one who’s embarrassed. Eventually, he blurts, “I want to try some more.”

“What, you want to actually… drink it?” you ask. The notion surprises you, and you want to make sure you are understanding him correctly.

“I’d like to try, if you’re comfortable with that. I just want to appreciate your body in every way.”

Minho rolls a sensitive pebble between his thumb and forefinger as he waits for your reply.

After another second, you nod your consent, and he flashes you a toothy smile before he latches his mouth directly onto your nipple. The touch of his soft lips coupled with the tip of his tongue makes you gasp in pleasure. Goosebumps break out over your skin as he suckles delicately. You have to admit the sensation of the fluid flowing from your nipple is oddly satisfying, and the wet suction sound Minho is creating is more than a little erotic. Heat starts to pool between your legs to dampen your panties.

“Is this okay?” he asks you again, peering up at your face as he switches to the other tit. When his tongue takes the nipple in between his lips, you notice it is coated with a milky sheen.

“Yeah, it… it actually feels really good,” you confess. Without consciously choosing to do it, your thighs press together to apply some pressure to your clit. Even with your stomach in the way, Minho’s smirk tells you he does not miss the action.

“Are you wet down there between your legs, too?”

“Yes.”

“Dripping?”

“Mm…”

“I want to feel.”

“Be my guest,” you invite. He goes to slip his hand past the waistband of your pants, but you quickly instruct, “Just take them off.”

He does not need to be told twice. He detaches from your breast and yanks your pants down to your ankles. You steady yourself on his shoulders as you pull your feet free.

“Panties, too,” you add, but his fingers are already hooking into them.

Once they are shed, Minho takes his time running his warm hands back up your calves to your inner thighs, spreading your legs just a little wider than hip-width apart. He wastes no more time in dipping the pads of three fingers along your slit. The slickness he finds there has both of you groaning lowly.

“You are wet. Is this all because I sucked a little milk from your tits?”

A slow smile grows across your face. “Maybe.”

“Should I suck some more?”

“I don’t think there’s much in there at a time yet, honestly,” you tell him rather seriously. “Not until after the baby is born.”

He hums in understanding. “That’s okay, babe. I’ll settle for eating your pussy, if that’s alright,” he says, sinking two knuckles inside you.

“J-Jesus, Min. Y-yeah. Please.”

He grins, drawing his fingers back a little just to shove them in forcefully. “Alright. Have a seat for me,” he says. He removes his fingers from you and slides them into his mouth for the taste of something else. He really does adore all parts of you.

The rocking chair tips backwards when you settle into it, which only improves the access Minho has to your pussy. He makes it even easier for himself, however, by kneeling down and hoisting your legs onto each of his shoulders.

“Is this good?” he asks. He brings his head between your thighs and dots soft kisses along one of them.

You scoot your butt to the very edge of the seat. “Yeah, for now. I’ll let you know if it starts to hurt.”

“Please do,” he agrees at once.

He leans forward and parts your sticky folds with two fingers before dragging his tongue from the bottom of your slit to the top in one slow, firm motion. Your breath hitches in your chest when he buries the pink muscle into your wet hole. He licks in a circle from one pulsing wall to the other and back again, then pulls back and licks his lips.

“Do you want my tongue in you and fingers on your clit, or my tongue on your clit and fingers in you?” he asks. He does not normally require such direct instructions, but he has been so concerned with you in your pregnant state. He wants to make sure he is giving you as much pleasure as possible, and he does not want any room for misunderstanding or disappointment.

“Fingers inside, please,” you say.

Minho fits one finger back inside your pussy, soon followed by a second, and your walls squeeze tightly around the digits to welcome and secure them. Then he flattens his tongue to press it back and forth, up and down over your clit. He builds a steady pace that renders your eyes closed and mouth unhinged to let flow a stream of pleasurable sighs and moans. Your pitch heightens considerably when his fingers hit pay dirt on that spot inside you that always makes your toes curl. When you rock against his face to get all the friction you can, the chair moves with you.

“Shit, this is so hot, babe,” your husband groans from below. “Should’ve eaten you out in a rocking chair a long time ago.”

You start to respond but your words pinch into a squeal from a particularly strong tap against your g-spot with his fingertips, and that seems to be all the answer he could want.

Minho becomes greedy for your unfiltered noises and closes his lips around your clit to suck it the way he sucked your nipples just moments earlier. A shiver tumbles down each rung of your spine, all the way to your clenched toes. Your muscles tense to cope with the sheer intensity of the pleasure being administered to that oh-so-sensitive bundle of nerves between your legs. His fingers work tirelessly to undo you in tandem with his skillful tongue. The crest of your climax is drawing near so soon.

“Oh my god, Min,” you breathe with hardly any sound. “Fuck, you’ve got me so close already.”

He grunts his acknowledgement. “Is this how you want to come, doll? All over my fingers? All over my tongue?”

It is very tempting, but you still decline. “N-no. I want you inside me.”

“I’m already inside you.” He twists his fingers pointedly. “Can you be more specific?”

“You know what I mean,” you groan.

He has to get in a few more swipes of his tongue before he can say, “Yeah, but I want to hear you say it. You can have everything you want if you ask me.”

“I want your c-cock inside me. Now, please.”

Minho makes no move to cease his actions other than to briefly retract his tongue to speak again. “You sure you don’t want me to just keep going? You’re so close.”

“Yes, yes, I’m sure. Please, fuck me already.”

The moan he lets out when he pulls away from you and gets to his feet is positively carnal. He rushes to undo his jeans, then shoves both them and his underwear to the floor in one swoop. You tilt your head to take in the view of his erect cock; the bulbous head is nearly purple from engorgement, and there is a glistening wetness at the slit from a buildup of precum.

“How do you want me?” he asks.

“Let’s try the chair.”

“Do you want to bend over it and I’ll fuck you from behind? Or do you want me to sit down and have you ride me?”

“Sit down and I’ll try riding you.”

You rock yourself up and out of the chair, and Minho takes a firm hold of each of your hands to help tug you to your feet. He kisses you quick and sloppy, giving you a quick taste of your arousal, before switching places with you and taking a seat. His cock points upwards as the perfect target for you to sit on.

You face away from him and straddle his legs to get yourself in position. One of his hands steadies your lowering hips as the other lines his dick up for entry. The tip squeezes into your warm wetness with ease. Minho spreads his legs wider and thrusts up to fit a few more inches of himself. With another shove from him and a bit of wriggling on your part, he bottoms out.

“Fuck, you always feel so fucking good,” he rumbles from behind you. Both of his hands are clenched tightly on your hips now.

You moan in agreement. “So do you.”

Bracing yourself on the arms of the chair, you raise yourself up a couple inches, then sink back down swiftly. Minho plants his feet firmly to keep the chair steady and meet you blow for blow as you start up a rhythm. The two of you grunt and pant with every stroke; the sounds are out of sync, but your movements are not.

The friction feels good, but your looming orgasm from earlier is not quite building again as you had hoped it would. Furthermore, your arms are already beginning to tremble from your efforts.

“Shit,” you swear in frustration. “Maybe this won’t work after all.”

He brings up his earlier suggestion and says, “Want to try bending over?”

“Yeah, okay. Let’s try that.”

His wet dick falls out of you to slap against his stomach when you stand up from his lap. Again, the two of you switch positions so you can lean down and prop your arms along the armrests of the chair. The seat tilts downward as you bend over and press your head against the back of it, and your breasts hang heavy below you. You vaguely notice they have begun to leak again.

Minho steps up behind you and returns his hands to your waist to lift your backside a little higher to expose yourself to him. The head of his cock briefly pokes over your asshole when he guides it into place at your pussy again. With a sigh of satisfaction, he pushes back inside and waits for an extended moment while you to readjust to the tight stretch of his girth.

When you tell him you’re ready, he recreates the rhythm you had started earlier, but at a slightly faster tempo now. Each smack of his tensed thighs against your buttocks makes your breasts bounce — another motion that does not go unnoticed by him.

“God, you’re so fucking hot,” he breathes. One of his hands reaches over to cup one swinging breast and then the other. His fingers toy at your wet nipples once more. “You’re already such a MILF.”

The term makes you burst into surprised laughter. “Oh my god, please do not call me that,” you say.

“Why not?” Minho laughs back. “It’s true. You’re so. Damn. Sexy.” He emphasizes each word with concise, gasp-inducing thrusts. “And motherhood is only going to enhance that.”

“Ungh, right now I just want to come,” you groan, not interested in continuing a conversation at the moment, no matter how flattering. Your body feels heavy, but the coil in you is getting close to snapping again. “Please, Min... please…”

“Oh, you will, doll. I want you to come just as badly.” He pinches your drippy nipple with one hand, maneuvers the other hand around your waist, under your stomach, between your legs to trap your throbbing clit between two fingers. “Want you to come all over this cock.”

“Keep going and I will,” you promise him.

He speeds his hips up until he is hitting your g-spot with every push. He rubs and plays with your clit just the way you like. The steady whapping sound of skin on skin fills the nursery, along with your breathless encouragements for your husband to keep groping, keep pounding, keep going.

“You’re dripping everywhere for me, aren’t you, baby?” he grunts, his breath hot and ragged. “Got your sticky little clit in one hand, and your tit is leaking in my other.”

He is not wrong. Everything is so wet, so hot, so sticky. You whimper and repeatedly push back against him to further increase the friction.

“So fucking filthy,” he goes on, nearly growling. “Makes me want to bust and fill you up with cum. There’s gonna be so fucking much of it.”

His words, combined with a few more sweeps of his fingers over your clit and stabs of his cockhead against the sweetest part of you, burst you straight through the roof of your climax. With a whiny, broken moan, your pussy clamps him tightly, and it is not more than four of five more strokes before he joins you in sheer bliss. He seizes and grunts deeply as his cum shoots out of his twitching cock to meet the resistance of your already-occupied womb. He was right — there is a lot of it. The viscous white fluid oozes out of you and down along your thighs before the spurts have even finished trickling out of him.

Both pairs of legs between the two of you are shaky as Minho pulls out of your swollen pussy with a slick squelch. He helps straighten your body and pulls you into an adoring hug as you both regain your lost breath. His sweaty chest is nearly as damp as yours as it heaves against your back. You can feel his heart racing.

“You alright, doll?” he checks while dotting sweet kisses along your shoulder. “Was that good?”

“Very good,” you pant with a blissed smile. You turn your head to the side and pucker your mouth for a kiss. Your lower belly is cramping from the intensity of your orgasm, and you massage it absently as Minho’s lips envelop yours. His fingers bump yours as he, too, goes to cradle your stomach.

“How’s our little princess?” he asks next.

“Fine,” you answer. You kiss him deeply and whisper against his mouth: “We’re both just fine, thanks to the daddy.”

---

copyright © 2024 by daizymax / lxveuntold. all rights reserved. back to masterlist

[atlasofthestaars]

[MX X READER] New Era - Chapter .003

first part | previous part | next part

NOTE: First off, thank you ALL so much for the support! I sincerely love every one of your comments so far, and feel grateful you all enjoy the story! The comments are lowkey pushing me to write this all, so again tysm for the support!

Hopefully this chapter showcases how I’ll try to implement extra scenes within the story! Because after this chapter we will divulge for a bit storywise to get bonding moments between the kharacters and the reader! I’m doing this due to the months time skip, and thought it’d be a good time to develop some of the relationships before the Outworld arc!

Sorry for how Lin Kuei heavy the interactions have been, but we’ll soon get the champion squad as the focus soon, so I did want to implement some of this groundwork first. That doesn’t mean the Lin Kuei are totally gone soon, especially since I also need to give Smoke his share of time together, but they will be used less often after this chapter so we can bond with the others.

ALSO, for those reading this on tumblr, please reply to the poll here whether you do want Shang Tsung as a love interest! It will affect my planning somewhat so I would like to gauge interest! AO3 fans, leave a comment on your thoughts !

ALSO ALSO! If you want a character included as a love interest that is NOT part of the initial roster mentioned in part one, please send in messages/leave comments mentioning it so I can see what you all want! It’s not a guarantee, but it is helpful to get input on those types of things.

FROM THE EYES OF ONE WHO HELPED RECRUIT NEW ALLIES

“Only you and Kuai Liang for this mission?”

You eyed the blue clad and yellow clad assassins curiously as you walked into the room where the Lin Kuei trio typically sat when they were awaiting for Liu Kang. You pursed your lips as you walked right up in front of the two brothers, your gaze switching between them before they settled on Bi-Han. You crossed your arms as you watch Bi-Han’s gaze narrow.

“That should be more than enough.” Sub Zero replied gruffly, keeping his gaze on yours. It felt like a staring contest was always happening between you two. While most times you would entertain it, you instead searched his face. It was hard to tell whether Bi-Han was irritated, or if it was his grumpy face that he always wore, but from the years you knew him, you picked up on the tells.

This time, it was simply his natural face. 

“I’m not saying it’s not enough, I’m just surprised.” You replied smoothly as you moved your gaze from Bi-Han’s face to the arm you had patched up yesterday. You sighed as you pulled out the medical kit you had tucked away on your person. “I would have thought that the Grandmaster of the Lin Kuei would know how to regularly change his bandages.” You chided as you knelt beside where he was sitting.

“I know how to change my bandages, fool.” Sub Zero scoffed, but as usual let you come close to inspect the wound you had dressed. You let the insult go, you knew at this point any insults towards you were rarely meaningful. If he really hated you, he would have not even let you dress his wounds in the first place.

It was odd, before he used to be diligent about changing his own bandages. But nowadays it felt like he expected you to change it for him. 

Maybe it was because you started to patch him up for him instead of letting the cryomancer do it himself. It had bugged you, how often he left wounds unattended. Never had they turned into infections, but it irritated you to no end. So one day, you just began to do it for him, despite his initial protests.

Now it was like a routine between you two. It didn’t happen often, since Bi-Han had become more proficient in avoiding injuries, but it happened enough that it felt like a routine.

You gently removed the bloodied bandages from around his right bicep. You hummed as you noted how it was healing. Carefully, you brushed your fingers over the wound to see it had begun to scab over. You noted the odd way he seemed to tense at this, and sent him a small glance.

“Relax, I’m not going to stab you.” You teased, a small chuckle leaving your lips as you returned your gaze back to the wound. Even though you weren’t looking at him, you felt Bi-Han’s gaze burn into you. Maybe being the pyromancer would have fit him better with how searing his gaze was like. 

“As if you would get the chance.” He grumbled as he relaxed. You rolled your eyes as you carefully reapplied the bandages over the wound. Proud of yourself, you grinned as you pat the bandages on his bicep. 

“Done.” You declared as you stood back up. You saw Bi-Han sigh as he reluctantly nodded in acknowledgement. You turned your gaze towards the younger brother, sending Kuai Liang a soft smile. 

Strange, why did Bi-Han seem a bit irritated at your smile?

“Do you need any wounds of yours patched up while I’m at it?” You inquired as you walked over to stand in front of Scorpion. Returning your soft smile with one of his own, Kuai Liang shook his head, holding up a dismissive hand. His eyes sent an almost apologetic look towards you, as if apologizing for his brother.

“While appreciative, it is not necessary. I was not cut during the examination.” Kuai Liang reassured you with a small nod. You returned the nod, glad to hear the news. Still, your eyes roamed his body to see if he had any bruises that were beginning to bloom. 

“Good, I’m glad to hear it.” Your smile grew to a grin as you recalled the events of last night. The exam still buzzed in your head, and you could easily replay it in your head over and over. “Good performance, by the way. I didn’t get to tell you that yesterday.” 

“I was simply doing the job as required.” Kuai Liang humbly said, though you could see a hint of what you interpreted as bashfulness within his expression. You laughed. The Lin Kuei trio, so different, yet all people you held close to your heart. They were the ones you considered to be your friends, and you only hoped they returned the sentiment.

“Come, Lord Liu Kang is ready for the both of you.” You beckoned them to follow, and almost in sync they stood up and followed your lead. It was quiet for a few moments as the three of you walked through the Fire Temple. You felt like a leader of a pack, with Kuai Liang on your left and Bi-Han on your right. You briefly wondered if this is how Liu Kang often felt. “Were you both informed of what our mission is, and where we are going?” 

“From what I recall, we are going to California to recruit an actor and a swordsman to see if they will join Lord Liu Kang’s cause.” Scorpion piped up, and you nodded, pleased at how accurate his memory was. 

“It is unnecessary for all three of us to have to go.” Bi-Han commented. Despite his words seeming rough, you could sense he was only speaking his mind and not trying to insult Liu Kang…even if he could definitely word it better.

“It is probably for the best for all of us to go, just in case.” The younger brother interjected, sending his older brother a glance. “Lord Liu Kang has his own reasons.”

The conversation ground to a halt, and you felt the temperature drop around you three by a few degrees. 

You ignored it as you three arrived at the door of the room where Liu Kang was waiting. Best not to linger on that. 

You all had a mission to get to, after all.

So this was California.

You marveled at how different the city around you was. The buildings were so different. Everything was different. You took in the atmosphere as you basked in the small amount of time you all had to stand around before you had to go.

Even though the area you teleported too was on the quieter side, the area around you was so much busier than it was anywhere you’ve recently been. So many lights, noises…it was so foreign. You were so in awe you even let Bi-Han scoff at your amazement without glaring at him.

“Is it possible for you to confirm the location?” Liu Kang inquired, after calling your name. You blinked as you stepped forward to look towards the fire god. You nodded, pointing to a large fancy home up ahead.

“That one, correct, Lord Liu Kang?” You asked, eying the place. You watched as the fire god nodded approvingly. Jumping and leaping into the air, your form turned smoothly into that one a crow and you flew close to the house. 

You always enjoyed being a bird, feeling the wind in your feathers and the feeling of freedom it granted. Circling the house, you spotted how a wall was completely open, and you soared down towards that area, landing just behind the wall beside the pool. You noted the large floating plastic animals in the pool.

Interesting.

“Step one is selling this place.” A woman spoke. Curious, you tilted your head to peek barely in, seeing who you presumed to be Johnny Cage and a woman. Your head pulsed with the all too familiar headache as you peered at the man who paced inside the house. 

Your mind granted you a vision of a similar looking Johnny Cage, so you knew you were in the right place.

Who was the woman though? You peered at her, vaguely listening in on the argument between the duo. You didn’t even bother to hide yourself all too well behind the wall at this rate, they were too deep in their conflict. 

When you gazed at her, no sense of headache arose in your mind. You continued to eavesdrop, learning about the unfortunate circumstances befalling Johnny Cage and who you presumed was his wife with the conversation they were having. You nodded as the words they said confirmed your suspicions.

Cris…Wasn’t his wife supposed to be Sonya Blade?

Your head seemed to pound upon remembering that, and you winced. Sonya Blade…Sonya Blade… If only you had more time to interpret and unravel these memories when convenient, and not when you were on a mission!

Taking a mental note, you told yourself to write this down in your journal within the Fire Temple as soon as you got back.

Either way, you figured out that in this life, Johnny Cage was with a different woman.

You watched with a sense of pity as Cris walked out on Johnny…or John Carlton as you just learned. Although the man seemed distraught, you were surprised to see that he didn’t chase over his wife. You observed as he continued to drink, berating himself.

You felt guilty intruding on such a private moment. 

Your guilt vanished as you watched a swordsman enter the house, dressed in a suit. Carefully, you backed up behind the wall, but you were sure he probably wouldn’t have even seen you. Even without the pulsing of your mind, you knew who this man was due to Liu Kang: Kenshi Takahashi. You watched the beginnings of their confrontation before backing up.

That’s all you needed to know. 

With a quick flap of your wings, you got back into the air and flew back to the trio who were waiting right where you had left them. Landing on the ground, you stood up as you transformed back and no trace of the crow you had been was left.

“It’s the right location.” You began as you rolled your shoulders back, trying to bend your body back into shape. “Johnny Cage is confronting Kenshi Takahashi over a sword named Sento.” You informed Liu Kang, bowing as you told the fire god of what you had seen. 

“As expected.” Liu Kang said before nodding, a smile on his face. You took that as praise as you stepped around to take your spot again at his right side. “Come, the confrontation will be over soon.” With a nod from the others, you all strode down the hill over to Johnny Cage’s house.

Without hesitation, Liu Kang rang the doorbell as the four of you arrived in front of the front door. You looked around, noting how the house looked from the front instead of the back. It was much, much different than what you had been used to in the Fire Temple. 

Instinctively, you straightened your posture as you heard the door open. You stared forward at the perplexed face of Johnny Cage, holding back the amusement you wanted to let out. You had to look professional. Both of the Lin Kuei brothers stood behind you and Liu Kang. 

“What in the actual fu-”

“Good evening, Johnny Cage.” Liu Kang cut him off, his arms uncrossing as he bowed and introduced himself. Johnny recoiled at the action, looking confused as ever. “I am Liu Kang, protector of Earthrealm.” The fire god introduced himself, wasting no time. He gestured to the inside of the house. “May we enter?”

“Uh…” Johnny leaned over, peering at all of you suspiciously. “Nothing’s being shot here tonight. You sure you’re in the right place?” Johnny inquired, looking at all of you as if you were all crazy. 

“Yes.” Liu Kang answered seriously, nodding. “We come here on a matter of grave importance. We must speak to you and your guest.” 

“What?” Johnny seemed shocked at the mention of Kenshi, before squinting at the group in suspicion once more. He leaned close, dropping his voice to be closer to a whisper. “How do you know about him?” 

“Because I am the God of Fire.” Liu Kang responded, his voice holding an authoritative tone. Despite this, Johnny seemed to brush it off. You raised your eyebrows, surprised to see how quickly the man fell into denial. 

“Cris, you vixen. Nicely done.” You bit the inside of your cheek, feeling a pang of guilt in your chest. He thought his wife set him up for an odd prank. You looked away until he spoke up again. “Sure.” Johnny said, drawing out the word in such a way to make it obvious he didn’t believe a word of what Liu Kang had said. “Come on in.” And with that, he opened the door to welcome you all in. “Glowing eyes are a nice touch.”

You all entered the house, and you noted how it looked from this angle. Your eyes fell on the swordsman who was now tied to a chair next to the pool, and you were slightly surprised to see he had lost. You followed Liu Kang swiftly as you approached the tied up man.

“Kenshi Takahashi.” Liu Kang addressed the man. He stopped in front of Kenshi and crossed his arms in a disapproving way. “A tragic figure with a noble cause. Your actions this evening do you no credit.” Liu Kang even threw in a disapproving shake of his head.

“Who are these people?” Kenshi inquired, just as perplexed. You focused your eyes on the swordsman as the tiny voice in your head questioned how the man in front of you had his eyesight. It seemed that way, at least.

Past life. Right.

“You tell me, they’re your scene partners.” Johnny Cage answered back with a shrug, looking towards Liu Kang for an explanation.

“I also know of your struggles, Johnny Cage.” Liu Kang spoke, turning his gaze to Johnny Cage. You nodded subconsciously, having witnessed the struggles Johnny had through the argument he had with Cris. “I am here to offer you both a path forward.” 

“Dun. Dun. Dunnnn.” Johnny retorted dramatically, his carefree attitude shining through. He still didn’t believe the situation, and for a brief moment you recalled how this felt all too familiar. The actor let out a laugh, looking around. “C’mon guys. Let’s call this. Cris was a doll to set this up, but…” He shrugged as he scoffed. “As pranks go this one’s…eh…a bit obvious.” 

“This is no prank.” Liu Kang warned Johnny. He looked at you and spoke your name before gesturing towards Kenshi. “If you please.” You nodded as you strode over to Kenshi’s chair and knelt behind him. You observed the rope. Normally, you would transform your hand into claws to free the man, but you did not want to risk hurting Kenshi, especially with how thick this rope was, it was better to untie it.

You set to work untying it. You struggled, noting how strong and tight the knots were. Did Johnny Cage have experience in typing people up? You grimaced as you continued to try and untie the rope. You were so concentrated on the task in front of you, Johnny’s words didn’t register in your head. 

It wasn’t until he laid a hand on you until you noticed he had been talking to you.

Eyes wide open, you paused as you looked up in shock, your mind reeling as you tried to piece together whatever Johnny had been saying. His grip was strong, but it didn’t hurt. You were just confused at what he had been saying. 

You had no time to do so as you watched Bi-Han shoulder tackle Johnny off of you before sending him flying with a heavy kick.

“Bi-Han!?” You exclaimed, surprised at the sudden action from the cryomancer. You were stunned as you watched Johnny groan as he had a glass fixture drop on him. The grandmaster did not turn around to look at you, but you watched as Kuai Liang stride up, sending you a concerned look before looking towards his brother.

You were surprised that Kuai Liang did not tell him off. For a moment, the two brothers sent each other an unreadable look as they got into a fighting stance against the now angry Johnny Cage. You paused in your actions to watch the fight happen, confused at how it escalated so much. 

It had been an honest mistake on Johnny Cage’s part. 

Somehow, the actor knocked down the brothers. 

“I hope you’re insured, because you’re paying for my Hichuli.” Johnny huffed as he stared at the Lin Kuei duo who got up from the ground. You stood up, trying to speak up, but were cut off by Bi-Han’s outrage.

“Imbecile! You have no idea with whom you are dealing!” Bi-Han pointed towards Johnny Cage, seeming ready to go again and fight. You shook your head as you strode over to make Sub Zero calm down.

“Bi-Han-”

“ENOUGH!”

You jolted as you side stepped to avoid the burst of flames that emerged from Liu Kang. Loud beeping occurred for a second, and you winced at the noise. You sighed as you continued your walk over to Bi-Han, standing right next to him.

“Uh…” Johnny said, his eyes wide in disbelief as he had shielded away from the flame. “That’s no special effect.” He continued, and the look on his face told you that he was finally piecing things together. 

“Indeed, Johnny Cage.” You could not see Liu Kang’s face right now, but the tone he held said enough about the frustrated look he was sending the actor. The god of fire inhaled and turned to you three. You held the god’s gaze as he examined you before looking towards Scorpion. “Kuai Liang?” He inquired, gesturing towards Kenshi.

You watched as the younger brother walked away to finish the job of freeing Kenshi. As Liu Kang spoke to Johnny and Kenshi, you sent a perplexed and slightly angry glare at Bi-Han. Why had he been so aggressive? 

Yet, despite your glare, you didn’t think you were actually angry. Just mostly…confused.

Bi-Han, despite his knack for wanting staring contests with you, seemed very keen on ignoring your glare this time. You sighed as you looked away and focused on the conversation with Liu Kang. 

“All will be explained, Johnny Cage.” Liu Kang told Johnny Cage as Kenshi was untied and he got to stand up. “For now, what is important is that you both have been chosen to join its champions.” He said, now referring to both Johnny and Kenshi. 

“Why him?” Johnny pointed at Kenshi in confusion. “Or me, for that matter?” He asked, turning to look at Liu Kang with a perplexed look. 

“Because I have faith that you will rise to the challenge.” Liu Kang explains to the actor. “And because your service will change the arcs of your lives.” Liu Kang looked at the three of you and dismissed you all, allowing you to wait outside while he discussed the finer details with the two. Almost immediately, Bi-Han walked off, leaving you in the dust.

“I would advise to not take offense to his attitude.” Kuai Liang said as he stepped up to stand beside you. You sighed as you crossed your arms, looking towards the entrance. You shook your head as you looked towards the younger brother. 

“I’m not offended.” You clarified as you searched Kuai Liang’s expression. “Just…confused why he would do that.” You also had confusion on why Kuai Liang would also help him take down the actor, but you would chalk that up to the brotherly bond the two had…even if it felt like it was waning nowadays.

Memories of two brothers, one corrupted and inky like a shadow, and the other an icy grandmaster flashed in your mind.

You closed your eyes as you tried to push out those memories. It’s been years since you’ve first had them about the Lin Kuei since you’ve met them so long ago, but when you worried over the two, you were always reminded,

Damn these memories.

“I see.” Scorpion said, and although his words seemed final you could sense the hesitant tone in his voice. It was strange, but you assumed it was due to Scorpion’s manners. He was never one to make unnecessary comments. You turned to look at Liu Kang, to try and focus in on the fire god’s words to get your mind off of things.

Still, you felt the gaze of Kuai Liang burn into you.

Thankfully, the protector of Earthrealm quickly wrapped things up with the new recruits. He turned around, and there was a faint look of surprise to see that both you and Scorpion remained inside the manor. Regardless, he nodded and smiled at the two of you before exiting with the both of you in tow.

Outside, Bi-Han had been waiting, arms crossed as he leaned against the wall. His eyes were focused on the ground, and a furrow in his brow. He seemed deep in thought, but his demeanor quickly shifted as he heard the three of you approach. The cyromancer straightened up and came to attention, nodding.

“Excellent work, you three…even if there were some hiccups.” Liu Kang commended as you all followed him to the hill where he had initially teleported you three from. Liu Kang did not look towards Sub Zero, but you all knew who he had been referring to.

The walk back to the hill was silent. That wasn’t unusual, but the uneasy tension between the group certainly was. You held back a sigh as you continued to walk beside Liu Kang, trying to pretend like the source of the tension wasn’t you and Bi-Han.

You disliked this.

“You are all dismissed, thank you for your services.” Liu Kang thanked the three of you as you arrived back in the Fire Temple. Teleporting was always quick, and you were thankful for it. You nodded as you began to walk off. You needed to walk to clear your head. 

It wasn’t long after you set off that you heard your name be called. Surprised, you turned around and stood still. You blinked as you watched Kuai Liang jog over to you, nodding as he came to a stop in front of you.

“Would you mind if I accompanied you?” The pyromancer inquired, and you furrowed your eyebrows in confusion. While it was not uncommon that you had been on walks with the assassins before, it was odd to have it occur after a mission.

“Are you not going with Bi-Han back to the clan?” You inquired, crossing your arms as you shifted your weight to one leg. You scanned Kuai Liang’s face, searching for any sort of answer. He shook his head, and you were genuinely surprised.

“I asked brother if I were allowed to stay for a bit. He was fine with it.” Scorpion answered, and you hummed. Odd, but Kuai Liang was anything but a liar. You nodded, shrugging.

“Alright, I don’t see why not.” You said, curious why he had wanted to stay. Was it just to talk to you? That felt a little ridiculous, but you didn’t know what else it could be. A slight expression of relief settled on the assassin’s face as he moved to your side. 

“Thank you.” He said, and you waved off the words. You didn’t see why he’d be thanking you for something so simple.

“Don’t mention it.” You said, and then the two of you walked off. You tried to not think about the odd scenario, but it ended up haunting you as you walked. You lasted about five minutes before you let out a sigh and turned to face Kuai Liang, arms crossing. “Okay, I’ll say it. Why are you here exactly? I’m not ungrateful for your presence, it’s just that I can tell that you came here for a reason.”

“You are perceptive as usual.” Scorpion praised, and you both accepted the compliment, but also wanted him to get to the point already. “I just wanted to see if you were feeling alright. I could sense you were upset with brother and…”

“While appreciated, you do not need to make up for your brother’s actions.” You said quickly, wanting to stop Kuai Liang from going on. You sighed, sending him a weary, but grateful smile. “Look, I know you are close with Bi-Han, but I don’t want our conversations to revolve around him. We’ve known each other for years, I consider you a friend, and I want to be able to talk to you, Kuai Liang, not Bi-Han’s brother.”

For the first time in perhaps forever, you saw a look of surprise on Kuai Liang’s face. With a moment of hesitation, he nodded. He put on a small smile, seeming genuinely grateful for your words.

“Alright, then let me, Kuai Liang, accompany you on this walk.” 

“Good, I’m glad.” You grinned at him as you both set off on your walk. You walked on, feeling more relaxed and relieved now. Words were exchanged here and there, but with Kuai Liang, you didn’t really need words. The two of you could bask in a comforting silence together.

 Still, the memories from earlier still flew around in your mind like an annoying fly. Sensing this, you noticed Kuai Liang’s concerned look.

“I’m fine.” You lied, a worried feeling filling your mind as you looked at the man who often haunted your memories. Your heart squeezed as you looked back ahead. As much as you wanted to confide in anyone, someone about your memories, you couldn’t. Or rather, you didn’t. 

No one needs the burden of the memories that plague you. Of the knowledge of other “lives” they had lived, especially since you did not even know whether these visions were even memories themselves. You just assumed it, seeing as they all seemed to follow a life you once lived. 

Even though you spent time pondering these visions with Liu Kang, you only did so in the most desperate times now. The fire god had no idea just how many more memories you had unlocked that he was unaware of. That whole dilemma leaves a guilty imprint on your soul. 

Still, the honest and welcoming dark eyes of Kuai Liang was tempting. For a moment, you opened your mouth, wanting to confess how worried you were over the trio of brothers. How you knew of a world where they all were torn apart by death and corruption.

Of how he was the only one alive of the three of them by what you could remember.

You couldn’t though. That knowledge wasn’t fair. Plus, there was no way to explain anything well. You’d just seem like a hallucinating amnesiac, and you didn’t need one of your friends thinking of you that way.

“I’m just thinking about how Johnny and Kenshi will fare during training.” You continued to lie. Despite the momentary guilt, your mind did turn to the new topic with open arms. Ah, right, you were going to be in charge of their training. Or at least, somewhat. You still haven’t discussed that whole ordeal with Liu Kang yet.

You really had to get on that.

“I have a feeling the swordsman will be competent.” Kuai Liang mused, his head tilting to the side as he spoke aloud. “The actor, I fear, will be a challenge.” The yellow clad assassin confided in you, and you let out a small chuckle. “I have faith in you that you will be able to instruct them, regardless of the difficulty.”

“How is it that even when you’re insulting someone, you make it sound somewhat eloquent?” You inquired, grinning at the man. Though he did not have a grin that stretched from ear to ear, you could see the subtle smile on his lips. He seemed pleased with himself, and it was a sight you were blessed to see. “Thanks, still, I’m honored to have you think so highly of me.”

“There is no reason to think so, the high regard I have within you is rightfully earned.” Scorpion replied. You looked away, letting out another laugh, though this one was more bashful. Did this man know how he sounded? You couldn’t tell.

“Okay, okay, stop flattering me before I suspect that you want something from me.” You said, managing to find the words to respond to him after the high compliment he gave you, deciding to play off the warm feeling you got from all this as lighthearted. You felt outdone, not knowing how to make him feel the same way he made you feel after his praise. 

“I hope you know I am serious about the praise I give you, but I shall relent.” Scorpion said, the serious tone he seemed to always have was prominent in his tone. You swallowed as you nodded. You knew. Kuai Liang was never one to play around, especially with the feelings of those close to him.

You wished he did though, just for this one moment, so you could pretend that the words he told you didn’t affect you as much as they did.

“You are too kind, Kuai Liang.” You murmur as you find yourself back at the Fire Temple. The walk had gone faster than expected. You supposed that’s what good company does. You watched as the Lin Kuei assassin stopped at the entrance, and for a moment you found yourself slightly saddened at this.

“I am only saying the truth.” He replied. For a moment, you saw him tense, as if considering something. Instead, he nodded as he stared at you with an expression you couldn’t quite understand. You opened your mouth, considering asking him what he was thinking, but thought better of it.

You weren’t certain if you could handle the answer.

“Goodnight, Kuai Liang.”

“Goodnight.” You smiled at the quaint way he spoke your name, and waved him off. You watched him walk off before turning around and walking to the area where you would usually watch the sunrise.

The moon hung high in the sky now, basking you in the moonlight. Your eyes closed as you took in everything that happened recently. Your fingers tapped along the wooden railing, tracing along the grain. The cool breeze passed you by. You had a lot to think about.

part four

[sunnydayaoe]

{Dress up}

[CCCC FIC] Contains: Platonic Soul and Whole, sfw Petre[~4,500 words]

Soul really could not be normal. Clutched in His hands, the cutest little calico cat ear headband he'd ever seen. He gestured to himself, to Whole, to them, voice squeaky, "Is that-" for me? He really couldn't finish any sentence today, staring into His eyes: Deep brown and probably considering just how pathetic Soul was being. He shouldn't have asked. He could feel the shame, red like his halo in the midst of cacophony, creeping across his face. -- Dress up!!! Whole buys Soul some cat ears :]

Fic under cut! or on AO3

One would assume, wrongfully, that he would know better than this. He had assumed he knew better than this. Mocking him, taunting even, a little plastic bag carried the cause of his strife. Innocently sitting on his kitchen counter, contents spilling out the slightest bit: calico cat ears and a matching tail.

Pathetic to be so worked up over such a simple thing. It made him infinitely grateful Mind and Heart had left for a walk earlier and his Soul hadn't left its room for the day yet; Whole assumed he was just enjoying some alone time with both its ids and Whole out of the house.

He cringed as his thoughts drifted back to his Soul. The calico themed ensemble had been bought for him, after all.

Nothing was wrong with them, at a glance. Plush, soft to the touch, colored bright and cheery, they seemed exactly what someone who'd buy them would want out of them. What had drawn his eye in the first place, the signature black and orange splotching reminding him terribly of his Soul, looked charming even in the shitty kitchen lighting. He groaned, slumped over the counter, annoyed with how easily he was taken in by them.

It wasn't just that he'd gotten cat ears for his... friend, before he could think better of it. It was that Soul would definitely balk at the idea of wearing them.

He didn't think there was any shame in wearing cat themed paraphernalia, didn't even think Soul would find it shameful to wear them, but that wasn't the problem here. Soul already had fuzzy ears and a short little tail, rendering this wholly unnecessary.

Frankly, he would just look downright goofy in the whole ensemble. Curved, sharp horns with a cat-ear headband at the base, further down real goat's ears, and then even further a fake cat-tail to hang beside its real fawn. And, well... It would look cute. He just didn't think his Soul would have a similar view.

He slid his hand over his face, another noise escaping his lips. This was just embarrassing.

He knew Soul didn't need any new equipment for pet regression: at least, he'd never asked for or made any himself. Doing this, getting him things he definitely didn't want and would probably feel stupid wearing, was another tally in the mess he'd made of his Soul's existence.

He wished there was a guide to being someone’s... to being someone’s.

He'd flipped through article after article about " how to be a good roommate, " " all the things that only your good friends would do for you, " and even several blogs about being a good caretaker, yet none of them seemed to know the answers for all of... this.

He should throw them away. A waste of money, a waste of time, but what wasn't, nowadays? It'd be a bigger waste if Soul saw them and finally realized Whole wasn't worth as much as he clearly thought he was. He could see it so clearly. His Soul's eyes, wide with wonder and adoration darkening with understanding; seeing Whole for who he clearly was, a waste of time and effort.

Maybe that would be a blessing: getting it over with. It probably wouldn't fix anything. Soul- and Heart and Mind- were all stuck with him, their only Whole.

He shook his head. He couldn't be getting bogged down by thoughts like that now.

The bag was in his hand and he was halfway down the hallway before he could start overthinking again. His own trash-can would be best; he could just imagine the reactions if any of the three found his mistake in a more communal trash-can. He'd never live it down.

He made it to his room without interruption, thankfully.

With a 'oomf' he flopped into his desk chair, the bag ending up on the desk itself. He should throw it away, but...

The headband was in his hands, horribly soft. He fidgeted with it, and tried not to imagine them on Soul. Failed, like many other things, but the picture did bring a smile to his face. His Soul would look extremely goofy in them; adding the tail to the mental image brought out a giggle.

He was just having a little thought experiment before he threw them away, that was all. It wasn't hurting anyone.

Maybe this earned him karma's ire though, or maybe it was another bullet on the long list of problems he'd caused. Either way, lady luck was not smiling upon him.

His door creaked open, Soul peeking in, a smile drawing across his face in an instant. "Whole, you're back! Would you like to ha-"

He knew why he stopped.

Single visible eye dilated in, focused on the headband in his hands. It reminded him of that searching look Soul got on his face anytime he hadn't seen Whole for any notably long amount of time; searching, intense- looking for faults, for why he cared about him at all, probably.

"Is that...?" Soul gestured vaguely, like he didn't know what it was trying to say but trusted Whole implicitly to understand.

Whole did Not understand.

------

The day had been going well. Almost unreasonably well.

Heart and Mind had been civil, even affectionate, all morning. They'd left the house together some time early in the evening. A part of him {one he had been listening to less and less as of late} feared they wouldn't be returning, at least not in one piece. Most of him just hoped they got back early enough to join them for dinner.

Most of the unease was centered on the fact that Whole had gone shopping, though.

It made him feel clingy and a bit pathetic to worry so much when all He was doing was a simple errand, but oh, Harmonia, was it hard not to imagine something horrible happening to his Whole while he was not there.

It was fine, he could deal with it! Harmonia would return, probably with a little extra treat He'd gotten while He was out, and a satisfied smile. Getting out would be good for Him. Soul really should just... calm down.

That was what he'd tried to tell himself all morning, anyway.

He could feel the stress sinking in further, and he wanted nothing more than to curl up against Harmonia and forget all the stress of being apart. That would be dreadfully embarrassing though. He was probably going shopping to get away from them for a little bit {and, well... Shop.}, Soul attaching himself to His hip right as He got back would be tantamount to going right against Harmonia's will.

He could be normal! He... he could be normal just as soon as he gave Him a little check in. The footsteps, quiet as they were, let him know Harmonia had gotten back from His little trip. Maybe Soul could ask if He'd want lunch. Maybe they could eat it together...

He slapped his cheeks, shaking his head out like a dog. Getting ahead of himself again, daydreams filling his head. He needed to get a grip!

Just... just be normal, he reminded himself, with a final steadying breath. His door had been left open a crack, and with that note he pushed Harmonia's door open.

"Whole, you're back! Would you like to ha-" the sentence remained unfinished.

He really could not be normal.

Clutched in His hands, the cutest little calico cat ear headband he'd ever seen. He let out a near inaudible noise, though from what he could see He didn't seem to notice.

He gestured to himself, to Whole, to them, voice squeaky, "Is that-" for me? He really couldn't finish any sentence today, could he.

Whoever said that eyes were the window to the soul was clearly lying out of their ass, because what Soul saw in Harmonia’s eyes was not himself. Deep brown and probably considering just how pathetic Soul was being. He shouldn't have asked. He could feel the shame, red like his halo in the midst of cacophony, creeping across his face.

What was he waiting for? Soul to finish his sentence? That ship had clearly sailed and crashed… maybe he was trying to figure out how to let Soul down gently; that made more sense. His Harmonia was so sweet, of course He wouldn't want to be too cruel in His rejection.

Of course those sweet little trinkets wouldn’t be for Soul.

Whole moved, snapping Soul out of his thoughts immediately. Eyes wide, searching for any sign of what Soul was supposed to do. How he could be perfect.

His arms, holding the headband, had curled inwards. Like praying {like Soul}.

Harmonia, Whole, cleared His throat, like He didn't know what to say. He didn't say anything for a moment longer, awkward. Another cough. Soul was slightly worried He might just be sick. Soul's throat ached in sympathy, or maybe that was just because he'd stopped breathing.

"Soul-" He finally started, "This is- I just... I bought these earlier. Ah, while I was doing errands." He cringed, like He didn't really want to be talking about this. Talking to Soul.

Soul should probably answer, "Oh." No sound came out when he tried to continue, so he quickly shut his mouth. Maybe he would Not be answering with more than that. Maybe he should just walk out the door and dig himself a pit to lie in. Maybe Heart had the right idea.

Whole cringed back even further at that; Soul definitely made a mistake. Should he... try talking again? Before Soul could try another attempt at normal conversation, a futile effort, Harmonia was continuing.

"You can, ah, have them. If you want." He made a little motion to come closer; it was kind of an awful effort, motion aborted half-way through like He was embarrassed to be taking up more space than He already was.

It was all Soul needed though, and with a motion more practiced and sure than anything else that evening Soul had stumbled forward and landed on his knees before Him. The position, the cat ears it wasn't even wearing, the fact he'd felt stressed all day... It was hard to stay present, to not regress.

His Whole was already so stressed, He probably didn't want to deal with that right now. Soul could keep it together, for Him. {He knew he couldn't. Everything already felt a little fuzzy. Weak, but maybe Harmonia would forgive him.}

His face was a little twisted up, something sour that quickly smoothed out into calm. "Do you want me to put it on you...?"

Soul thought that was already the plan. He really kept embarrassing himself, didn't he? He did a little almost imperceptible nod, something Harmonia had to lean down to see.

Finally something that wasn't negative; He smiled, sweet and small and lopsided and perfect. "Let me..." He murmured, quiet, before slowly reaching out with the headband. Soul tried to stay still, really, he did. His efforts were fruitless, because the instant His hands dipped around his ears, gently sliding the headband on, he was had.

As if his body and mind were not one {ironic, because he was not the one split in three in this room,} he leaned into the hands with a hum. Warm, soft, kind. He made a noise at that, surprised and amused. With the smallest adjustment to the headband, His hands moved forwards to cup his face instead, tilting it up to stare up at Him.

"Cute...."

Soul's face was bright red. That didn't stop him from leaning in until nearly his entire head was supported by Harmonia's hands though. He scooted the smallest bit closer, head nearly in His lap.

Harmonia's thumb gently rubbing along his cheek was the last straw. He shouldn't have expected not to fall like this, He was just being too indulgent, affectionate. How was he supposed to resist...?

He nuzzled into His hands, shuffling the last few inches closer until he could set his head in His lap. Like a lapdog, or perhaps a very large cat, he looked up at Harmonia, eyes half-lidded. Harmonia seemed taken aback by his boldness, but Soul was too busy enjoying the feeling of His soft denim pants, skin-warmed, against his cheek to notice.

Another moment frozen, a moment where Soul started to almost regret his actions, almost came back up. It only lasted that single second though, His hands beginning to move again. One stayed against his cheek, the other drifting back behind his ear. "Are you a kitty right now...? I should have expected this." A ting of self deprecation, like He couldn't get over how stupid He was.

Soul wouldn't be standing for that, not when Harmonia was the definition of perfection. With a whine he nuzzled against his lap, staring up at Him with large baleful eyes. His arms reached up, paws on his knees. The picture of a pleading kitten.

He laughed, attention redirected back to Soul. "Sorry, sorry. I didn't mean to worry you, bud."

That laugh was nearly angelic. Everything he’d ever need to hear for the rest of his life. He hummed, nuzzling further against Harmonia, trying to elicit more giggles and coos.

Anything to make his Whole happy. Anything to keep Him content to lower Himself to his presence.

It was like that for a few more moments, Harmonia’s hands carding through his hair. His nails were bit short, blunt, but still wonderful against his scalp. Still, like all good things, it could not last.

“Soul,” He started, before stopping. Words coming out before He’d considered them, or maybe the pause added in for some secretive sort of purpose Soul wasn't able to get, world so fuzzy at this point.

The lack of structure was unideal though. He couldn’t help but be reminded of that awful song He would sing when existence became too taxing. Each word drifting further and further from one another…

“Do you want off the floor?” A question interrupted his musing. "You can, ah-" He paused, the hesitance back, His face a bit red, "you can sit in my lap, if you want..."

He nodded with barely a moment's consideration. The floor was nice, if only because he had easy access to Harmonia. His lap, though…? That sounded heavenly.

The right answer, of course. Smiling down at him like a forgiving deity, practically glowing. It made him forget to start moving, just admiring instead. The smile faltered after a beat of him proceeding to do absolutely nothing, confusion clouding His eyes. Seeming to realize Soul wasn't going to be getting up himself, He reached down, arms a bit hesitant as they curled around him.

Of course Soul was nothing but relaxed in His arms, nearly going limp the second he could feel Him supporting him. A faux purr started up, the noise interrupted every other second with a giggle. He needed to calm down- but it was so so hard to, when He kept looking at him like that.

"And there we go!" With one last motion and a little scrabbling from Soul he was finally in His lap. "That better, bud?"

He nodded, face pressed to His shoulder. All the stress that had been plaguing him seemed to melt away in His arms, warm and present and undeniably there. It was hard, at times, to believe this was really his reality, but even dreams didn't feel this nice: undeniable proof that concord had been achieved.

And could anyone blame him? He’d like to see a single person who wouldn’t melt into these arms.

Gentle cooing, hands slowly carding through his hair… on second thought, the idea of someone else getting this instead of him sounded awful.

He cuddled closer, the side of his left horns bumping into Harmonia’s chin. In his haste, he finally noticed a detail about the calico cat ears: they had bells. Little jingly ones that made a sound anytime he moved his head. Delightful!

He shook his head, trying to get more of the clinking noises. This also earned him a squeak from Harmonia as his horns were shaken about as well.

He pushed Soul away the slightest bit, hands gentle on his shoulders, “be a bit more careful, bud? Those horns are sharp…”

He didn’t look too angry though, just amused at his giddiness. So forgiving and perfect! He leaned in to nuzzle his face, careful of His horns this time. His cheeks were warm and only slightly rough with stubble.

Harmonia laughed as he nuzzled against Him, trailing along the side of His head. Tucking his nose into His collarbone, he pressed the rest of his face to His neck. The way he shook and rumbled with laughs felt so nice…

His hands trailed along Soul’s back, lightly scratching just enough to feel through his shirt. Arching into it with a happy little hum, close enough to a purr to make him feel all fuzzy inside.

Then they stopped, leaving Soul to whine in confusion. Removing himself from His very comfortable embrace, head tilted back to look up at Harmonia, he let out another confused noise. Why no petting…? His Whole was smiling, crinkly in the corners like an old wrapper, saying cushy soft little things like, “don’t worry bud…” and “you can keep going,” so Soul probably hadn’t been Bad, so what could it be?

His attention was drawn to movement at the corner of his eye, Harmonia had reached for a bag on his desk. Plastic, probably from his shopping trip earlier… what could… oh!

Stoic and normally so composed, he could do nothing but perk up in excitement; was it a treat? Did He have a treat for the Soul? For being so very good and nice and responsible all the time?

His halo must have brightened at that, because He squinted a little, face scrunched up further, face painted a bit yellow by the light. He looked like what every painting Soul had tried to make strove to be: his Harmonia, bathed in the light of harmony.

He didn’t pay that any mind, more taken in with the possibility of a snack or toy. Shifting around and leaning over Harmonia's arms, using His chair for leverage he tried to stick his face into the bag.

“Wouh!” Harmonia snaked an arm around his waist and pulled him flush against His chest before he could investigate further, the chair wobbling precariously from all the sharp movements the two were doing, “settle down Atlas, I’ll show you in a moment.”

He squirmed and grumbled in His arms for a moment before doing as asked. Even without the treat this was still pretty nice…

With a flourish the treasure was finally presented to him. A matching calico tail to the ears he’d been given, equally adorable and colorful. 

This confidence waned as quickly as it came, the arm around his waist relaxing and the hand holding the tail stiffening a little. “Do you like it…?”

He answered with a happy trill, head butting His hand affectionately, careful not to catch any skin, or the tail, with his horns. Harmonia relaxed into His chair with that, eyes softening with relief as He let His fingers card through Soul’s hair.

“Want help putting it on?”

He nodded, squirming around on Harmonia’s lap until He was in a position where He actually could put it on Soul, half straddling Him. His Whole’s arms reached around him again, one just holding him still against His chest and the other actually clipping the tail to one of his belt loops.

With that, He was done, leaning back to admire His work. Soul tried to do the same, but there wasn’t really much room to do so in Harmonia’s lap. He turned a bit, motions awkward and giving him very little opportunity to actually see the tail or feel it swish around.

Gentle, like He didn’t know if this would net Him a positive reaction, he offered a suggestion. “Would it be easier to see that out of my lap?” He quickly continued, not frantic but not wholly relaxed, “you can always sit with me later… I can just get some work done, and you can enjoy that yourself, on the floor nearby…? I ah… don’t really have any cat-toys…”

The idea of being separated from Harmonia wasn’t the most appealing, but he really did want to move around more… if he really could just come back anytime he wanted, there probably wasn’t any harm in a little play-time; if he didn’t like it he could just come right back.

With that decided, he slipped off Harmonia’s lap and onto the floor, already feeling bereft of His warmth. An encouraging, “have fun bud!” Kept him from returning straight away though; he was going to have fun!

Doing a tight little circle to watch how his tail moved around with the motion, he couldn’t help but feel a little euphoric at the swaying faux fur. It was very very cute. But maybe he went around a few too many times: he ended up a bit dizzy after.

It was very much worth it though, because all the spinning reminded him of the little jingly bells on his cat ears.

He gave it a good shake, admiring how clearly the sound rang out. Batting at it a few times for good measure, knocking it a little loose. Half-on half-off it wasn't as comfortable.

Trying to fix it, he brought his paws back to his head and tried to bat at it again. Of course, this only knocked it off fully. Landing on the floor with a few more little tinkles. He could have probably just grabbed it and put it back on, but it did a little bounce and it just kept Jingling and he was pouncing before he had a conscious thought.

Batting around the improvised cat toy was way more enjoyable than it should have been -maybe because Soul hadn't really gotten to play with toys in kitten space before.

Harmonia had stopped watching him after a little bit, and he let himself fully get into the zone. One, probably too forceful, hit landed the headband on Whole's bed.

He made quick work of scrambling over to the bed and jumping up, enjoying the way his tail trailed behind him when he moved fast enough. The springs protested the motion, but he paid them no mind, seizing his prize.

Mantling over it, he just enjoyed the fact he'd "caught" it. Slowing down like that let him process the fact he was in Harmonia's bed, too. Soft and unmade, it was, overall, extremely normal. That didn't stop a little nervous feeling enveloping him, scared he was doing something wrong.

Looking over, He didn't seem to be paying much attention, though after Soul stayed quiet for a bit He looked over. Apparently not seeing anything amiss, He gave a little wave, before getting back to work.

So this was... allowed. He guessed it makes sense, Whole hadn't made any other fuss about him being on the furniture as a kitten, so this wasn't that strange. Slightly more secure in the fact that he wasn't breaking any rules, he flopped over and cradled the belled headband.

His bed smelled nice {or well... it didn't smell That nice, but it smelled like Him}, and he couldn't resist the urge to roll around a little. He stretched, enjoying the ambience. It was.... pleasant;: calm. He hadn't really let himself relax all day, too many distinct variables to keep track of.

Now though... he could just relax in His bed, content that things were okay. Mind and Heart were still out, but that felt less pressing. He knew they were getting along now, spending time together...

And centering, grounding, Harmonia worked at his computer several feet away. Safe.

It was all just... so very nice.

------

"We're home!"

Heart and Mind had come back, Heart's cheery voice signaling their return. Just as his fingers were starting to cramp too, a sure sign Whole had been working too long.

He stretched out his hands with a groan, taking off his head-set as well. As he got up, his eyes were drawn to his bed, where Soul was sound asleep. He'd assumed the third had left, quiet for so long, but it seems he just tuckered himself out instead.

After a moment's consideration, he decided waking Soul up was probably for the best; it was around dinner time now, and the Sun and Moon probably grabbed food while they were out.

Creeping up to the bed, quiet in a way he probably didn't need to be-- he was going to be waking him up either way-- he sat down next to him.

His Soul was curled around the calico-themed headband, a relaxed smile spanning his entire face, halves mismatched but both softened by concord.

He touched his own face at that, surprised. The darkened half was supposed to mirror his own; he didn't know the last time he'd smiled like that. As if brought on by the attention, he finally noticed how much his face ached from smiling.

He shook his head, knowing he couldn't be dwelling on this. Focusing on the present instead, he shook his shoulder, "Soul? Can you wake up, dude?"

He curled up further, getting further into that catlike ball. Cute, if he didn't worry he was actually annoying him. Maybe he shouldn't be trying to wake him up...

The choice didn't seem up to him though, because there was a harsh knocking against the door. Three sharp raps: Mind. Its voice coming through a second later only confirming that, "We got dinner; get out here soon."

He called back an affirmative, trying to keep his voice down, but the effort was characteristically worthless. Mind wasn't one to control his volume, and he could already see Soul shifting to wakefulness.

"Hey Soul..."

"Urghgh- Harmonia?"

That word, usually he didn't use it out loud. It seems that was who he was to Soul still, "Dinner time, Heart and Mind came back."

He just blinked up at Whole, visible eye half-lidded and sleepy, "You're so pretty..."

He tried to ignore the flutters he set off in his chest, nervous, giggly, "Hey- hey. Eyes on the prize, dinner time."

He hummed, folding out in a cat-like stretch; he seemed to be categorizing the feeling of the bed before, almost like a flip was switched, he froze.

Sitting up like he'd been dragged up, he grinned at Whole, "Ah- morning." A glance at the clock, "Evening, I mean. Sorry to keep you here so long... it's dinner now, right?"

Hoping he wasn't overstepping any bounds, he placed a hand on Soul's shoulder, "Anytime, Soul. I'm just glad you enjoyed the gift."

The thirds hands shot right back to his lap at that, clutching the headband, like he'd forgotten it was there at all; the motion making it jingle all over again. "Yeah... it was nice."

Soul was still a mess from his nap, relaxed in ways he usually didn't allow himself, and Whole couldn't help but admire the way this experience had let him see that. See the way even stripped bare of his mask, he still looked at him like he hung all the stars in the sky. He still didn't know what he'd done to earn that.

He didn't think there was anything he'd ever done that could measure up. Maybe that was okay though. Maybe it was time to accept that he didn't have to earn every scrap of happiness in his life.

Another call from the kitchen, breaking the two out of their reverie.

He didn't mind, trailing after Soul to meet the other two in the kitchen. Warm, soft, another domestic day. He wouldn't have it another way.

[nb-octopus-writes]

The Lines that Guide Us, Chapter One

Thank you to @ccspie for the title!

Wordcount: 2K

Inspired by this lovely art by @fanartfunart!

[AO3]

~~~~

Logan did not like his soulmark.

As a child, Logan had frequently insisted his parents regale him with the story of how their marks had formed, and how they had met. He had read every book their library had on the subject of soulmarks, on the various types that existed and what information could be gleaned from them. 

He had speculated endlessly about just what form his own soulmark would take, up until he had turned fifteen and the mark appeared on his skin.

Now Logan had four dark lines on his forearm. He looked like he had drawn on himself with a thick marker, and he had gained no information of what kind of person his soulmate was likely to be, nor how he was to find them.

So no, Logan did not like his soulmark.

Nowadays, Logan generally wore long sleeves to prevent others from commenting on his soulmark. He had quickly tired of receiving unasked-for speculation on its meaning, and sympathy from strangers on its lack of usefulness grated even worse. He knew it was generally unhelpful already; he did not need to be reminded of it regularly.

It was best not to dwell on it, he had decided. However fate intended to bring his soulmate into his life, it clearly did not want Logan to help it along.

He was not prepared for the mark to change.

It was a subtle change, and if Logan had been undressing in poorer light, he would have missed it entirely. The soulmark was still the same shape, still four thick lines on his arm, but they were no longer all ink black.

Three of the lines were the same as they had been since the day they'd formed, but the fourth had lightened into purple.

When had it changed? Soulmarks did change sometimes, Logan knew. He just hadn't expected his to be one of them. It was not a countdown or a compass, or any of the other marks that updated frequently. It had not been an outline waiting to be filled in, or the mark of a first touch that would bloom on contact.

The change had to mean something, but what?

Standing in just his underwear, pajamas forgotten in favor of this new puzzle, Logan traced a finger thoughtfully along the purple line. As before, the skin felt smooth and unblemished. If he closed his eyes, he wouldn't even be able to tell there was a mark there at all.

It had been black this morning. Logan hadn't specifically checked it, but he did not think he would have overlooked such a difference. While he didn't wear his glasses in the shower, he was myopic, not hyperopic, and could see his own body clearly without them. Additionally, the lighting in his bathroom was good, and the color change, while subtle, was certainly noticeable.

The mark must have changed today, then. Something significant must have occurred.

Logan thought back through his day. It had been fairly standard, all things considered. He had gotten up, showered, dressed, eaten breakfast, and gone to work, where he had spent a very typical day making coffee and other hot beverages.

Had one of the customers been his soulmate?

Logan's blood chilled. Had he met his soulmate today, without realizing it, without recognizing them, or they him?

He had not bothered to put any of the faces to memory, indifferent to the steady stream of tired strangers seeking caffeine. If asked, there was no way Logan could pick a single one of them out of a crowd.

He had not thought it was important, but now… Had he missed his only chance to find his soulmate?

No. No, it couldn't be over. Not yet, not now. His soulmate was out there, somewhere in this town, and they would meet again. Someday. Hopefully soon.

Logan looked at his soulmark again. Four lines, and one of them purple. What could it mean? Four chances, perhaps? Four times their paths would cross, four opportunities to recognize each other before their lives diverged again.

Maybe. It was just a guess, but there had to be some significance to the fact that only one line had changed color. Although, if they signified four chances, he would have expected them to change in order, from top to bottom or bottom to top. Instead, the purple line was the third down from his wrist.

Logan sat down at his desk and opened his computer. Sleep could wait. He had more research to do.

~ ~

Virgil’s soulmates were going to hate him on first sight, and he had the words on his skin to prove it. Lucky him, having multiple people destined to have their lives twined around his, and destined to think he was a stormy nightmare.

Maybe that was why he had four of them, the universe trying to compensate for the rough matches, as though quantity could replace quality. Wasn't the whole point of soulmates that they were the one, the best person for you, someone guaranteed to love you better than anyone else? Why dilute it across four soulbonds?

Virgil breathed. Dwelling on it wasn't helping. It never did. He breathed, deliberately, and shifted his thoughts. Two of his soulmates didn't sound like they were going to despise him from the moment they laid their eyes on him, he reminded himself.

Probably. One of them he honestly couldn't tell, because he had no clue what the words on his arm even meant. It could be something bad. But the other was a kind sentiment.

Not that Virgil eating pavement or something was going to be a much better first impression, but at least his soulmate was going to be concerned for him, rather than annoyed or calling him a klutz. Hopefully, whatever incident was going to result in his soulmate's first words to him being “Oh my goodness, are you okay?” won't hurt too much.

And at least the other three phrases were very unique. They might come up in a random conversation at some point — or, at least, the two insults might; seriously, he didn't know a single scenario where the other would ever be a reasonable thing to say to him — but they seemed unlikely opening phrases. When Virgil met his soulmates, he would be able to recognize them.

He just didn't know if they were going to want him.

Virgil pushed the matter from his mind. It was going to return again; it always did, but for now, he had arrived at his new favorite coffee shop, and he just wanted to relax and enjoy it.

The shop was not particularly busy, and Virgil had only a short wait before he was at the front of the line and placed his order. Stepping out of the way of the next person, Virgil put his headphones back on — music playing softly, just enough to down out background noise without hiding important sounds, but he'd taken them off to order because people tended to complain he was being rude if he had them on during a conversation, no matter if he could still hear them fine — and watched the second barista prepare his drink.

When the drink was ready, the man looked back at him and nodded as he placed it on the pickup counter. Virgil stepped up to claim it, and noticed the man's gaze lingering on him, a smile playing across his lips. Not a customer service smile, something real. Virgil didn't know what there was to smile at him about, and eyed him dubiously.

“What?” Virgil demanded. 

The barista looked startled, and then he opened his mouth and the most unlikely words came out.

~ ~

Over the past few weeks, Logan had worked to pay more attention to the people who came into the coffee shop. It was somewhat tiring, trying to note and remember each person, but it had its benefits. He had started to recognize regulars, to learn who came in on a regular schedule, and who appeared more sporadically.

The shop was small and usually not so busy that they needed to call out names when completing orders, but they still took them down. Logan began to put names to faces and to drinks, and began to recognize favorites.

Pamela, who arrived every weekday morning in variously colored professional pantsuits, always bought a pastry and a mocha. Remy appeared at all hours of the day, sometimes even twice or three times in the same day, and usually bought something iced, though his flavors varied. Virgil, the quiet emo who always wore headphones and rarely made eye contact, favored the less caffeinated side of the board, and occasionally purchased a sandwich that he then ate at the most secluded table. The man with wild energy and an eclectic bold wardrobe who had given a different name every time Logan had seen him always wanted an unusual flavor combination and too many shots of caffeine. Valor was a college student of indeterminate gender — deliberately and delightfully so — who regularly came in for late-night study sessions.

There were more, many more, and Logan was doing his best to retain all the information he had picked up. It was interesting to note how the steady stream of complete strangers had been transformed into a group of people that Logan almost felt as though he knew. It took effort, yes, and it could be taxing, but it also made work more pleasant.

Today, Virgil had ordered a white hot chocolate, and as Logan handed it off, he noted that the man's hoodie sported a new patch on the arm, done in the same plaid fabric that dotted the rest of the clearly beloved garment. Logan wondered if Virgil did the mending himself, or if he had a friend who sewed. The visible stitches were large and messy, but in a way that seemed deliberate, and given how sturdy the patches seemed, Logan suspected that the actual fastening was done with much smaller stitches in a less obvious color.

“What?” Virgil said, and Logan realized he had been looking at him for longer than was standard for this type of interaction, and worse, his face had been making an expression without his doing so intentionally.

What expression had it been? Logan had not made it deliberately, hadn't been paying attention to it as it occurred, and had to recall. In doing so, he failed to appropriately translate from the inside of his head to words most people would use.

“You seem to have caused my zygomaticus muscles to contract,” Logan said as explanation, and then as Virgil's expression changed as well, realized that he should have taken the time to change the phrasing.

“What,” Virgil said again, in a very different tone, one that Logan had trouble identifying. “What does that mean!?”

He slammed his drink back on the counter and used his now free hand to pull back the sleeve of his hoodie.

“This has mystified me for years, the fudge does it mean!?” he demanded again, shoving his now bare arm toward Logan, and Logan…

There were words on Virgil’s arm, the very words that Logan had just said, written in a dark blue ink as though by Logan's own hand.

Several thoughts swirled in Logan's mind as he looked at Virgil's soulmark. Instead of any of them, he said, “You could have looked it up.”

“Oh–fuck you!” Virgil said, pulling his sleeve back down.

“Apologies,” Logan answered, and lifted a hand to trace the line of his zygomaticus major, starting near his lip and moving up and back. “Here. It aids in a number of expressions. I had not realized I was engaging it.”

Virgil squinted at him. Logan shrugged.

“I was admiring your jacket,” he said. “I enjoy visible mending techniques, and I was wondering if you had repaired it yourself.”

Virgil looked down at his sleeves. “I… yeah. Yeah, I did. I–” He looked back at Logan. “You're my soulmate.”

“I am,” Logan agreed, now wondering if the shade of Virgil's patches matched the purple on his own arm. He glanced at the other people nearby. The line was not long, but Logan's coworker at the till and the four people waiting in line had all stopped what they were doing to watch them. It was uncomfortable, having such an important moment so publicly. “We are holding up the line,” Logan said, and checked his watch. “I have a break in a little under half an hour. Would you like to join me for it, and… talk?”

Virgil hesitated, then nodded. He retrieved his drink and stepped back. With a final glance in Logan's direction,  he retreated to his usual table.

[blackkatmagic]

what's your opinion on the low volume of comments authors get on ao3 nowadays only to find out servers have been gushing about it all along? i was really struggling with completing some of my fics bec of the low engagements (granted i write for a rarepair) only to find out a whole discord server was talking about it,, idk,, i'm grateful but it would've been nice to know all those nice stuff firsthand if you understand? 😭

Mm. For that kind of thing, I do wish it translated to comments, but like. private fan spaces have always existed. Private fan spaces are always going to talk about fics and art and fanworks. I think that readers should have some awareness that a lack of engagement can absolutely make an author drop a thing, and act accordingly, but I also very much respect that fans should have space to be fans.

This is very much not intended to invalidate your feelings as a writer, anon! A lack of engagement hurts, and demotivates, and people can whine about entitled authors all they want, but that's just the truth. Fandom as a whole has been getting a lot worse about commenting, especially in big fandoms, and it's a noticeable trend. And while knowing people are talking about your work behind a veil instead of telling you directly is very frustrating, I don't think it's productive to blame that on that particular group of fans when it's a fandom-wide thing.

[anonymoosen]

yippeeee I’m older now :,D

(I ain’t mentioning my realll bday for privacy but it’s somewhere around hereee)

Anyway, I hope to post more stuff this year even though it’s probably difficult to do so because of a lot more exams and homework and school stuff in general and procrastination but I’ll try! (I’m more active on ao3 nowadays aaaa)

None of my irl friends or family are on tumblr but I just wanna say I’m grateful to them for being here for me in all the years of my life!!

Of course, I’d like to thank all my mutuals and followers too! I can’t believe I actually reached 300 something (I can’t specify the number cuz it might not be accurate with the possible bots-) followers before my bday :3

ANYWAYYAY THANK YOU AGAIN, GUYS! ESPECIALLY YOU, PRECIOUS MUTUALS 💜💜💜

@aceisew @porcelainfreak-zacrucian @merchuu @ijustlikeiz @theautumnaldemon @strawowoberry @bonniecupcake @laazytoaster

@ghoul-ish-art @the-ice-queen-623 @karmaajr @zims-left-antenna @electronicribbonfashion @afrogwhocantdraw @arthur-side

@sketchingwithlyn @youngjusticerulez

@spaceboisstuff @the-huxler @circusfreakk @rainybow8231 @lee1504 @iminsideyourwallsbro @ematooney @kittysboba @s4turnthewitch @asco-bisco

+ all my other mutuals (sorry my memory’s so bad aaahhhh)

You guys have always been amazing and cool and supportive and I love y’all so much 💜💜💜💜

(Special mention: @/ peachiedookieee who isn’t on tumblr anymore for still counting down the days this year mentally like how she did last year omggg <3333)

[great-master-airplane]

FengQing

12

aaahhhh thank you, my dear anon <3 hope you enjoy your angst~

[now on ao3]

12. things you said when you thought i was asleep

“Hey… are you awake?”

Feng Xin’s voice filled the small room, gruff even when hushed into nothing but the barest whisper. He always managed to sound pissed off about something even when he wasn’t, and Mu Qing struggled to hold in the scoff that threatened to give him away.

He kept his back turned, his eyes shut, his breathing as consistent as possible. It was too late to listen to whatever criticism that Feng Xin wanted to hand out now. Mu Qing was tired and hungry and sore from yet another day of working for what felt like nothing, and if he didn’t rest now while he had the chance, how could he convince himself that he could do it all again tomorrow?

Feng Xin made a small noise, something between a sigh and a huff. “Good… this wouldn’t be as easy to say to you if you were awake.”

Suddenly, awake was all that Mu Qing did feel. His heart raced, pumping his blood so quickly through his veins that his limbs felt restless, itchy.

Dammit, Feng Xin.

He forced himself to remain still, at least until he heard what Feng Xin had to say. Then he could decide if getting up to yell at the bastard was worth waking the royal family at this hour. He didn’t know how he’d manage to stomach the way that Xie Lian’s brows always ticked in muted disappointment every time the two of them fought nowadays. He rarely smiled now, not a true smile. Just one of those tight, fake things that made Mu Qing’s chest feel as though it had been weighed down by rocks, and then he’d spend the rest of the day with the bitter taste of bile lingering on the back of his palate.

Fighting with Feng Xin just wasn’t worth it anymore.

… Didn’t mean that it didn’t still happen. Even if it wasn’t worth it, pissing each other off was one of the only things that still felt right in this world. Sometimes, their bickering was the only thing that made the everyday stress of not knowing where their next meal would come from as he continued to run himself ragged for the Xianle family seem a little less agonizing.

Arguing to them was like breathing, and Mu Qing worried that if they ever stopped, he might actually suffocate. His only solace over having such ridiculous, silent codependence was that Feng Xin would likely suffocate along with him.

Feng Xin shifted a bit, always so damned noisy. The man didn’t know how to be quiet, his presence loud and grating on Mu Qing’s already frayed nerves. Wouldn’t he just come out with it already so that Mu Qing could go back to pretending to sleep?

“I just wanted to—thank you, I guess. Yeah. Thank you. For, uh… for sticking around like you have. You didn’t have to, but uh… Xie Lian appreciates it.” Feng Xin paused to swallow, the bob of his dry throat sounding harsh in the quiet room. “And I—dammit, Mu Qing—I appreciate it too. I know everything’s hard right now, but I wouldn’t want to do this without you.”

Mu Qing kept his breath quiet and even, but inside, everything ached. He wanted to stand up, demand who the hell Feng Xin thought he was! Thanking him as if Mu Qing didn’t have a reason to be here? As if he didn’t care about Xie Lian too? As if he didn’t care about—

As if he didn’t have reasons to be elsewhere.

Mu Qing’s anger left as quickly as it had arrived. His eyes burned, and his body trembled. He wondered if Feng Xin could tell that he was awake. Was Feng Xin even looking at him? Or had the idiot been so embarrassed that he’d turned his back so that he could talk to the door instead of Mu Qing’s supposedly sleeping form? Fucking coward.

Like Mu Qing could talk.

A breath passed, long and deafening. Then he heard Feng Xin let out a long, exhausted sigh, one that he felt deep within the marrow of his own bones.

“Anyways, that’s… that’s it. That’s all I wanted to say.” Feng Xin paused again, as though waiting for something. “… Night.”

Mu Qing listened to his footsteps start up and then fade away, and it was only once he was on his own again that he let out a long, hard breath. He felt so much more unsettled now, duty and guilt and grief all at war in his heart. He stared ahead at the scuffed wall in front of him, vision wobbling as he hissed a quiet, annoyed curse through his teeth.

That damn idiot! How dare he act so earnest when he thought Mu Qing couldn’t hear him! Didn’t he know that Mu Qing didn’t want such genuine gratitude from him? Didn’t he realize how much it hurt? Couldn’t he tell that it would only make things that much worse when Mu Qing’s resolve to keep sticking around finally shattered?

Mu Qing huffed again. Rolled onto his back to stare at the ceiling. Huffed again.

He felt restless now. Restless and exhausted. Too wound up to sleep thanks to Feng Xin and too tired to do anything other than lay there and replay words that he wished he’d heard under any other circumstances. Part of him wished he’d turned around and yelled at Feng Xin right from the very beginning, griped that he was too damn tired to listen to whatever it was that Feng Xin had to say.

Maybe then it would’ve ended in a fight. Maybe then Feng Xin would’ve chickened out, decided that Mu Qing wasn’t worth his thanks after all, and Mu Qing could have slept peacefully.

And maybe then tomorrow would have been easier without the phantom of such bittersweet gratitude following him as he walked away.

[headachecat]

Fellow Rookanis here, and Chaosfay on AO3. Here's a fee writing prompts to play with or combine:

"I've never kissed someone with a beard before."

"How did you keep the beard so neat in the Ossuary? Did you bathe and shave before taking on the Ventori?"

The first time Lucanis reaches out and comforts Rook.

The first time Lucanis reaches out and comforts Rook.

As a principle, Rook did not get upset.  It was one of those things Harding shared with Lucanis when he first joined the team. It was just the five of them at the time, and the Scout felt like it was her duty to fill him in. Bellara’s mind was in the clouds, but, by the Maker, was she brilliant in her expertise. Neve was always on the case, chasing another lead with a snarky comment locked and loaded. And Rook? There was not a moment a smile went absent from her lips. Not a second of doubt they couldn’t do it. There was simply nothing that could make her waver, make her break. And definitely nothing that could make her cry.

They had just saved Treviso from Ghilan’nain’s dragon, and Lucanis could have sworn he had never felt such a profound sense of gratefulness, a warmth that filled his heart and refused to fade for the first time in a very long time. That morning, he lingered in the pantry, scribbling away notes of thanks. The thoughts spilled from his mind and onto the parchment, words cascading like an untamed river, each stroke of his pen a desperate attempt to capture what words could barely hold. The scratching of the pen sent a delicate vibration up his fingers, as he crossed out yet another sentence, unsatisfied. The ink bled through the paper, leaving faint shadows on the pages beneath, echoes of thoughts too vast to remain contained. It seeped onto his skin, black stains blooming across his fingertips, as if to tattoo his feelings for the world to see. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw Rook’s face –not her smile, bright and reassuring as always, but her eyes. They held everything: a will that could not be bent, compassion that refused to falter, care that brought his mind to her more and more recently nowadays.

’We will go to Treviso. We will defend it, whatever it takes. I promise.’

He felt a deep, aching pain in his chest with every beat of his heart. He owed her so much – more than he could ever hope to repay in a lifetime. His family, his home, the very fabric of his existence, all tethered to a singular choice. Words danced on the edge of his mind, but none ever felt worthy, none ever seemed to measure up.

How could he possibly tell her that she had saved his life? Not just the moments he cherished, the memories he had yet to create, but quite possibly his literal life as well. The enormity of it threatened to swallow him whole. How do you tell someone that they are the reason your world still turns? No words felt right. No words ever could.

It was just Lucanis in the Lighthouse, its ancient walls accompanying his quiet solitude as he awaited everyone’s return. That is, if you ignored the persisting presence of the demon lodged in his head. To keep his hands and mind from wandering too far into uneasy thoughts, he busied himself in the kitchen, the simple rhythms of preparation soothing him. When the time for the meeting finally drew near, and Rook was due to arrive back from Minrathous, Lucanis prepared something small for her. A cup of tea, her favourite, and a plate of Nevarran plums. Travel was exhausting, after all. She would be hungry, surely.

He placed them on the coffee table in her room, before retreating to the library’s upper level to await the others. Barely a minute went by when the sounds of boots on stone echoed up the tower’s cold, stone walls. The team had arrived, and Lucanis moved to meet them at the centre. But as their figures emerged into view, his heart sank, the stillness in the air pressing down on him. The clinking of metal weapons accompanied his companions’ slow steps, the silence so heavy it seemed to absorb every sound.

When his gaze fell on Rook, the ache in his chest deepened. She stood by the seating area, her usual energy absent, her presence subdued in a way that felt foreign. Her staff slipped from her fingers, dropping against the chair with a hollow clink that echoed in the quiet. There was no trace of her laughter, no sign of the effortless confidence that usually radiated from her when she stood with her hands on her hips, her head held high, a spark of hope lighting her every movement.

Instead, she turned with heaviness, nodding briefly to Harding and Bellara as they passed her, their quiet words barely breaking the stillness. Davrin appeared next, emerging from the staircase leading to the Eluvian room, his form tense, his sword clutched tightly in his hand as though it grounded him. And then Rook’s eyes finally met Lucanis.

The Crow lifted his hand in a gentle greeting. Rook cleared her throat, her voice breaking through the thickness of the air. ‘Right. I suppose we should talk about it.’ She was being careful, navigating a fragile thread that could snap at any moment. 

By the entrance, Bellara stood with her hand resting against her lips, her composure strained and delicate. Lucanis wasn’t certain, but it seemed as though she was fighting back tears. Her shoulders trembled faintly, and Harding, standing close beside her, reached out to pet her arm in a quiet gesture of comfort. The Scout let out a sigh, heavy with shared grief, as if trying to soothe both Bellara and herself at once. ‘Neve is staying in Minrathous for now,’ Rook continued, her tone steadier for a moment, ’The Shadow Dragons… could not defend the city as well as I had hoped.’

Lucanis turned his attention back to Rook, studying her carefully. She placed her hands on her hips, a familiar pose that should have felt reassuring, but this time it didn’t. Her fingers curled around her armour just a little too tightly, the slight tremor in her hands betraying the tension she was trying to mask. It was as though she were forcing herself to embody the unshakable presence they all relied on, struggling to be who they needed her to be. Who they expected her to be.

For a fleeting second, Lucanis’s thoughts drifted back to Harding’s words, her voice ringing in his memory. Rook doesn’t break. But now, standing before her, he couldn’t shake the gnawing doubt creeping into his mind, the uneasy certainty that for the first time in a very long time, Rook had reached her limit.

‘Please, rest well. We will discuss next steps once everyone’s ready,’ Rook said, her voice soft, her smile tender but weary. She followed Bellara and Harding with her gaze as they made their way out of the room, the quiet shuffle of their departure accompanied by murmured words Lucanis couldn’t catch. Davrin lingered, giving Rook a short, shallow bow, a gesture of respect. As he passed her, he slowed, ‘In war, victory, Rook. Whatever it takes.’

Rook nodded in response, a flicker of acknowledgment passing between them, and the Warden turned, his footsteps echoing faintly as he trailed out of the library. The door creaked shut behind him, the sound sharp against the quiet. A draft followed in his wake, a whisper of cold air slipping into the room.

Rook closed her eyes as if bracing for something more – perhaps the whistle of the wind, the mournful howl that might signal an ending to this meeting. But no sound came. The Lighthouse stood resolute, unmoving, the last steady thing around them. Perhaps, in the face of so much loss and uncertainty, the Lighthouse was all they had.

‘Rook,’ Lucanis stepped forward quietly, all his carefully thought-out words evaporating the moment he opened his mouth. ‘I wish to say…’ Rook opened her eyes, studying him silently. Her smile lingered on her lips, but Lucanis could see now what he hadn’t before – it no longer reached her eyes. It was faint, her usual warmth dulled into something distant. It struck him like a brushstroke gone astray on a painting, a flaw only noticeable when you looked closely. Perfectly devastating.

‘I wish to thank you,’ Lucanis exhaled at last. The words felt small in the grandness of the space. ‘Thank you for saving my home. It is… perhaps the only piece of me I know anymore, after the Ossuary. And I am eternally grateful for that. I am at your service, whatever you wish of me.’

Rook’s smile widened slightly, a practiced kindness softening her expression as she stepped forward. She reached out, her fingers wrapping gently around his arm in a reassuring squeeze. ‘Of course.’ she said, her tone light, almost effortless. But Lucanis’s brow furrowed as he caught it – a faint tremble in her hand, a subtle shiver in her fingertips she tried to hide.

‘Perhaps a dinner?’ she added, her voice suggesting joke, joined by a soft laugh that seemed uncertain, rough around the edges. It was her usual lighthearted way, a balm she offered to ease tension, but it felt different now. There was something about her in that moment, something distant and foreign. The jest hung in the air, but it didn’t settle, like a fine layer of sand swept up by the sea breeze, abrasive and unsettling. Rook shifted, her eyes flickering for a moment. They both felt it. The air grew thick, charged with an electric hum. Lucanis felt it like a shiver running down his spine, a familiar sensation that tugged at his instincts, pulling at his focus. Spite emerged from the dimness, his translucent form barely visible in the faint glow of the crystal light. With a long, deliberate breath, Spite let out a soft hiss of disgust, his face contorting in a sneer. ‘Regret,’ he spat, the word hanging in the air like a foul stench. He threw himself into the nearby chair with an exaggerated motion, ‘Terrible smell.’ Lucanis felt the coldness spread in his chest, a creeping chill that began as a subtle tightness and quickly grew into something more suffocating. It trailed down through his waist, his legs, his feet, burning with an icy dread that wrapped itself around him like chains. Regret. Fear. Doubt. A prison of its own. It was a familiar weight, one that clawed its way through his thoughts, dredging up the dark memories he had fought so hard to bury. The sleepless nights in the Ossuary, when exhaustion blurred the edges of his mind and the wet rags he wrapped around himself did little to ease the cold. He had tried to shield his ears from the screams of the prisoners, but they haunted him, unrelenting. Why them and not you? Why do you deserve to live? The questions crashed through his mind like thunder, each one louder than the last. You should have seen it coming. You should have killed yourself before they took you, like a real Crow would.

Lucanis reached out instinctively, his hand settling gently on Rook’s wrist, meant to offer reassurance, but as soon as his fingers brushed against her skin, he felt the tension ripple through her arm. Her lips parted as though she meant to speak. But the words never came. Instead, her breath hitched, and she held it, looking down at her feet. 

’Forgive me,’ she breathed out shortly, And then, in one swift motion, she pulled away from him, stepping past him with a sudden urgency that left him standing, still and unsure. Her staff clattered to the floor with a sharp, jarring sound, the clang ringing in Lucanis’ ears like a discordant note. Rook didn’t look back at it.

For a split second, Lucanis stood frozen, his heart beating in the rhythm of the weapon swaying on the stone. And then, with a sudden clarity, a single thought tumbled through his mind. She did not deserve to go through it alone. He stepped aside, his movement a blur – faster, swifter, determined He blocked Rook’s path, arms wide as if to contain her. She gasped, her body crashing against his, and in that instant, his embrace closed around her, tight and sure. They swayed for a heartbeat, finding balance, and Lucanis felt her legs tremble beneath her, threatening to give way.

A cry tore through the vast expanse of the library, its sound so raw and piercing, it seemed to shake the very air – a wail so haunting it could have been mistaken for the roar of a beast. They fell to their knees, drawn together, clinging to each other in desperate need of support. Rook’s body quivered, tensing as the waves of torment crashed through her, relentless and suffocating. Lucanis felt her scream vibrate against his shoulder, her fingers digging into the back of his vest, sharp as claws, desperate and frantic. Her pain consumed him, a fire that threatened to burn away all else. For a moment, he feared her. No, that wasn’t quite right. He feared for her. 

His hand drifted gently to the back of Rook’s neck, her curls winding around his fingers, as if they sought to hold him back, to keep him away from her. He wouldn’t let them. The warmth of her skin radiated beneath his touch, a subtle heat that made his fingertips dance over the smoothness of it, feeling the soft rise of goosebumps in their path. He began to caress her, slow and tender, as though time itself had stilled around them. Closing his eyes, he rested his forehead against the side of her temple, grounding himself in the sensation of her presence. Guiding her breath. Reassuring her racing mind. He allowed her the space to cry her pain away, to take her time, to steady herself – there was nothing of greater urgency. They didn’t talk, for there was nothing to be said. Everything he wished to ask, to explore, to understand, it was all in her voice. In the shudder of her body, the pain of her emotion.

He couldn’t say how long it had been before Rook’s sobs began to soften, the raggedness of her breath gradually easing into quiet sniffles. Her hands had found their place around his waist, gripping him with vulnerability he hasn’t seen from her before, while her fingers traced the edge of his vest in a slow, absent rhythm, as if the motion itself were a grounding force, bringing her slowly back to herself. Caught in the moment, he found his own fingers weaving through the strands of her hair, his touch gentle, natural and tender. His index finger brushed the delicate curve of her ear, the softest contact, yet it made her ear twitch in response. The sensation surprised him, and he pulled his hand away just a bit too fast. He opened his eyes.

Rook lifted her head, her tear-streaked face flushed and red, her eyes still glistening. Lucanis could feel the warmth of her breath against his cheek, unsteady and shaky. Yet he refused to pull away. He would stay until she was ready, until she found her footing again. Until she decided it was enough. She reached up, her fingers trembling as they brushed against her ear, a quiet, broken chuckle escaping her lips. It was a sound that was more of a sigh than anything else, exhausted, vulnerable  humour. ‘It does that sometimes... like a cat’s ear.’ Her gaze wandered over his face, lingering on the way their bodies were entwined, the intimate closeness that neither had expected. ‘Forgive me. Again. I’m uncertain what happened–‘

‘Rook,' Lucanis interrupted her softly, his hand moving to cup the back of her head, fingers threading through her hair. For a moment, he paused, lost in the simplicity of the gesture, marvelling at how effortless it felt to hold her so close, how completely natural it came to him, like with no-one ever before. It was as if the world had folded around them, and only in that stillness did his thoughts finally catch up to him. Yet even then, he refused to let them overtake him – not when Rook still needed him. She shifted slightly in his arms, and he drew his gaze up to meet hers. ‘You have made an impossible choice,’ he said, his voice steady despite the turmoil swirling within. ‘I meant what I said. Whatever you wish of me. Whenever you need... my help. I will be there.’ Her eyes shimmered with the soft light of the crystal hanging above them, the glow reflected in the deep haze of her pained eyes. ‘I cannot ask that of you,’ she chuckled weakly, as her usual demeanour fought to come back to light.

‘I insist. Anything.’

She hesitated for a moment, her gaze falling away, as though weighing her next request. When she finally spoke again, her voice was different. Her Trade Tongue’s accent dropped ever so slightly, and her Nevarran lilt curled around the edges of her words, as if it was only now she allowed him to see her truly for the first time. ‘Can you call me by my name? Tell me everything will be all right? I wish to believe it... if only for a moment.’ 

Her request felt like the softest blanket, wrapping around Lucanis’ shoulders and across his heart. And in that moment, all he could feel was the quiet ache of wanting to protect her, to fight for her, to care for her. To give himself away to her will. He closed his eyes again, swaying gently with her in his arms, as though the rhythm of his movements could bring the lost memory back to him. And then, like a flash of clarity through the haze, it came to him. A name, soft and foreign, whispered in the heat of battle as they fought their way toward freedom. It was a name that had lingered in his mind, unspoken until now. Pleasant to the ear, yet strong in its means. A strength that mirrored her own. It was fitting, somehow – perfect in its simplicity and its power. He tasted it on his tongue, letting the sound roll gently over his lips, savouring the moment. It was sweet and proper, a name that could become a part of him, if only for a lifetime. He breathed in, steadying himself before speaking it aloud, the words falling from his lips like a promise, like a tender reassurance.

‘Everything will be all right, Hissera.’

––– More of Lucanis taking care of Rook:

[wordstome]

Thanks for everything, but it’s time to close up shop.

Hello, everybody. Sorry for this post being a portent of doom, but I feel like you all deserve better than radio silence. Originally, I went on hiatus because I got busy with school and work. This is still true—real life is getting in the way of me being able to write creatively, which I haven’t done in a while.

However, I think it would only be fair for me to admit that I’m just not as into COD anymore. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve never been into the games and always have been a fan of the little fandom of writers here, but I have to admit that part of my difficulty writing is just not being as into the content anymore. Most of it is just naturally moving on from something you used to like, but I also feel uninspired and weird about the idea of writing fanfiction about the military nowadays.

TO BE CLEAR: I don’t suddenly think that all my fellow writers are doing something problematic and amoral, and I vehemently do not want my departure from creating fan works to be used as some sort of gotcha to attack other writers. I don’t think any of us respect the military or US imperialism (I hope not) and I think the tumblr subsection of fandom is especially aware that COD is military propaganda. What we do here is writing about characters, not the institution they operate in. A lot of cod fanfiction doesn’t even take place in the military. I also haven’t drifted away because some writers make heavier/darker content, so I’m squashing that discourse before it has a chance to start.

It would also be disingenuous to say that I drifted away solely because of fandom discourse, but it certainly didn’t help. Thankfully, I only caught the tail end of a recent…controversy? Discourse? Involving other creators. It’s exhausting and disheartening to see this sort of thing happen, but I also realize it’s kind of inevitable that feathers will be ruffled when subjects like racism against Gaz are addressed, and that doesn’t mean we should just stop talking about those subjects. I don’t have a good solution to this and I don’t mean to complain about something that’s just a part of human nature. I just can’t pretend that it isn’t really demoralizing to see people acting poorly and the internet slapfights that result from it. I hope those involved in the recent incident are taking care of themselves. ❤️

Anyway, if you’ve gotten this far, thanks for reading. I have a lot of love left for this fandom, and especially my fellow creators who I have come to consider genuine friends. I feel a deep obligation to everyone who reads and interacts with my work, and I can’t continue to leave people waiting when I know it is, most likely, over. So, to be clear: this is the end of my COD writing journey. I won’t be writing any more or continuing any of my fics.

All of my works, both here and on AO3, will remain up, so you don’t have to worry about anything being deleted. I’m still grateful to cod for bringing my zest for writing back, even if it was only for a handful of months. And if you guys want to see unpublished drafts (like for kingdom come), have questions, or simply want to know my plans for fics that won’t be finished/want to know how they end, please send me asks or reach out! I would love to talk about it. Mutuals are, as always, extremely welcome in my DMs, and it means the world to me that people have been checking in on me during my hiatus.

TLDR:

I’m leaving for good. None of my fics will be deleted, but they won’t be updated anymore. I won’t be active on this blog, but I’ll still check in once in a while to answer any asks or questions about my fics.

I don’t think this will happen, but it’s worth saying: please don’t use my departure to make sweeping generalizations about the fandom or start more discourse. I just drifted away and lost interest. Take care of yourselves.

[cyberneticfallout]

Chapter Eight: The Yao Guai's Visit

Ch 1 - Ch 2 - Ch 3 - Ch 4 - Ch 5 - Ch 6 - Ch 7 - Ch 8 - Ch 9 - Ch 10 - More Coming Soon

Pairing: Cooper Howard/The Ghoul x Fem!Reader Summary: The two of you seek shelter for the night, enjoying a brief moment of domesticity before a glowing yao guai stalks through. Tags: Slow burn (and I mean SLOWWW), angst, eventually more smut, language, canon-typical violence, chem/alcohol use, more tags will be added Posted on AO3: Smoothie and The Ghoul Word Count: 1.7k

The two of you manage to find a ramshackle of a home. Sure, half the roof is missing and there’s a gross amount of radroaches but it feels like a haven compared to the risk of sleeping out in the open. Without wasting time, both of you start working - getting rid of the pests and settling into your newfound shelter.

While he gets a fire going in the more open area of the tiny dwelling, you sit on the floor, rummaging through your bag, contemplating what meal to prepare. You had discovered a few packaged meals like Blamco Mac and Cheese, Cram, and InstaMash from the Super Duper Mart. After a bit of consideration, you decide on Cram mac and cheese for tonight's dinner. You can't help but wonder, though - does he still have his taste buds? It's possible for some ghouls to retain some sense of taste. However, if he's been like this for two centuries, it's highly likely that his taste buds may have deteriorated.

You're grateful that those so-called sheriffs didn't confiscate your weapons or any items from your bag. Although you rarely use the pip-boy nowadays, it's handy for monitoring your health status and checking possibly high radiation levels in new areas. Seeing you fiddle with the device, the Ghoul decides to join you, taking a seat beside you as the fire roars into a steady blaze.

“Keep that on you. It will notify us if there’s any sizable mutants nearby.” He commands.

"Aye, aye captain," you half-heartedly salute him as you secure the pip-boy onto your wrist with a click.

Getting up, you make your way to what remains of the kitchen area and start rummaging for any cookware. After some searching, you find a decently sized pot, fill it with a carton of somewhat purified water from your bag, and position it over the fire. As you begin preparing the meal, The Ghoul silently observes, watching as you cut up the Cram into bite-sized pieces and add the macaroni pasta into the now boiling water. There was something so domestic about the whole thing, a rare moment of nostalgia washes over him, reminding him of a time when such simple comforts were more than just a distant dream.

After some time passes, you manage to create a modest dinner for the two of you. The effort you put into the meal is a bit surprising, but it's a welcome change from the usual scavenged scraps. The scent of the food wafting through the air adds a touch of comfort to the desolate surroundings.

"It’s too bad you can’t smell this," you joke as you hand him a serving with a bent spoon and an intact bowl you found. "I’m hoping you can at least somewhat taste it?"

With a glare, he quickly devours everything in the bowl before setting it down, offering a nod in your direction. He then leans against the nearby wall, the weight of the day's chaos settling between you. The silence that follows is a welcomed break, allowing you both to catch your breath and collect your thoughts. But as the quiet lingers, the unanswered questions from the day's events weigh heavily on your mind.

"What did that guy mean when he said you’re still looking for her?" you ask quietly, taking a bite of food.

"None of your damn business, Smoothie," he retorts, his tone sharp and guarded.

"Is it a wife or somethin'?" you press, unable to shake off your curiosity.

"If you don’t drop the subject, then I will shoot you," he warns, pulling his hat down to cover his eyes. Just as you're about to argue, the geiger counter on your pip-boy starts going off, the sound cutting through the tense atmosphere. The Ghoul looks up at you, alarmed, and rushes to put out the fire. As you stand up and look around for any sign of what could be causing the disturbance, you feel a sudden grip on your arm as he pulls you towards the wall, pressing you against it and covering your mouth with one of his hands.

“Shut the damn thing off,” he whispers urgently to you. You hastily flick through the device and manage to turn off the geiger counter, the sudden silence amplifying the tension in the room.

As you stand frozen against the wall, a hand tightly gripping your waist and another muffling your frightened gasps, he silences you with a shushing motion. The sound of a deep, rumbling growl resonates ominously from the other side of the wall, causing your heart to pound with such intensity that you fear the creature on the other side will hear it.

Desperate for any distraction, your eyes dart towards the nearby window, revealing a glowing yao guai leisurely strolling around the building. His gaze locks onto you, his eyes filled with intensity, as if he can sense the frantic rhythm of your racing pulse beneath your skin. His touch momentarily rubs circle on your waist, but he withdraws abruptly, as though realizing the inappropriateness of the gesture.

Gradually, the footsteps of the yao guai fade into the distance. The Ghoul slowly removes his hand from your mouth, and for a few lingering moments, the two of you simply gaze into each other's eyes. Overwhelmed by a surge of unexpected courage, you reach out and gently caress his cheek, feeling the rough yet surprisingly smooth texture of his scarred skin. Drawing closer, your lips tenderly brush against his.

"You don't want this, sweetheart," he murmurs softly, his words barely grazing your lips.

"And how could you possibly know what I want?" you challenge.

A mischievous smirk dances across his face as he leans in, his breath warm against your skin. "Well, considerin’ you keep referrin’ to me as 'beef jerky,' I'm inclined to believe that most people don't fantasize about dried meat."

"Maybe I do," you assert, the words barely a whisper as you close the gap between you two with a soft kiss. You can sense his hesitation as your part, a subtle tension in his body as he grapples with his own conflicting emotions. In a sudden, bold move, he leans in, capturing your lips with a hunger that takes you by surprise. A low, guttural moan escapes from his mouth, blending with your own as the kiss deepens.

His hand comes up to tug you towards him from the back of your head, intensifying the contact between you. The sensation almost leaves you breathless, eliciting a gasp that mingles with the shared breath between you. You bite his lower lip, a mix of playful teasing and unbridled longing in the gesture. He responds with a deep groan, the sound sending a thrill through you as he presses his hips into yours, the bulge of his arousal evident.

Your heart races as your hands glide down his neck, delicately tracing the contours of his skin. Your touch remains gentle and exploratory as your fingers nimbly unbutton his shirt, slipping beneath the fabric to reach his chest. Tracing the intricate patterns of his skin with care, you relish the intimacy of the moment. He twitches underneath your touch, his bare chest feeling the caress as if for the first time in ages.

Suddenly, he pulls back, his hand gripping your neck and pushing you away forcefully. He stares at you, his grip firm and unyielding. You're left wondering what caused him to snap. Could it have been because you touched his bare skin? You notice his expression shifts from intensity to a hint of vulnerability. His hand slowly releases its grip on your neck, and he takes a step back, creating a distance between you.

Stunned by the sudden denial, you watch as The Ghoul walks away and settles against the opposing wall. With crossed arms and a resigned posture, he leans his head back, uttering a soft “G’night” that hangs in the air like a final farewell to the intense moment you both shared.

Feeling a mix of emotions, you slide down the wall on your side of the room, your breath still heavy and your skin slightly damp with sweat. As you sit there, processing the abrupt end to the passionate encounter, you can't help but feel an anxious pang of rejection. The feeling begins gnawing at you, a heavy ache in your chest that lingers.

The morning sun finds you both silent and tense, caught in the aftermath of the previous night. The air between you is thick, filled with unsaid words and unaddressed feelings. Neither of you managed a good night's sleep, the discomfort of the cold, hard floor only a minor nuisance compared to the war within your minds.

As you both go about packing your things, each movement seems to echo loudly in the silence, punctuating the awkwardness that has settled between you. Neither of you dares to meet the other's gaze, the memory of the stolen kiss lingering in the air like a ghost.

In hindsight, kissing him was a foolish decision. You barely know him, and the little you do know paints him more as an uncompromising brute than a potential romantic interest. Despite the brief moments of camaraderie, he's been a prickly, distant companion for the most part. You find yourself questioning your actions, the taste of regret bitter on your tongue.

“So what’s the plan?” You attempt to lighten the mood, “Seems like we’re not after a head anymore.”

“We’re tracking a woman by the name of Moldaver. That's where the head is goin’,” he responds.

"Flame Mother…" you muse aloud, "I wonder what her deal is."

"I find myself askin’ the same about you," he murmurs almost inaudibly.

With an eye roll, you sling your bag over your shoulder, then give him a nod to signal that you're ready to hit the road. The Ghoul briefly mentions a letter he found on one of the men he shot up in Filly that references Moldaver. He believes that the same man was the son of an old associate of his, and that's where the two of you are headed - a long journey ahead. You take a deep breath, activate your pip-boy, and lock eyes with him. "Let's do this, beef jerky.”

Tag List: @fallout-girl219 @ellabellabunny123 @sunnexaltation @coolrobloxkid28 @cheshirecat484 @capan-deveraux2 @rebelmarylou

[camels-pen]

down and down and down we go

Summary:

It’s still out there. Laughing at you. Planning its next move. Her eyes flickered to the side, to the makeshift dartboard with an infuriating smirk, before looking back to her reflection. She jolted at the sight. The bruises were still there, her hair was still a mess, but for a moment she couldn’t recognize herself. Couldn’t put a face to the girl in the mirror. You can be anyone if it means protecting the ones that matter.

Sometime after the events of Flirting with Disaster, Valerie keeps moving.

-

hi everyone!!! this is my fic for Infinite Realms: A Danny Phantom Remix Event! as long as folks keep to the rules, you're good to remix however you want!

Ao3 Link

Valerie started the day as she always did nowadays. Leaning over her lopsided vanity and staring at her reflection.

There was a new bruise on her jaw. The one under her eye was still healing. 

A few rays of morning sun were peeking in through the gaps in her curtain, giving the room a dim light. Valerie took a deep breath, letting the familiar smell of overwhelmingly vanilla scented creams and makeup fill her nose.

She needed to leave for school soon.

The ghost tried to kill you. It tried to kill you.

Foundation—where’d she put her foundation?

She pushed aside crumpled homework assignments and old, bloodied gauze. Her brows furrowed as she brushed aside her bonnet, looked past empty tubes of lip gloss, and moved around rolls of hand tape. 

It didn’t even hesitate. It did it out in the open. 

The drawer opened with a forceful yank and a grating screech. Her sore fingers knocked her curling cream in her haste to sort through her hair products and makeup. She hissed, shaking out her hand.

It did it on tape.

“It’s here somewhere,” she whispered to herself. She gripped the edge of the vanity, focusing on the solid wood under her palms. “It’s gotta be here.”

Her dad yelled something at her, but it was mostly unintelligible. When she didn’t respond, he’d repeat himself anyway. She ignored him, scanning the desk again.

It’s still out there. Laughing at you. Planning its next move.

Her eyes flickered to the side, to the makeshift dartboard with an infuriating smirk, before looking back to her reflection. She jolted at the sight.

The bruises were still there, her hair was still a mess, but for a moment she couldn’t recognize herself. Couldn’t put a face to the girl in the mirror.

You can be anyone if it means protecting the ones that matter.

“Valerie! Do you want hashbrowns with breakfast?” her dad called. Valerie shuddered a breath and swallowed dry.

“I can do this,” she said, staring into her own eyes. “I can protect them.”

You can’t let them know. You need to keep it a secret this time.

She sighed. If only she could find her fucking foundation then she could get right on that. Damn thing always disappearing whenever she needed it.

She grumbled and continued sifting through the piles on her vanity as a faint sound replayed in the back of her head. 

—kill—

—tried to—

—if you were in the suit, you’d be—

Valerie gripped the edges of the vanity again. The slight wobble of its legs, which she’d long grown used to, were shaking like a ship in a storm. 

She closed her eyes and tried to breathe, but the once comforting smell of vanilla was becoming stifling, suffocating. She was being tossed left and right, to and fro, the waves crashing against the hull almost mocking in their constant barrage.

The stinging winds and miserable rain were harsh on her battered face, greatly limiting her vision. The only thing she could clearly make out was the ship’s wheel in front of her, spinning wildly out of control.

Her battleworn hands tried to grab the handles, but the wood slipped through her fingers. Over and over, again and again. Slip, slip, slip.

Suddenly, lightning struck the mast and she cried out as the main sail was lit aflame. Despite the rain and waves crashing over the deck, the fire spread quickly. 

They’re going to get hurt.

The sky lit up. Valerie tried to reach for the wheel again, tried to steer them out of its path. Tried to take them to safety.

Finally, she grabbed the wheel.

It wouldn’t budge.

As she called out a warning, tried to tell whoever was listening to run below deck, lightning struck a second time. 

The smell of burning flesh was unmistakable.

And she couldn’t—she didn’t know who had been—if they were even still alive—

The fire had spread, the glow of it all over the outline of the ship. She couldn’t even make out the shape of the fire itself. And there was still the–the body, one she couldn’t even see—

They’re going to get hurt.

The smell intensified. So much so, Val had to give up one hand to cover her nose. 

The wheel quickly lurched to the left and she nearly lost her grip. She sacrificed her nose and grabbed a lower handle on the wheel, struggling just to hold it steady.

Her muscles strained with the effort, thoughts jumbling in her brain with failure failure failure, how could you let him—

She gripped the wheel tighter, splinters digging into her hands as she practically crushed the handles with her effort to move dammit, move!

Valerie tried to plant her feet more firmly, tried to search for some kind of grip on the slippery wood, but it was no good. The deck was too wet. 

The wheel lurched left again, nearly spinning Valerie with it. Just barely, she managed to stay upright but the handles under her hands were starting to break apart.

All of them are going to get hurt.

A ominous rumbling started to drown out the torrential rain. 

Valerie looked up.

She couldn’t breathe.

Taller than double the length of their pitiful ship and wider than the horizon itself, was a cruel, cruel joke: a wave, massive and inescapable, only a handful of yards ahead of them. 

The wheel splintered under her hands, but she couldn’t look away from the impending doom ahead. Couldn’t look away as the taste of salt and despair overwhelmed her tongue. 

Something thunked against her boot and the weight between her hands suddenly disappeared. She looked down only to see the wheel splintered into chunks and the centre axle spinning freely. What was left of the handles cut into her bare hands, leaving them bloody and aching and wondering how the hell she’d even begin to turn the axle—

And the sail was still burning and there was still that awful, nauseating, heartwrenching smell—

There’s no other way.

The sail was burning. The ship was burning. They were burning. The axle was still spinning and the wave was still coming and her hands were still aching and she couldn’t—

“Valerie!”

Valerie gasped. Her eyes opened to her mirror. On her vanity. In her room. There were tear tracks on her face.

“Valerie!” Her dad yelled at her again.

“S-Sorry dad!” she called back. She could still smell the fire. Was there a fire? Was this real or— “No hashbrowns.”

“You still asleep in there?” he said, with a laugh. A faint sizzling sound reached her ears and she could smell bacon—

Bacon. Valerie sagged against her vanity, her head pressing against the mirror. “I’m good,” she said with a croak. She cleared her throat and added, louder, “It’s just a school project.”

She allowed herself another breath before pulling back. She wanted to wipe her face, but hissed as she released her grip. Thin cuts and little beads of blood littered her palms and when she checked, the edges of the desk were cracked. 

You need to fix this.

Valerie groaned, knocking her head lightly against the mirror. She glanced down to her desk. Between two rolls of gauze, sat her jar of foundation. 

“Well, you better hurry it up, I’m almost done out here!” her dad said.

They’re helpless without you.

She put it all in her bag and grabbed a sweater.

They need you.

As she pulled the hood low over her face, Valerie spared one last look at the monster on her wall, before leaving her room.

[indiestsnake]

so uh.

10,000 hits.

yeah.

I’m repeating myself, but thank you all so much. For reading, for commenting, for liking my stuff both on here and on ao3. For being there for me when I’m struggling and reminding me I’m worth something. I’ll always be so eternally grateful for your time, your kindness, all of it.

I don’t know what else to say because I’ve said it before. just… thank you all so much. I’ve spent my entire life either being bullied or trying to go unnoticed to avoid being bullied, and that’s contributed to some pretty big self esteem issues nowadays (as my vent posts show lol). But I just post my silly little chapters about rats in love and dozens of people come to read, enjoy, and compliment me. I’ve never even gotten hate despite all this acclaim and I’m so happy to have what I do.

I really hope this is coherent and conveys my gratitude. Just in case it isn’t, before I sign out…

AISHEKWOSOWKWKEKWJEJSLEEBRURUOAODSOPEOEHEHSOFOFKWKSJEJQKKDJDHFYDIEPWPEURHSISPDJWOWPDPRHEYEIEWMEJEKDHJSI93$:9;;&819:!;9,0?)3!/7:&;!8/@/!;9402); i@?9^o!u00)2!/&eifbeusksyuIOAKSBFIDB THANK YOU SO MUCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCH I LOVE YOU ALL YO THE ENDS OF THE EATRH AND VACKWNAKEKEKWKEKSKDJDHRHEISOFOF

YOU’RE THE BEST AJD I LOVE YOU AND THANK YOU SO MUCH. ILL WORK ON CHAPTER 33 A BUNCH TODAY JUST FOR YOU. OKAY BYE I LOVE YOU ALL FROM THE BOTTOM OF MY HWART GOOBYE

[lovesickeros]

Hello! Since this blog doesn't see much activity nowadays, I wanted to say two things: 1. How are you? You were one of the people who inspired me to dive into SAGAU in 2022 and captivated me endlessly with your writing style. Your writing immersed me in what felt like a fantasy world in the best way—rife with possibilities, danger, love, and so much more. It propelled me to new heights and made me wonder what it would be like to be more than the reader, to wield a pen and use it as the brushstroke to paint all kinds of worlds, creatures, and characters.

On that note, I'll follow with the second thing: 2. You are one of my biggest inspirations as a writer. Because of you and others, I've spent the last two years writing and creating like never before in a way I didn't think I was capable of. I have an AO3 and a Tumblr blog, mainly dedicated to posting my musings in a "stream-of-consciousness" format for narrative purposes. Because of you, I've grown—as a person, friend, and writer. Because of you, I made countless memories I'll cherish for years: sharing and building stories with my friends' group chat, roleplaying, making AUs, etc. Because of you, I did everything I thought I couldn't: I fostered my creativity and cultivated it to plant what is now a thriving garden regularly visited by my friends. It has helped us bond immensely and provided me solace in my darkest hours.

Because of you, I wrote my first book on Wattpad. I hopped onto a wild, emotional, and unforgettable rollercoaster that saw my interest in watching movies and reading literature be re-ignited for the sake of inspiration, have a taste of fandom culture via Steven Universe, Genshin Impact, Murder Drones, and several other games and shows that have undoubtedly and irreversibly changed my life. Because of you, I made OCs, I discovered YouTube movie recaps, and now I can write a pretty good summary myself!

That is to say that I'm wholly grateful to you, Eros, and everyone else who led me down the path of the writer, supported me throughout with their comments, memes, stars, and kudos, and generally showed enthusiastic interest in my work. I wouldn't be here if not for you all. I hope your ship of life continues sailing smoothly, as has mine, after years of turbulent weather and unpredictable storms that threatened to throw us overboard if I hadn't held on to others (and myself) for support.

May the new year bring you joy and prosperity, and hey, what do you know? Maybe I'll write something for SAGAU someday. The only reason I haven't taken the plunge yet is because of how inactive (for lack of a better word) the community there has become, and I don't know what I would write. Ideas, anyone?

Anyway, I've talked for long enough. Keep up the good work, Eros, and remember that in someone's (my) heart, you are still held dearly as an inspiration. Even if the golden age has long faded, we will always have our memories to keep us company: "Don't cry because it ended. Smile because it happened."

it is unfortunate that the collective sagau fandom has kind of died out, honestly. its what got me really into writing as well (which i feel like i have to mention @/nicebonescomrade for being the writer to get me to make my first sagau blog. one of the other og's and also a phenomenal writer). im glad it had such a large impact on you though!! that makes me really happy bc ive always been self conscious about my writing and writing style ngl, though i never grew out of it bc it worked for me. i can't imagine stories like books as a movie in my head like some people (literally head empty) so i lean more on actually putting more feeling and description into my work to compensate. it gets a bit wordy but it helps me write bc i do not plan anything i just start writing based on vibes.

sagau downfall was definitely inevitable (and a part of why im super inactive) but im happy with how it turned out anyway bc of how big the fandom is and how many people turned to creative hobbies bc of it. its nice to know i at least had some kind of impact myself KJHKDH i wouldnt consider myself one of the "big" sagau accounts by any means so its a bit of a surprise ngl um. looks around.

i genuinely just spend most of my time these days printing out random fics when i get the urge (once in a blue moon, 99% of which are in my draft vault), playing whatever game caught my fancy this week and playing genshin because it's still a black hole i will never escape from! honestly maybe one day ill come back to this account for real instead of sporadic posting but uhhh. probably not unless a new big au pops up again.

[zenscrypt]

"keep counting (for patterns to repeat)"

read on ao3 here!

Rated: T (Teen and Up Audiences)

Content Warning: suicidal ideation/thoughts

Summary:

The clicking footsteps he’s heard pause with another of Tallulah’s loud calls, and Etoiles squints, trying to see where she went--

Whack!

Ah. “Good left-click, Richas,” he jokes in lieu of a greeting. The egg punches him again, also in lieu of a greeting, before Etoiles’ hands are grabbed and carefully guided to the signs he’s placed.

[ TONTON can i propose a trade offer >:D ] [ we get llulah, you get EGGZA? ]

-- It's a quiet night on Quesadilla Island when Tallulah comes to visit her tío's cave for some training. Along the way, Etoiles gets more visitors.

Tallulah is not a fighter.

Quesadilla Island is not built for pacifists.

Purgatory especially was not. The feeling of an axe sitting in her paws was unfamiliar, unwieldy, even uncomfortable, makeshift and knobby because she made it herself at Dapper’s insistence. There were so many mobs -- so many summonings -- and she tried so hard to remember what her papa taught her, to mimic what Chay would do to protect her, to follow the words one of her tíos gave as advice. “Tallulah, when you’re sad, just kill mobs!”

Needless to say, Tallulah was really sad in purgatory. She wasn’t a fighter then, despite everything she went through, and still, she doesn’t think of herself as one now. But she wants to try.

“Tallulah? You don’t need to learn to fight, you are already amazing with your flowers?”

Emphasis on try.

It’s a quiet night when she joins Richar and Pomme on their late-night adventures. Not much happened with Tío Bad, thankfully, besides Richar insisting on breaking Bad’s machines consecutively to see if he would notice, and Pomme and Tallulah watching the chaos unfold. Bad shooed them off eventually after a goodbye with the ghosties; it was late enough Tallulah considered going to sleep, until Bad voiced his surprise of Tío Etoiles being awake at this hour. Pomme disappeared in a flash, as expected, and Richar asked Tallulah if she would stay up to hang out.

It wasn’t often Tallulah got to spend time with her tío. He seemed so busy nowadays, either sleeping through the week or completely gone from sight despite being online, which she wouldn’t want to interrupt. She doesn’t know how badly that code infection is impacting him either -- if it was the cause for him sleeping so much, or the reason she and her family never saw him as often, or if it did anything at all.

Turns out, he’s working on rebuilding his cave entrance when she agrees to come with Richar. Well -- Pomme is, Richar is helping her with the design, and Tío Etoiles is gathering whatever few supplies he can easily grind for. It reminded her of decorating the nest with herself, Chay, and Papa Phil.

It’s a little funny. Tío Etoiles really hasn’t changed, has he?

That brings her to this moment, adjusting the speaker block Pomme gave her. “Tallulah says,” the machine-voice in the block says, which grates Tallulah’s ears a bit as it says her own words, “i want to be a better fighter to defend myself tío, flowers can’t do that against withers :p”

Etoiles hums faintly. His inventory covers most of his face as he gathers more wood for the eggs, but she quietly watches the numbers of that warped scar glitch emerald skin into binary data. His eyes, sightless and cloudy-white, squint at each item he selects. There’s a pause between the items that takes… longer than normal. He doesn’t seem focused.

Tallulah can’t tear her eyes away from the code-infected scar. It’s-- is it a scar? It’s a strange shape that took his entire left arm. It’s infected, which is a more pressing worry. It goes into an eye. Is it impacting him that bad, that he looks so exhausted?

It’s pretty late, too; she asked him how he was, and he mentioned being unable to sleep but not having the energy to explore or do dungeons. Which… sounds like his chronic disease also, but…

Well, it reminds Tallulah of herself mostly. She’s stared at the ceiling of her papi’s house for so long she knows exactly how many blocks it takes up. She could recreate it with only her memory if she had the chance. Playing music only reminded her of how empty the house was, on really bad nights. Some nights, she thought the next day would never come.

She caught herself asking if she wanted it to, sometimes.

Maybe asking for fighting lessons wasn’t the right thing to do. It seemed like a good distraction, but she doesn’t want to force him to if he’s feeling the way she felt on bad nights. Guilt wells in her little eggshell -- did she mess up? He hasn’t responded yet--

“Tallulah,” Etoiles calls softly, stirring her out of her spiraling thoughts, “have you seen my dojo?”

Oh.

Oh!

Tallulah jumps to her feet in an instant, shaking her head rapidly. Maybe she didn’t mess up! Maybe her plan will work! Etoiles is pushing himself up to his feet as she bounces in place, chirping with excitement. When he gestures for her to follow him, she’s already scampering down the staircase to his cave.

---

Tallulah is a good fighter, Etoiles learns.

Flower picking is her strong suit, something better suited for her limited breath and less-than-sharp ears, but Phil must be teaching her well because she uses her height to her advantage. Her aim is impeccable too -- she’s quick to find the weaknesses in his armor and swings with enough force that Etoiles can actually feel the stick smacking into skin. Of course, she gets winded after each of her attacks and Etoiles backs away to give her space, quietly observing.

He does his best to deliver the pointers she seemingly asked for, which is shit because another sleepless night doing nothing but thinking means his English is starting to slip. He’s also missing his swings to give her a challenge, unable to focus long enough on stars and stardust to find where she’s at. He nearly trips on her on occasion, easily the most frustrating of this night. How can he not see a little egg in front of him?

During a moment where Tallulah’s breath starts to sound like a whistle, Etoiles calls for a break. “You did well,” he says, reaching over to pat her mushroom head. Inside her shell, her breath rattles, but she manages a wheezy chirp of satisfaction -- and then faceplants into the tatami mats. Etoiles huffs out a laugh.

“Pick yourself up, queen, you play so well! You can fuck up everyone in your path, no problem. You don’t need my help.” Which he means. He was just about as clumsy and shit as any regular mob on this island, and if he had no armor, he would’ve been dead. Her biggest issue is trying to do so many jumping attacks for critical damage, but if her threats are mobs, she’s perfect. Her form wasn’t even sloppy.

In the distance, he hears the sounds of teleportation and lifts his head to the dojo entrance.

While still face-down and breathing hard, Tallulah slaps a sign on the ground. Keeping his ears alert, Etoiles reaches to translate it. [ you were good target practice tho :D ]

More teleportation sounds go off. He grins at the sign. “Good target practice? Tallulah, I was shit and you know it. I was like- like that horse riding mob, Tallulah. A meature. You could’ve killed me no problem. If you had your flowers, I would be dead in one hit.”

Tallulah trills, and her blurry shape shifts back to a proper sitting position. She’s close enough that her eggshell brushes against his knee, bleeding warmth into his padded leggings. The next sign she places is directly in front of him. [ papa phil thinks roses are pretty strong ]

Does he? Etoiles scoffs, bumping his knee against her goodnaturedly. “Of course Felipe Minecraft knows this. To him, roses must do plus ten damages, and- and Pomme’s favorite flowers do twenty! Sunflowers do three, I know this because they’re a shit flower.”

That wins him another delighted trill and a keyboard smash of a sign, which he takes as a victory.

Faintly, he hears footsteps, clicking on his quartz floors. Richas and Pomme’s footsteps are quieter than that, but the fact that he can hear this visitor is reassuring. Whoever it is wouldn’t announce their presence so easily if they wanted to harm Tallulah.

He can barely see Tallulah’s stardust pattern next to him, so he doesn’t bother trying to figure out who this is. They’re approaching him anyway. He’ll find out soon enough.

To his left, there’s a gentle rattling noise -- a maraca, he registers, because Tallulah stops shaking it when he looks over. There’s a new sign she’s written, replacing the one in front of him, [ here tío, i think papa phil would want you to have this ]

In her extended paws sits something with a vibrant, rich red color.

A rose. Oh, of course -- what else could it have been? A stray thorn pricks his finger as he takes it, and his dark blood beads onto the soft, scarlet petals just before his body heals over the wound in the next half-second. He huffs out a quiet laugh, rotating the flower in his hand carefully. “This is for me, Tallulah?”

The purple of her mushroom head dips in an enthusiastic nod. It isn’t blue, and it’s not a cornflower, but Etoiles thinks it matches the collection Pomme’s been giving him in his backpack.

“Thank you, Tallulah,” he says solemnly, switching it to his off-hand to pat her bouncy helmet. “I’ll be the strongest warrior on the island with this.”

Tallulah bumps her head against his hand affectionately with a happy chirp. He can hear her tail wag just slightly, dragging on the mats underneath them, before it gives an audible thump. She trills loudly, sudden, and rocks up to her feet, bounding off and out of the dojo without another word. Etoiles blinks.

The clicking footsteps he’s heard pause with another of Tallulah’s loud calls, and Etoiles squints, trying to see where she went--

Whack!

Ah.

If the noisy, high-pitched chirps now ringing in his ears weren’t enough of an indicator of who’s here, the dark blue sign in front of him and hazy red blob of a cow head is. “Nice left-click, Richas,” Etoiles jokes in lieu of a greeting. The egg punches him again, also in lieu of a greeting, before Etoiles’ hands are grabbed more gently than the fast (and painless) punches and carefully guided to the signs he’s placed.

[ TONTON can i propose a trade offer >:D ] [ we get llulah, you get EGGZA? ]

Ah, that explains it. Phil’s here.

Well-- almost Philza. Tallulah and Ph-- Eggza are too far away for him to see, somewhere between his white floors and the distant, dark blackstone of his staircase entrance. “Richas, that is a shit trade, man,” he bemoans, tearing his eyes away but making sure his voice still carries through his cave, “why would I want that piece of shit egg? He doesn’t even have a shell! He- he doesn’t have flowers like Tallulah, and I’m a builder, Richas. I want flowers, not goats.”

It’s pointless to goad on Eggza, he knows, their usual banter tends to fall flat when it’s one-sided -- this man, this tryhard is so focused on grinding for shitty cookies instead of spending time with friends -- but like the grin on his lips, he can’t help himself. Richas lets out a squeaky laugh, reminding him of Pac’s laughter, and swats for his attention again. [ KKKKKKKK ] [ I don’t see any goats but YOU tonton >:D ]

“What!” Etoiles exclaims in mock-offense. “How could you say that, Richas? You’re standing right here?”

Whack. He’s learned, since telling Richas about his blindness, that the egg now communicates his head movements with more punches instead. Somehow, it works for them. Richas paces in front of him with that chirpy laughter before he finally breaks his sign and replaces it with a new one. [ how did llulahs training go??? ]

“She doesn’t need training, actually,” he says. Chayanne is the warrior between the two siblings -- Etoiles would know, constantly ribbing on the egg’s fighting style much to his dismay -- but when your dad is Felipe Minecraft, it makes sense to him that she would impress him so much. To not only fight, but be able to land precise hits when already struggling for breath is black-belt worthy to Etoiles, no stick fight required. “She already knows how to fight well, and I was just a, uh- a body for her to hit. She didn’t need my help.”

Was purgatory what changed her? Fighting to survive would do that, he thinks -- turn pacifists into keen-eyed warriors, even the ones that prefer flowers to weapons like Tallulah. He frowns and presses his thumb against one of the thorns on the rose. What a shitty life, to be forced to fight.

The eggs weren’t forced to fight each other, at least. They weren’t against Badboy and Toby Roblox at least -- or, really, any of their friends. Their siblings. They just had to survive, not compete, not win.

(Ever since that three-day-long dream he had of another purgatory, another chance to win, another fight to survive and kill both strangers and old comrades -- it felt like a dream to him. He hasn’t been sleeping well recently. When he closes his eyes, he dreams of radioactive water, of that brand on his hand staring back at him, of tearing into flesh with his swords and covered in blood and wanting more -- and then he wakes up on this shit island where nothing happens unless he’s unconscious.

Seriously. He sleeps an hour later than usual, and Phil is saying he missed the biggest fight of his lifetime, Empanada died, Tubbo’s armor is gone, Phil was knocked down-- he missed a fun fight because this shit island hates him and so does insomnia.)

Whack! [ so she kicked your ass?? 0_0 ] Richas’ sign says, jerking Etoiles out of his thoughts.

It’s not hard to kick my ass, he wants to say, just stay up until 4AM and log-in right at the spot to turn in your contracts to override all of my team’s hard work. His skin catches on the thorn. Phil’s geta click on quartz again, and Etoiles grins. “Richas, she destroyed me, man. She is- she’s a black belt in my dojo, I stood no chance. She took out this flower and I was on the floor instantly. Minus 70 damages.”

Following right after Phil’s geta are more tapping claws, which wheeze as the egg gets closer -- whack, Tallulah smacks Richas away, startling a bark of laughter from Etoiles. “Like that! See! She’s so cracked!”

His dojo quickly fills with the typical sounds of eggs bickering with each other, the occasional thump or whack of a playfight happening somewhere behind him. Etoiles tilts his head to find a familiar leathery-black mask staring down at him. “Hello, Eggza,” he hums, smiling wide enough to bare his teeth.

Phil makes a muffled, indistinct noise as Etoiles pushes himself up to his feet, and the dark wings behind him rustle quietly, shifting in place. “Are you here to collect your egg, Eggza?” he asks.

A quiet huff. “No?” He raises an eyebrow. Tallulah’s sing-song chirps sound victorious somewhere to his right with Richas’ indignant hisses following right after it. Pomme must’ve stayed at the cave entrance to focus on decorating. What was it Richas asked? “There are no cookies here, Phil. Have you come to my dojo to fight?”

Another huff, this time accentuated with a faint laugh-like noise. Etoiles exclaims in disbelief, “What? You come to my dojo and not want to fight, Felipe? Why the hell are you here then? To say ‘hello, mate’ and be the man that you are?”

Phil laughs that quiet noise again and then turns on his heel in a careful motion, eyeing the ground for a moment. Then-- Etoiles blinks when he hears the sound of… a sign being placed. Phil placed a sign? Curious, he peers around the silhouette of a wing and finds a dark green sign-- dark green?-- “Phil, my bro,” he exclaims, now genuinely incredulous, “you are not an egg? What are these signs? Did you make them just for you?” Sure, maybe that shade he’s never seen before could exist, alongside Gegg’s vibrant-green, but Phil using it?

Is this how deep it goes? he wonders, backing up to give Phil’s wings space. This state that he’s in, Etoiles has only came across Phil around the bakery at spawn, gathering cookies for his eggs -- but he knows Phil like this, too. At least, part of it.

Purgatory didn’t change just Tallulah, after all.

Phil’s wings healed during that time, and with it, something else inside him too. He was coherent in purgatory, though -- coherent enough to speak, stumbling over his bird-like noises to clarify what he was trying to say. Writing with signs is new. (He sees why Fit and Pac call him Eggza now, even if Phil is far from an egg in Etoiles’ eyes.)

How different is he, then? How much is intact since purgatory? His wings were broken from the flight carrying Tubbo, but they weren’t clipped, the Federation hasn’t intervened (yet), they aren’t small and weak and hidden like before the eggs disappeared.

An old itch begins to flare up. Phil’s changed. How far?

The shadows in front of him shift eventually, revealing what Phil’s written. [ can i not say hi to a friend? :> ]

Just as he stooped down to translate it, Etoiles is smacked by a small, fast-tapping paw. Phil’s also hit, eliciting a startled caw from the man and a chorus of tittering egg-laughs. Etoiles hums. “Yes, Richas?”

Richas guides his hand to the signs instead of smacking him again. [ pleasure doing business with you tonton o7 ] [ llulah n i will get back to work >:D ]

Oh, that’s what he asked. Etoiles didn’t even give him an answer -- and he considers complaining again, just to rib on Eggza some more, but instead he ruffles Richas’ cow head. “Okay, Richas,” he says. “Pomme is your leader, don’t forget that.”

Thump. He places another sign. [ don’t forget that ur the best tonton >:] ] Tallulah nudges Phil and chirps something beside Etoiles; Phil echoes it, the noise richer in response, unfamiliar to his ears. Maybe something referring to flock, if he guessed right.

With that, the two eggs head off, their claws scratching at quartz as they run.

Silence follows where Etoiles doesn’t fill it. Phil’s head is turned away, watching the eggs leave, and for a moment, Etoiles wishes he could see. Are there more feathers where there hasn’t been? What else has changed that he can’t see? How much is still Phil?

The elytrian shifts then, remembering himself and the sign he placed at his feet. Soundlessly, he breaks it manually, without an axe, just plucking it from the ground; Etoiles watches the sign disappear into his inventory.

“You come here to say hello,” he voices, catching Phil’s attention with the lilt in his voice, “except you’re writing with signs. You aren’t an egg, Phil. I know your voice, I know where you live -- I know what you are, Phil. You can speak to me, no? You trust me, right?”

It’s not avian-speak Phil makes -- it’s not the typical squawks and chirps Baghera made, nor the noises he catches the eggs making on occasion -- it’s Endspeak. An ancient language that can be disguised as avian, thanks to similar vocal chord structures, but it’s sharper, centered in the chest rather than the throat. If Phil isn’t capable of speech --

How far can he push?

“It’s okay, Phil,” he says quickly. The rose in his left hand is an afterthought as he searches for a stick. “You don’t need to say anything actually. No worries. How about we stick fight? 1v1? You come to my dojo, you should expect a fight, man.”

Unsurprisingly, Phil turns to place a sign again, and Etoiles lets him. Taps the stick he’s holding against his leg, slowly, counting. It can snap easily in his hands if he wanted it to. A clean snap right through the middle, showering the floor in splintering fragments. Phil steps away.

All the text-to-speech translation says is: [ bruh ].

Etoiles sputters -- partially amused by the simple response, the other-- “Bruh, he says, taking 70 years to type it! He can left-click but he can’t type four letters, what the hell? Felipe, my bro, you should know the rules of my dojo. You can’t ‘bruh’ my rules.”

Then, daring, he takes a step forward and smacks the stick against Phil’s leg, where he knows it is. The answering yelp sounds like a bark forced from his chest -- Etoiles grins, sharp. “Come, Phil! Just one fight. It’s all I ask of you.” Just one. One is fair, one is reasonable, one is all he wants. He has to see who this is.

Another sign is placed. Etoiles hums -- and jabs forward, hitting Phil somewhere in his flank. Phil flinches away with a startled hiss, sparks spitting. He takes a step back -- Etoiles matches him, letting his other hand (there’s a flower there?) brush against the sign to translate it as he passes.

[ not fighting you king, its too late ]

Too late, he says, as if they’re sleeping. Phil stops retreating, so he stops advancing, hitting the stick against his knee. He barely registers the pain. The shadows in front of him are massive, but he’s seen bigger -- seen them spread wider as he stood behind them, shielded from view, the rest of the team, Bolas, next to him. Where is it? “Phil, we are here, aren’t we? It won’t take long. You can win and I’ll stop.”

He waits for a sign to be placed, his grip holding the stick tighter. It hasn’t cracked yet, but he aches for the burn. Tap. tap. tap. Just one fight. Just one.

When he hears nothing, he takes another step forward. Phil remains in place. His geta don’t scuff on the dojo’s floors. If Etoiles focuses, he can see that leather-masked gaze holding his somewhere between growing darkness. Wider, wider, it spreads. There? Is that it?

The stick raises into the air.

Shadows flare.

And when a solid force collides into him and knocks him flat on his back, all Etoiles can feel is blinding victory. This is it. This has to be it. He just has to-- he has to fight back--

His weapon is gone. All he has is a- a stupid flower that doesn’t even have the same attack stat as a stick-- Phil’s weight keeps him firmly on the ground and staying there, talons burrowing into wrists and a heavy pressure on his stomach. He isn’t struggling. He can’t, he reasons, his arms are heavy and he can barely focus -- but he’s baring his teeth to the elytrian above him like he’s winning. “Wow!” he barks, something inside him thrashing when he cannot, “No stick fights, says Felipe, so he pins me down like an American! Like an American football star, okay. I see you, Felipe.”

Whatever noise he was expecting, he wasn’t thinking a- a croon, now so much louder than he expected, rumbling against his pinned body. A rubber beak nudges against his jawline, shutting Etoiles up instantly. It’s strange -- something wars inside his head, instincts vs. logic, with a clear loser. He cranes his neck up, further, to give Phil space.

Well? Phil won. Spoils go to the victor, after all.

Through the mask, Phil’s breath comes out in huffs against his neck, right at the sensitive-- vulnerable, weak, prime spot to notch a weapon-- junction of his neck. Something inside him thrills at the attention.

Distantly, Etoiles wonders how they must look. Is it just them in his dojo, in the darkness of Phil’s feathers, in the night sky gleaming with star-shaped flowers? Are Phil’s wings shadowing over him, shielding him from view, like the void enveloping him whole? Is he prey caught by an elytrian with its wings poised for flight against its back, about to be slaughtered?

Oh, what a way to die. Etoiles sinks into the embrace. Craves it. Part of Etoiles wants to beg -- he needs to see if Phil will do it. If Phil had the capacity to kill him. If Phil could give him a death he’ll finally be satisfied with.

Make me bleed, he prays.

Aloud, he whispers, barely audible even to himself, “Phil? Can I take off your mask?”

Phil pulls away only slightly, his breath fanning over Etoiles’ face. To his surprise, Phil chirps only a second later in the affirmative. When Etoiles reaches a freed hand to the buckles of the mask, Phil leans into his touch, rumbling quietly, contentedly.

Suddenly, Etoiles’ fingers are unsure, breath lodged in his throat, unseeing eyes squinting in concentration and, distantly, anticipation.

The mask is loose and slides into Etoiles’ hand. Carefully, he sets it to the side beside his head. Then, indulgent, desperate, he cranes his neck up and cups Phil’s jaw with the same hand.

Please, he begs. His lips stay shut.

He waits for the fangs. He waits for talons. He waits for the searing burn of pain to tear his throat open and let him bleed out inside his own home, in his dojo, in the arms of his captain.

If “Eggza” is his elytrian instincts repaired, then Etoiles aches to be his first blood.

Phil’s lips are soft, when they press against his.

…oh.

Of course.

A small laugh huffs against Phil’s lips -- because Etoiles should’ve expected this answer.

He hadn’t realized he asked. Or that Phil heard.

Still, he leans into the kiss, fitting his hand securely over Phil’s cheek to press deeper. It was light, Phil asking his own question in response; on any other day, Etoiles would push further, fight even harder for Phil to give him what he really wanted, but the elytrian above him lets out a coo so low it vibrates in his chest as he slots their lips together.

If Etoiles had any more fight left in him, he would insist he didn’t deserve this. Phil’s arm braces above his head somewhere, and talons run through his hair and against his scalp, and it’s so nice. There’s no yanking. No tearing. No fight he had to win. Just… being held and kissed.

So instead, he sighs and gives into the gentle, lapping waves of fluttering, midnight wings.

(Maybe I’m already bleeding, he thinks distantly. Just not the way he initially thought.)

Phil’s the one that parts first with a quiet hum. Etoiles takes in a deep breath, keeping his eyes shut to settle against the mats. His mind feels blissfully quiet for once.

A hand brushes down his face, pets his facial hair, runs across his lips. Etoiles lets it trail over him and feels proud that he only briefly wanted to be kissed again.

Pressure leans against his forehead, stirring his eyes open again. It’s habit to open them, obviously, because he already knows it’s Phil pressing their heads together, his nose slotting against Etoiles’. A trill follows, deep in Phil’s throat, that Etoiles recognizes faintly. He doesn’t know the exact translation, no matter how many times he’s heard Phil make it during purgatory, or to his eggs. He thinks it’s a name. A title, maybe. A declaration.

His chest is tight. Etoiles hums quietly. One day, he’ll figure out what it means.

Eventually, Phil takes mercy on him. With one final trill, he backs away fully, his weight disappearing from Etoiles’ body, and is gone before he even realizes it. The roof of his dojo is plain without the borders of void-coated feathers and golden hair. What a shame.

(What a shame -- that Phil left? Or that Phil didn’t kill him? He isn’t sure.)

As he laments, floating somewhere between the clouds and the night sky, he hears something sharp, quick -- a snap of fingers. Etoiles lifts his head.

Instead of grabbing his gas mask like what Etoiles expected, Phil stands over him with a black-tinted hand offered. Oh. He wants to help Etoiles up? A pleasant warmth sits in his chest like a gentle campfire, and with the snap comes reality.

“Oh, look at you, Felipe,” Etoiles says with a grin, breaking the silent air of his dojo. “Giving me your hand to pull me up like the goat that you are? Thank you, my bro.” He sits up and clasps his hand into Phil’s, letting the elytrian yank him up to his feet with a subtle flap of his wings.

It was a forceful tug alongside an amused chitter, enough that Etoiles has to catch himself before he crashed into Phil; that campfire crackles. It’s not the sun he looks it in spite of the warmth, but somehow, it makes it better. “Okay, Phil? You’re so strong? You have big biceps? You don’t need to flex on me, man, I already know you have a nice cock.”

And, because he can, he reaches for Phil’s face to kiss him again.

His advances are met with a scowl he feels against his lips and a firm swat of one heavy wing upside his head. “Oh, he hits me!” Etoiles shouts with a bark of laughter, ducking out of the way. “Felipe hits me because I gave him a kiss! So you won’t accept my affections either, Phil? Okay, man. Sorry. Your cock is shit, actually.”

Whack! Phil’s wings hit hard, what the hell? The next dodge he does skirts him around the elytrian, sidestepping shadows to stand next to Phil, away from any more wing-hits. Phil chitters louder, almost involuntarily; now it really sounds like his cawing laughter.

Etoiles’ laughing along with him. “Deserved, deserved.”

How could he be so stupid? Why would he ever think Phil would change, just like that, from purgatory? Tallulah still gives flowers, Pomme is still headstrong, Richas… hasn’t changed whatsoever, now that he thinks about it -- and, maybe, Etoiles himself hasn’t changed too. Phil hasn’t.

Phil is still the goat, and the man that won’t listen to his braindead desires of dying a cool death. Why did he ever beg the man to kill him? The thought sounds ridiculous the more he thinks about it.

Would it be legendary? Yes. Is it still something Etoiles wants to happen? Perhaps. Will he ever get it? No.

And he’s fine with that.

Thump. Etoiles blinks. A sign?

Phil turns around to look at him, standing in front with something in his hand and the sign placed by his feet. As Etoiles steps forward to translate it, he catches red in Phil’s dark hands. [ where did this rose come from? ]

Oh. “Tallulah gave it to me,” Etoiles says softly. I forgot it was in my hand, he adds to himself. “I hope it’s not broken?”

The red blur in Phil’s hands looks fine, but it’s hard to tell. Phil examines it with a quiet, contemplative noise for a moment. It’s only a flower, Etoiles catches himself thinking -- but it’s a rose, isn’t it? Roses are strong, Tallulah said. He thought maybe she meant it the same way Pomme means it, but… what about Phil?

A black hand raises to his face, bearing that red, red rose. It hesitates just in front of him, asking, and Etoiles stops himself from taking a step back. Instinctively, he tries to search for Phil’s eyes -- but-- Phil makes a soft sound in the back of his throat. The hand wavers.

It’s Phil, he reminds himself.

When he leans forward, into Phil’s hold, he feels the flower stem slide just above his ear. Talons briefly pinch his skin as Phil carefully adjusts the flower, tucking it underneath his eye-mask, securing it in place. The thorns are gone, as if they’ve been plucked off. All that’s left are the soft petals that brush against the side of Etoiles’ face.

When Etoiles finally gives in and leans down, he feels Phil coo against his lips.

(Flowers aren’t weapons, he knows this. They don't have to be. They shouldn’t be, not just for their shitty attack stats, but also because… it’s nice. A few flowers bloom in his hair on occasion, which Pomme loves for decorations -- and Antoine loves to pluck straight from his scalp -- and while he thinks the blooming is an annoyance, it’s only flowers. The flowers that his daughter loves.

Tallulah said roses are strong, and Phil believes they are, for whatever reason, even when he’s like this. Logically, it makes no sense, but…

Well. Etoiles doesn’t give a shit about the semantics now. Flowers can be powerful if Phil thinks so.)

---

Richarlyson’s feet have never moved faster than the way they do now -- and Tallulah has half the mind to join her in the sprint across Tío Etoiles’ cave. Chayanne is not going to like this when I tell him, she thinks, already imagining the horror in Chayanne’s shell.

[ off she goes ] Pomme writes with a sign that stops Tallulah in her tracks, rumbling in her shell with amusement.

Tallulah faceplants into the floor. [ on her way to ruin a sweet moment :’) ]

Yesyes, Pomme chirps in agreement and a comforting pat on Tallulah’s back, silly egg, silly sibling. With a huff, Tallulah stands back up in time for another wine-red sign to appear, and for Richar to make contact with her papa and tío. He’s accosting them as she expected, surrounding them in a myriad of signs, aggressive chirps, and plenty of punches for the both of them. [ oh well. im sure papa is feeling better now :D ]

Hopefully, he is, Tallulah thinks, but she has a feeling Tío Etoiles is. Beside him, Papa Phil looks content, fondly watching the two bicker with his face free from his silly bird mask. Etoiles takes Richar’s swatting in stride, backing away from him and complimenting his strikes just like when Tallulah was sparring with him.

Unlike that moment, though, Etoiles is grinning, not pensive, and he moves a little more sure on his feet, sidestepping and dodging each Richar blow. He looks… happier.

Tallulah eyes her papa again and rumbles, happy papa, happy, silly. He did that to Tío, she’s sure of it. If a spar wasn’t going to do it, and if Tallulah couldn’t, then she’s glad her papa did. Chayannechen can get defensive over Papa and Pa Missa’s relationship another day. She’s certain this was different, in any case.

Pomme mimics her noises warmly, rustling through her backpack to dig out a diary. Richar suddenly whirls to Phil and starts smacking him with enraged squeaks, causing him to yelp, dodging another attack. Whatever they’re talking about seems like fofoca, but Tío Etoiles doesn’t seem embarrassed, neither does Papa. She can see the rose in her tío’s hair too. Good.

Bomp, Pomme’s placing another sign, floating in the air where she sits. [ whats uncle phil doing here btw??? was he looking for you ? ]

Was he? If she’s being honest, Tallulah isn’t really sure. She left Papa Phil in Rosa’s Sanctuary, where he was half-draped across Missa’s sleeping body, and she wasn’t expecting him to be awake at this time. Even when he’s like this, Endspeaking more than normal, she figured it was too early for him to start gathering cookies. Did he know she was with her tíos and came to find her? Was he here for Etoiles? Was it pure luck, or curiosity, to come here?

She doesn’t know. He was fine, he had reassured her when he first appeared in the cave. Chay and Missa were safe still, but he didn’t elaborate any further than that. She has some guesses as to why her papa is here, like this, and even when he’s extra affectionate and gentle with her in this state, he still doesn’t like sharing his feelings. It wasn’t due to a lack of trust -- it’s just her papa being her papa.

It isn’t a bad thing. He wanted to see somebody here, to check in on them, and Tallulah finds it hard to get upset at her papa when he’s cooing and fawning over her and her siblings. Some nights can be too quiet sometimes.

Eventually, she settles with a simple, [ i think he wanted some company ].

Awake company, that is, at this hour of night. Once she's ready to go, she's sure he'll tag along with her back to the sanctuary for some proper sleep. Whether he woke up due to her absence or from a nightmare, she knows he's tired.

Tallulah thinks she’s earned sleep after this. Tío Etoiles especially deserves it.

[crowleysaziraphale2003]

Here's another fic from my AO3! I'll also be posting non-GO writing soon! :)

This one is supposed to be silly and light hearted, if ever it comes off as insensitive, let me know. For the record, I hate the prison system, please know that 🤍

The silliness and playfulness is taken from my own, two and a half years long (so far), relationship. My partner got me into Good Omens, and I will always be grateful to him for that. He's also just the best tbh and I love him so much ❤️❤️❤️

CW for swearing, neck kissing (briefly) and brief NSFW implications (nothing happens nor is implied to happen, just some suggestive flirting).

Bon appetit! 🫶

Crowley and The Mysterious Case of The Disappearing Sunglasses

It was a sunny afternoon, and a certain demon and angel were peacefully gardening together. At least, until something rather weird happened. 

It had started out with a kiss. Aziraphale hadn't joined Crowley for while, instead opting to recline leisurely in a deckchair, sipping wine and reading. He would pause every now and then, to look up and inquire about Crowley's progress with the garden. That aside, they hadn't interacted until Aziraphale had brought his baking, alongside a glass of cooling lemonade, out to him on a tray. That's when Crowley had decided that perhaps, it was time for a well-earned rest. 

Instead of sitting on the chair next to Aziraphale's, he'd decided to sit on his lap. Not that Aziraphale was complaining. Not at all, unless kissing him had counted as complaining, anyway. The thing was, just before he'd kissed him, Aziraphale had removed Crowley's sunglasses, which he'd been wearing not to shield his emotions, but his eyes, from the glaring sun. This was not an uncommon occurrence; Aziraphale frequently removed Crowley's glasses before they kissed, if Crowley didn't do so himself. 

But this time, when they'd broken apart, the glasses had been nowhere in sight. The garden was officially a crime scene-the sunglasses had disappeared under mysterious circumstances.

Aziraphale, former angel, was a key suspect in their sudden and mysterious disappearance. Given that he was of an unusual, unpredictable nature, Crowley had to resort to using a variety of investigation tactics. Tickles, first. This had only succeeded in getting them both breathless and slightly distracted. 

Time for a new tactic: holding his book hostage. 

"Crowley!" Aziraphale had whined. "Give it back, now!" 

Crowley wasn't about to crack under the pressure. "Nah," he'd responded, with a cheeky grin. "Not until you tell me where the hell my sunglasses are! These are my only pair nowadays!" 

Aziraphale had raised an eyebrow at him in response. "Can't you miracle up or buy a new pair?"

"Nuh. Not allowed that many miracles since having retired, and there are no shops around here selling sunglasses.

Aziraphale frowned. "It's a tad odd that they don't sell them around here." 

Crowley stared at him as though he lacked brain cells. Which perhaps, in his own way, he did. "We're in bloody England! What do you expect!? Give me my sunglasses back!"

"Give me my book back!" Aziraphale pouted. 

"Nuh-uh!"

"I swear, Crowley-!"

"You started this!"

Aziraphale took a deep breath. "You give me no other choice," he replied, his face stoic. A sudden rain cloud appeared over Crowley's head, soaking him in seconds. Crowley gasped. 

"You bastard!" he said, throwing the book onto the porch. "Come here, you little shit!"

"Absolutely not!"

That's how they ended up chasing each other around the garden.

Ten minutes later, and they had stopped. Right. Time for yet another interrogation tactic. "Angel," Crowley purred into Aziraphale's ear, "if you give me my sunglasses back, I'm sure we can find another way to...unwind." 

Aziraphale blushed. "I know you, you wily old serpent. You're trying to tempt me to get me to give them back," he said, pausing. "It might work."  

Finally! 

Crowley sat on his lap and started to kiss Aziraphale's neck. "My angel," he murmured. "Look at you, you're gorgeous. So pretty, so good." 

The perpetrator cracked. "Fine," he admitted. His breathing was heavy, yet he didn't even need to breathe. That's how his interrogator could tell he'd got him. "Check your plants." 

Crowley fell off Aziraphale's lap. "What?!" he exclaimed. 

"Check your plants," Aziraphale repeated, smiling now like the deviant, the criminal, that he was. 

"Angel!" Crowley shouted, with no real maliciousness in his voice.

Right there, on his prized sunflower, the tallest one, sat his sunglasses. They must have been miracled on while they were kissing. The worst part of all? He hadn't even noticed. The next investigation, he decided, was going to be a murder investigation.

Aziraphale bolted indoors, Crowley hot on his trail. Oh, he would pay for this...

"No kisses for the rest of the day? Crowley, that is so unfair!"

"That's your sentence. You must serve it."

After a bit of tempting on Aziraphale's part, he was bailed out of his cruel sentence in less than an hour, with a strict warning to not do that ever again. He didn't re-offend, so Crowley decided he was reformed. Good. Couldn't be dealing with all that.