#grounded!verse

[not-with-you-but-of-you]

Forgive me, Jess, please know that I tried To hold on to the days When you were mine

— requested by @emmafallsinlove

[cherrywhite]

Congratulations hayward and carpenter for doing absolutely nothing this episode. I think it's high time THEY get to be silly while other characters get to go through the worst experience of their lives. You know, as a treat

[demigod-of-the-agni]

"Brooklyn Visions: Telling YOU Your STORY"

I love how virtually every part of Miles' life reiterates to him that his life should only go a certain way. That he can't change destiny, that he can't save everyone, that he's better off following others, no matter how misguided or righteous they may be, that sacrifices are the lifeblood of Spider-Man. That his story is ultimately not his to control.

And as the movie progresses, he flips the script and takes control of his own destiny.

Isn't that what being a Spider-Man is all about?

[fiepige]

Don't even get me started on the way Miles and Hobie exchange looks when Hobie just said "Good" to being told by Jess that he wasn't helping.

That right there is a look of solidarity, Hobie's last way of telling Miles, I'm on your side, you're not in this alone. Which is what gives Miles the courage he needed to stand his ground towards Miguel!

Just look at the way Hobie's smiling and looking at Miles when he's finally standing his ground and calling Miguel out!

It only lasts a few seconds but it's just so important to me! Hobie truly had Miles' back the entire way!

[fictionadventurer]

Beauty and the Beast for the WIP game?

My only real attempt at writing poetry before this year happened during a stretch when I tried to write a Beauty and the Beast retelling in verse. I got about two-thirds of the way through before it fizzled out and languished forever unfinished.

When it comes to my recent novel-in-verse obsession, the simplest option would be to take another look at this work and try to finish it. There's a lot of terrible poetry in there, but there are some that are somewhat better than I remember. I can't claim to be a judge of what's good poetry, but some of these are readable, so I'll share some of them here.

The first set of semi-readable poems covers the first meetings between Beauty and the Beast. (These are all numbered, and I'm leaving the numbers in place to better differentiate between separate poems. I think the speaker in most of these is fairly clear from context, but just in case, I'll put the speaker's name in the title, too.)

VI. beauty and beast

he is every nightmare i’ve ever forgotten he is thunder and darkness and death he is fear with fangs he is beastly

she is every dream i’ve never dared for she is roses and sunlight and life she is hope with jewels she is beauty

*

VIII. beauty

the chair creaks when he sits

my knees quake when he speaks

the master laughs when i ask

when i will die

my ears doubt when i hear

my mind reels when i realize

the master wonders when i began

to think he’d kill me

IX. beast

the rules are these you are mistress of this castle the servants will obey your every whim the rooms and all within are yours including me

you will dine with me at dusk we will not speak if you want silence you will look at me and try not to scream

i will not harm a hair of your head i will not cause a moment’s worry you will do whatever you wish except leave

X. beauty

his mercy shatters my world makes it bigger and at the same time smaller

how can i live in a monster’s cage

my life will be long and lonely with him my friend and at the same time jailer

how can i look at a monster’s face

the castle teems with wonders that all belong to him and at the same time me

what do i do with a monster’s love

*

The next set of poems I feel like sharing starts with Beauty finding a portrait in the castle, and then leads into her sharing a dance with Beast that makes her kind of freak out over the fact that she might be falling in love.

XXII. beast

today you found a painting in a long-forgotten room covered in cobwebs and shrouded in dust

there was a reason it was lost

the portrait showed a man with a face like the dawn and eyes like the sea you thought he looked kind

he was young and a fool

you may keep it if you wish or lock it back in darkness it matters not to me i used to see him daily

i doubt i’ll see his face again

*

XXIV. beauty (and beast)

if rooms have souls the ballroom is wise a radiant beauty long past her prime

she treasures the days when she lived and was loved she keeps them and counts them like pearls on a string

(she is not the only one, my dear)

long past midnight in moonlight and hush this sleepwalking girl can glimpse former days

a flash of a gown and a whisper of waltz what glorious balls must this room have beheld

(they were marvelous indeed, my friend)

it seems a shame she grows old alone with nothing but darkness and dust held within

i would dance for her return the spark of life if only we had music and i had a partner

(i will gladly dance with you, my love)

XXV. beast

my dear beauty don’t you know i learned dancing long ago

one step closer take my hand with a waltz you’ll understand

let the music guide your feet in a dance that’s slow and sweet

hand in hand and heart to heart it’s not love but it’s a start

XXVI. beauty

he is hulking beastly

i am small delicate

i should be stumbling crushed

but

we marvelously miraculously dance

and it feels like flying

XXVII. beauty (to the portrait)

man on the wall i may be mad but i must give voice to the storm in my heart and you are the only one near

the master puzzles me i know his home as well as my own but i know so little about him

(is he beast or man or nightmare or dream or captor or friend)

i saw his face and thought him a beast

(but he grows roses and reads poems and has never killed or even raised his voice)

i heard his voice and thought him a monster

(but he spared my life gave me his home and all he owned offered his heart and never once has been anything but gentle)

i watched him dance and thought him a man

(with grace like an angel or a prince and i think that maybe he was not always so lonely and that his heart aches for things lost)

what am i to think do say be feel about him now

and why do these questions always come at midnight

*

The final poem is one that I had completely forgotten about, so I was shocked to find it lurking in the latter sections of the document and showing signs of using some decent imagery. By polishing up the last couple of lines, I've got something that's not half bad as a standalone poem.

This one occurs during an extended period when Beauty is still trying to process her feelings toward Beast and figure out if this is really love or if her feelings are being warped by isolation and close proximity.

XXX. beauty

if this is love it is a dark and grasping love a child stumbling in the night crying for a candle flame and cherishing the smallest spark of light

if this is love it is a bleak and desolate love a skeleton tree in a barren desert windbeaten and scrubbed to bone and bursting into bloom at the first drop of rain

if this is love it is a smoke and mirrors love a sleight of hand or trick of light that takes my broken heart and fools me into thinking he can make it whole

[remncntss]

just fell to my knees thinking about gwenmiles forehead touches post-fights where they’re breathless and exhausted and it’s not safe yet to take off their masks but they need that reassurance the other is okay. it’s a moment all to themselves

[sangled]

How would the human tadc au work? Like, the same in the pilot, they just look more human? Or is it like a whole different divergence?

pretty much the same, except instead of an entirely new digital form when you enter the circus, they're like costumes that stick to your human body! that's the design philosophy i went into it with, anyway.

[pompomegranate]

homesick

⇢ miguel o'hara x f!reader

⇢ warnings | angst. casual alcohol consumption. mentions of death and miguel’s past in atsv. descriptions of loneliness, depression, etc. shifts from miguel’s pov to your pov. note that this part is not 18+ but the next part will be. meet cute? but not really? let me know if you want to be tagged in part two – i won’t block minors/blank blogs for interacting with this part one, but will for part two! edit: i’ll be fleshing this out into a longer series. read more about this in the next chapter/on ao3!

⇢ a/n | on the anniversary of the worst day of his life, miguel o’hara meets you. you can tell he’s suffering, so you do your best to comfort him. strangely enough, the loneliest man in the universe opens up to you.

⇢ chapter one | chapter two | ao3

One night per year, Miguel allows himself a break. It’s barely even that.

He eats, sleeps, breathes heroism. It’s embedded in his DNA – but there’s a small part of him (a very, very microscopic part at that) that aches for freedom. Freedom from the burden that comes along with shouldering the weight of the entire universe.

It’s not a holiday, per se. For anyone else, it’s just another day, but for Miguel, it’s the only day that matters. This time, it falls on a Friday – last year, a Monday. A Saturday the year before that.

He doesn’t tell anyone he’s leaving – save for LYLA, the only one who’s even remotely allowed to get close.

…until you.

It's not your fault you happened to be in the right place at the right time on a day like any other. You weren’t expecting to meet anyone.

The drinks slide down easy, the casual conversations even easier, but you want some time to yourself, so you settle in on the balcony, drink in hand.

The setting sun is balmy and warm on your skin. As the night approaches, the city bustles, alive and breathing beneath you.

The balcony is surprisingly calm, quiet. The buzz of the city below drowned out by the smooth beats rattling the thick walls of the bar. it’s loud in there, it’s loud down there, but not here.

You exist in this sliver of space that feels unreal, almost dreamlike, like the stars aligned perfectly so that you could take a deep, settling breath.

If the universe were as loose as your favorite sweater cardigan, you’d be nestled in the microscopic gaps, a sanctuary between its threads. You give it your thanks by taking a little extra time to drink in the sunset. You’re content. 

And this place is where you find him.

Of all the places he could be, this seems like the last one he’d enjoy. He's stiff and unrelenting, his hard-ridged, tense body sucking the air right out of the sky as he peers down over the edge.

“Hey, want some company?” You’re hospitable as can be when you approach, still high off of the gorgeous atmosphere.

“No.” His response is immediate, the word, icy and biting, cuts through the air like a sharp blade. “Thanks.”

He says he wants to be alone, but… you sense his loneliness. He doesn’t need solitude, nor does he want it. But clearly, friendliness does nothing to crack his hard exterior.

You stay, elbows perched against the brick-lined balcony, the gentle summer wind caressing your exposed skin.

There’s barely three feet of space between you, but even then he’s a thousand miles away.

He hasn’t made a move to look at you; he hasn’t glanced your way once. Time keeps ticking, the sun slinking lower till golden hour envelops everything it touches, long brush strokes painting the city in its gilded warmth.

You’re nearly done with your drink. Is a refill worth it or should you just make your way home?

It should be an easy decision, but this chiseled stranger is anchoring you in place. You’re too curious to leave, but not nosy enough to prod.

“Apologies if I’ve made you uncomfortable,” he murmurs finally. “I won’t be here long.”

You shake your head, the movement catching his eye. He glances your way and you finally get a glimpse of his rich brown irises, a similar color to his disheveled hair, thoroughly raked through with his long fingers.

His brow is set, deep wrinkles framing his eyes like warning signs.

But… although everything else about him is intimidating, his eyes are not.

There’s a fire that burns in him, the flames threatening to lick your skin raw if you get too close, but his irises, sooty and morose, tell a different story.

You stamp away your nervousness, instead pulling from the little bit of courage you’ve gained from your curiosity.

“I’m not uncomfortable.” Stay.

His posture relaxes ever so slightly at your admission.

More time passes and it’s clear he’s reflecting. He can’t tear his eyes away from the street.

“You don’t seem like the type to take to strangers.”

A ghost of a smile and he turns to face you, finally.

“It’s easier this way.”

Something in the way he says it makes you want to embrace him.

He says it like there’s no other way, like he’s resigned to his fate. Like no one could ever possibly understand.

That doesn’t stop you from trying.

“It could be easy, though,” you start, taking a tentative step towards him. He doesn’t pull away.

“You don’t know me, I don’t know you,” you continue. “If you won’t judge me, I won’t judge you.”

You flash him your palms and shrug. “I promise I’m a good listener.”

“I’m not much of a talker.”

You shrug again, less animated this time. “There’s no harm in trying.”

He winces ever so slightly and a brief spark of something you don’t recognize flashes across his face.

“We could start with your name,” you say.

“Miguel,” he says, voice gravelly, almost unused. “O’Hara.”

“Miguel O’Hara,” you repeat back. “We’re getting somewhere.

––––

He doesn’t know why he told you his name. Of course, you wouldn’t know that he’s Spiderman, because this earth’s Spiderman hasn’t been bitten yet.

So, he’s safe – for now.

There’s a tiny part of him – buried deep – that wants to blurt it out. I’m Spiderman. I help people. It’s consumed my entire life. I’m a good guy.

Does it matter? If he told you the truth, you might not think so.

And similarly, any self-importance, any need for validation died inside of him when he lost her that day. Today.

He stares down at the paved road, soaks it in.

The parked cars and meandering bodies twisting between the spaces – careless sprints across the street to greet friends who linger in the lamplight. Beat up parking meters and camera phones flashing – idle chatter and the bliss of shared company.

Miguel soaks it in like he does every year, reliving the worst moment of his existence on repeat while the world keeps turning without him.

He can still feel the earth crumbling beneath his feet as he helplessly tried to outrun the inevitable – the demise that he brought upon himself.

She’s weightless and trembling in his hands, terrified and screaming for him – and then she’s gone.

One moment, she’s the center of his universe; the next, it’s as if she never existed.

One moment, he’s at the dinner table helping her with her homework, icing homemade cupcakes for her class party, bringing her to Saturday morning soccer games at the local park – and the next, the world he tried so desperately to fit into fades away into nothing.

Bound by fate, a finite end.

Miguel was never supposed to be happy. It wasn’t in the cards for him.

The universe proves it to him time and time again.

“So… Miguel. How are you? Really?”

He tears his gaze away from the ground and back to you again.

You watch him with a curiosity and care that he’s not used to. It’s been a long time since anyone paid attention to him like this.

Fuck it. Maybe it’s time for a change. A brief break in the neverending cycle.

----

sorry this is short !! i wanted to put out this part to see if anyone’s interested in being tagged in part two – which is going to include smut, and like i said in the a/n please have your age in bio! just comment below if so :-)

i’ll be putting this on ao3 tonight as well if you’d rather read it that way! likes/rbs/comments appreciated <3

[iwasbored777]

Everyone says that Gwen's terrible at making her crush's parents like her, when she was so nice and polite and friendly and all and it was Rio and Jeff who made the convo awkward, not Gwen. She was less nervous than Miles when she met them. Based on the circumstances she was shady from their pov but she was being really sweet to them, and she wasn't even pretending.

When she spoke to them at the end... Bold move. She didn't do it to make them less angry at her, on the contrary, she said it was her fault that their son is missing, and she did it so that they wouldn't blame it all entirely on Miles and would hopefully worry less if they knew that he's not alone.

[melien]

🩷💚

[julesdap]

thinking about how the rapture-and-bliss…… isn’t really hope. or maybe it is, but it’s hope corrupted, perverted. because it doesn’t give seb and dev hope, only fantasy. it’s escapism. that’s not what hope is, not the same hope that convinced hayward and paige to birth a god, not the same hope that makes carpenter work for a better world despite all her cynicism.

hope in its truest form is a driving, radicalizing force. what the man in the walls sells is the opposite. its victims literally live in a dream. it’s hope stripped of action. it’s forced optimism to the point of destructiveness. and it just drives home the point that no gods in this universe — the biggest metaphors for oppressive systems and capitalism and overconsumption — can take hold of anything good without corrupting it. because a god must feed.

[atopvisenyashill]

what if jacaerys velaryon was born a girl, would rhaenyra name her heir of the throne?

That would be up to Viserys at that point and it would be fun bc he’d finally have to clarify what the fuck he’s trying to do with the succession.

If he names a girl Jacaerys his heir before Rhaenyra has even attempted having a second child, there’s gonna be questions like “what are we dornish or something” that he’s going to have to deal with.

If he skips over Jacaerys and names Lucerys as Rhaenyra’s heir, people are probably going to ask “well why did you skip Jacaerys but not Rhaenyra?” and he’s going to have to have an answer besides “shut up.” - and his answer could be a lot of things tbh, bc “the king chooses his heir” is Not precedent you need to be setting while at the same time, “No female line can inherit ever” is an equally terrible and stupid precedent. he’s got free range to craft whatever the fuck rationale he wants and make it sound logical, bc look at jaehaerys & the doctrine of exceptionalism. he rode balerion ffs, these people will probably mostly fall in line if he has a maester draft a technicality rule!

I think especially if he skips Jace, names Luke, and then marries them to each other (huge risk if they’re still obviously harwin’s kids, btw), Alicent is just gonna be sitting there like “now wait a goddamn minute.”

If you’re sitting here thinking “both of those options sound like a mess” that’s because it is a mess :) “No female line can inherit” and Rhaenyra being named over Daemon cannot exist in the same world because according to GC 101, an uncle comes before a cousin and a male cousin comes before a daughter, every single goddamn time. Viserys doesn’t clarify his position here bc his position is “my brother is annoying as shit and i feel guilty that i left my daughter without a mother the way i was left without a mother” and that’s not like, a law, it’s a vibe. he then continues not clarifying after remarrying, having a son, AND naming that fucking son Aegon. But if Rhaenyra also has a firstborn daughter, it's not as easy for Viserys to just kinda "aw shucks" and mumble his way out of the room.

I also genuinely don't know what Rhaenyra would do. She's not fighting for absolute primogeniture (though she would have been in a better position if she had decided to fight for it). What she's fighting for is her father's right to name her as heir and her own right to be named as heir. It's about her situation specifically which was complicated when she was named and became more complicated after her brothers were born; there's precedent in story that someone can just name their heir and bypass the whole ~structure~ if there's not a clear line of inheritance, like Jeyne Arryn bypassing her first cousin (because he attempted to usurp her) for her fourth cousin (because he was loyal) and the Iron Throne backing up Jeyne's decision, and this is clearly how Rhaenyra is treating her own ascension. Rhaenyra is the exception the same way Targaryen incest is the exception to the Faith.

When the question of women inheriting over brothers comes up, she sides against absolute primogeniture because Corlys advises her to do so - and I like him but I am once again saying that Corlys is to blame for almost all of the dumb shit inheritance decisions that Rhaenyra makes, because Rhaenyra defaults to his "wisdom" as her advisor. Obviously Rhaenyra is incredibly short sighted in both placing too many unhatched eggs in Corlys' shit ass basket as well as treating her own ascension as somehow different than women inheriting over men, but you can kinda see the argument she's going for, she's just doing it badly (because she has bad advisors). She's saying her ascension was special because of the lack of heirs at the time and that you can't unname the Crown Princess, and she's very clearly backing away from setting any sort of precedent regarding literally anything else. She's amazingly similar to her father in that way; conflict averse but with a terrifying temper. And like I said up top, a girl Jacaerys forces both Rhaenyra and Viserys to finally look at the mess they, the Hightowers, and Jaehaerys made of the line of succession and fix it.

[aldoodles]

"You were not my first love, Stoick the Vast," said Valhallarama. "But you are my last..."

Stoick's tired eyes lit up. And then Valhallarama grinned, just like she must have grinned once, when she was a wild little girl.

[gedankenmoon]

This frame that the frames of spiderverse bot posted is so fucking funny to me

Top 10 Moments before a disaster

[epitomees]

"Listen...I may not be the best dad on the market, but...if you need someone to keep you company today, we could...maybe...go get ice cream?"

[cxptainthree]

Mancando Doloroso

It was his fifth, maybe sixth attempt at climbing the Spire.

The shooter in his hands felt weighty and unwieldy; he knew his way around a splattershot, sure, but this one was hard to manage. Every shot left him feeling drained.

"It's a part of their soul," Marina had supplied so helpfully when Sen confided the heaviness the weapon provided.

He didn't think Delta had had so much to weigh on them to make this sleek white shooter feel like lead in his hands. It made him feel...actually, he wasn't sure how to feel. So, he doubled down and didn't let himself dwell on it.

The floor ahead loomed, cast in harsh flourescent light; even from behind the bars of a silver cage, Sen could see his opponent waited on the opposite side of the room.

There were two to start, this time. The twentieth floor was never kind, the fragmentation more severe. It made Sen's chest ache. The cage dropped out from under him, and Pearl caught him without hesitation.

She rambled off something he wasn't listening to and must have realized his attention lie elsewhere because she fell silent halfway through her sentence. The unusual stop almost jerked Sen back to the present, but he was determined.

The first of the masked inklings dropped in, wielding a brush. Its shiny metal face flashed as it swung at Sen, red eyes faulting for a moment as they searched for where he'd dropped into his own ink.

Swiftly, Sen lunged up from the muted orange ink, grappling one-handedly with the opposing inkling. He stuck his foot out; they tripped over it, stumbling, and it gave Sen purchase to wrench the brush out of their hands.

"Delta," he said firmly, pulling the inkling out of the sickly black ink they were standing in and into his own. The masked inkling tilted their head, trying to shove him away.

"Stop," Sen pleaded, low voice insistent. "Delta, I want to help you."

The inkling shook their head, voice warped by the smooth metal mask on their face. The heavy ink coating their body wavered, damaged by Sen's own. The octoling squeezed their wrist, mouth ajar to say something else, when they fell apart into a puddle of ink that stuck to his palm and oozed between his fingers, into the white of his shoes.

Sen jolted back, returning his grip to the shooter in his hands. The weight of it made him want to cringe, as the second of his opponents finally caught up to him. The ex-agent didn't hesitate to strike the roller down; the expression on his face easily read as disturbed.

Pearl whizzed close to his ear, making Sen tilt his head to avoid the blades of the drone's propeller.

"Hey!" She bumped into his shoulder purposefully. "Eight, c'mon. Get your head in the game!"

Sen opened his mouth and shut it again, widening his stand. The next wave was starting. He had to get through to at least one of them.

A blaster-wielding copy of the inklings from before rushed him, it's shots popping in the space between them and spattering slick black ink across the empty ground. Sen had neglected to claim any turf between waves; he was paying for it now.

The blaster gave him no room to get in close, and Sen shot them down without a second thought. It didn't get any easier to watch them succumb to the onslaught and their body liquefy into an unrecognizable stain on the floor.

Sen peppered off a few shots, hiding the evidence of the kill. He rounded on the next - a slosher insistent on trying to cover as much ground as possible. The octoling gritted his beak, grinding his fangs together. He threw caution to the wind and rushed the slosher.

The cloying black ink sprayed over him, seeping through his armor and shattering some pieces of the holographic tech. Regardless, Sen got what he wanted; he raised his knee quickly, jostling the slosher out of his adversary's hands. It clattered uselessly to the ground.

The inkling paused and drew their hands to their chest. They ran.

"No!" Sen lunged after them, giving chase, but the inkling pitched over the side of the platform and into the endless abyss below. Sen went off the side after them.

His hand caught in the deployed handle Pearl had to offer, and with some difficulty, she righted him on the platform of the room again. The drone deployed a bomb, which bounced to the feet of an approaching brella. It got caught in the brella's shield and exploded, spraying orange ink into the face of another masked inkling.

That one pitched backward, sinking unceremoniously into a puddle of ink.

"Eight," Pearl's projected eyes narrowed. "What's going on? Come on, take care of this!"

Sen waved the drone off. He was running out of chances.

"I have to get one of them alone," he looked up at Pearl, who wavered in midair; she was unsure of where he was going with this.

Pearl tilted up in the direction of the enemy cage, already bringing along another brush. "You got it."

Sen nodded. The octoling was glad to have her support.

The brush was another bust; this one never even made it to him, caught in his ink. Briefly, Sen wished he hadn't invested in those poison ink chips, wanting to tear them right out of the palette if it meant he could get his hands on one of these masked inklings.

The roller gave him more trouble than he'd admit, tracking wide swaths of black ink across the floor that had Sen frustrated. He gunned them down out of impulse and moved on.

Pearl, to her credit, tried to get the blaster in a corner. Unfortunately, she lost track of them under a swarm of jelletons that the enemy drone deployed. Occupying herself as a sprinkler to try and cover ground, Pearl didn't notice the blaster until it had already fallen prey under a poorly-placed bomb. Sen watched the altercation out of the corner of his eye and resolved to forgive her botched effort.

He was down to the dualies and the shooter; the latter seemed to have perched at the top platform, watching Sen's desperate display from the safety of its ledge. He had no doubt they'd come down and face him when they were good and ready.

The dualies certainly were eager to take a shot at him, and their mobility gave Sen a real run for his money. He struggled to keep up.

The octoling frowned to himself, sidestepping as the inkling came rolling right past him. He lunged at them, knocking one dualie out of their hand and pushing them down on uninked ground.

Pearl hovered nearby, spinning nervous circles. The shooter-wielding inkling watched from above.

Sen pinned his target's chest under his hips, knee dug painfully into their wrist.

"Delta," he pleaded for what felt the dozenth time since he started this endeavor. "Please, I don't want to fight you."

He dropped his shooter aside. The absence of weight as it left his hands had Sen feeling more confident. His fingertips traced the edge of the inkling's mask, and they stopped struggling.

Sen's hearts sank in his chest. The seam of the mask was completely smooth, as if the shiny metal had been fused into their face.

"No," he mumbled, trying to dig his claws down. The inkling under him writhed as thin beads of black ink pushed up around his sharp nails. "No, no, no. Delta, please."

The inkling tried to kick him off, and Sen nearly let them. He tried again to pry up the mask, and it was starting to give. The octoling slid his fingertips under the edge as it rose. His mouth watered unpleasantly as more black ink oozed out from under the mask, frighteningly warm. It stuck to the inside of the mask as he pried it off.

There was nothing underneath. The inkling splattered into a puddle under his knees.

"Eight!" Pearl warned, deploying a suction bomb.

Instantly, Sen grabbed his shooter and rolled to the side. The enemy shooter had joined the fight with a massive splashdown.

Sen's vision blurred. He wanted to be sick. He didn't have time.

"Looking for me?" The inkling's voice warbled.

Sen got to his feet. The shooter was approaching casually; unsure, Sen's body tensed as he waited for the inevitable attack. It didn't come. Pearl puttered nervously nearby.

"Sen," the voice went on, as the inkling toed the line of Sen's orange ink. "Come here."

He shook his head and gripped tight on his shooter so much that he nearly squeezed the trigger on accident. A part of him wasn't sure if he was refusing the order or warning them not to step into his ink in its poisoned state.

The inkling pressed on, beginning to struggle through the ink towards Sen. It was clear they were taking damage.

"Delta," he breathed as the inkling adversary suddenly dropped their weapon. This had never happened before. Why now? "Please, let me - let me help you."

"Sen," Delta's voice skipped and pitched in weird ways, "Sen it hurts, please - make it stop - where's Gamma?"

Then sharp static cut through their voice, and Delta's head rolled to the side limply. They fell to their knees, silvery mask beginning to slide off their face. Tarlike ink oozed against it as the metal clattered to the floor, still connected by thick ropes of viscous ink.

Delta's body dropped limply to the floor. Sen sank to their side, weapon discarded; his hands pulled fistfuls of their blackened jacket into his grasp.

He begged, quietly, for them not to disappear; even if he knew that they'd fight again. He wouldn't be able to explain it to Gamma: that he'd failed, that he was going to fail again and again and again.

Over, and over, and over and over again.

Delta's body was quickly liquefying under his touch, a thin veneer of semi-transparent ink floating atop the thick black. Sen's stomach churned as he recognized it as blood.