#im posting it to ao3 later

[paintedcrows]

Some Fords! (and Martin K Blackwood is also there)

[umblrspectrum]

"smaller mass" you say

[s0fter-sin]

thinking about the way ghost doesn't hesitate to start killing shadows when graves betrays them but soap only takes one hostage

you can almost hear the voice in his head telling him it doesn't have to be this way; they can still talk it out

"i'm calling shepherd"

his first instinct when confronted with betrayal is to play it by the books: to go up the chain. that goes against everything we've seen him do. he bucks authority at every chance except for the one time he's confronted with the barrels of his allies' guns

he wants a peaceful resolution; for the first time we've ever seen, he doesn't want violence to be the answer. there has to be another fix, a solution that doesn't end with him killing the same men he's been working with; his friends

nothing's happened yet

it doesn't have to go this way

but ghost has been betrayed before. he knows the way this ends; either with him six feet under or his enemy

he doesn't hesitate

it's only when they knock alejandro out that soap shoots; when they spill the first blood and cross a line they can never come back from

only when ghost orders him to run and he has to cover his retreat

and somewhere along the line, between civilians’ screams and taunting voices, between his shaking breath and ghost steady in his ear, that naivety is stripped away; his trust turned to teeth that he uses to sink into throats of men he'd have given his life for

"be careful who you trust, sergeant; people you know can hurt you the most"

he's learned the price of trust

just like ghost did

but unlike ghost, he has someone to guide him through the aftermath

"good advice, It"

[rebornofstars]

really whats interesting to me is that if u stay involved in a fandom long enough u get an evolution of scrolling from: ooh! - ooh! - ooh! - OH i didn't realise this was a trope - ooh! - OH - ooh! - ooh!!

to smth more like: read that - read that - oh LOOK it's my mutual - omg that one looks SO GOOD i love the trope subversion - wrote that - read that - oh my friends have been screaming about this one - wrote that - oh LOOK it's my mutual - read that - FRESH MEAT LETS GO SAY HELLO and its

SO beautiful and joyous. being a member of a community is fun!!!!! being so familiar with a tiny corner of the internet is fascinating!!!!! seeing the connections between yourself and other people is crazy cool!!!! we're all here on the web page together!!!! i see you and i love you!!!!!!

[inkyrainstorms]

Martian Stan AU - Aftermath & Discovery

The Beginning (1), Aftermath (2) (here), The Journals (3)

Extra! (The Apology)

Ford didn’t know how long it took for him to pry himself off the floor, but it felt like hours later when he managed to trudge his way upstairs, eyes burning and throat raw. There was new blood on his knuckles, and Ford couldn’t remember if it was Stan’s or his own. He’d tried to scrub the blood off of the portal, but most of it had been too high and Ford was so tired.

He couldn’t fall asleep in the basement, he chanted to himself, again and again and again and it only occurred to him once he stood swaying at the top the of the stairs, that is didn’t actually… matter, anymore.

It didn’t matter what Bill did, or didn’t do.

The portal was broken beyond repair. His brother was dead.

The journal is gone. his mind whispered insidiously, and he couldn’t remember if he’d always been so cruel to himself, or if it was a byproduct of Bill. You got what you wanted, Sixer. How does it feel?

Ford hobbled to the bathroom as fast as he could manage, and hurled his guts out into the toilet. When all that came up was acrid bile, though, and Ford wondered idly when we he last ate. It didn’t matter.

None of it mattered, Ford decided firmly, hands clenched on either side of the porcelain bowl so hard that they looked bloodless in the harsh white light. It didn’t matter what he felt, or didn’t feel.

Not anymore.

The journal was gone. That was a good thing, it meant that the portal could never be rebuilt again. Stanley made an honorable… he. He’d made an honorable sacrifi—

Ford hunched over the toilet and heaved again. Nothing came out.

Impossibly, time kept moving.

Ford was left drifting in the current, from room to room, machine to first aid kit to paper to specimen to paper to circling the door of his lab again and again like an anxious sentry. He didn’t process any of it, and eventually, the door was the only thing left in the house that felt truly real. It was the only mystery left that Ford could pay any real mind to, and most of the time he wanted nothing more than burn the whole thing to the ground.

Sitting against the door, head leaned back and staring at the ceiling, Ford searched his mind for something. Anything.

A plan, a goal, fuck, he’d take the will to actually get out of the house and get groceries despite the constant chance of being watched at this rate. There was near nothing left to eat in the cabinets that wasn’t rank with age, and Ford knew he was wasting away like this.

But there was nothing. No part of him cared.

He knew he’d always had the wildest aspirations as a kid and as a young man, that he’d never stop reaching for bigger and better heights, but the light had blinded him with its promise, and now he’d fallen. He’d fallen so far.

He’d said Icarus didn’t flap hard enough, when Fiddleford tried to warn him of his own hubris all those weeks ago. Now he was just glad he wasn’t an English major, because it had taken him all of this just to realize that Icarus had found the sun, been embraced by the promise of warmth, and burned for it.

Trust no one.

Ford traced an idle finger against the freshly bandaged burn on the underside of his hand.

And no one should ever trust you.

…

The worst part, Ford thought to himself as he brewed another pot of coffee and searched for a clean mug, was the uncertainty of it all. There was a grief in loss, of course, but not knowing could be so much worse.

Stanley could still be alive out there, among the creatures of the Nightmare Realm, all alone. He could be dying. He could be dead. He could be sitting on the other side, waiting, hoping Ford could open the portal and bring him home—

Ford slammed down the sole clean  coffee cup he had left hard enough to startle himself, and then sighed.

He’d have to go clean up the remains of the portal, eventually. Before he fell asleep and Bill…

Ford poured out the coffee and leaned heavily against the counter as he took a sharp swig. It burned the whole way down. 

What did he have left that Bill wanted? What reason did Bill have to keep him around if his research was beyond saving, if he couldn’t be threatened or tortured into complying anymore?

The next time he fell asleep…

Ford didn’t know what’d happen to him, and despite everything, damnit, Ford didn’t want to die. He couldn’t let Bill win, couldn’t become another footnote in the history of the world because he was just another one of the poor schmucks who fell for Bill Cipher’s lies.

Taking another gulp of liquid courage, Ford pulled his coat tight around himself and marched to the door of his lab before he could talk himself out of it.

Forget not sleeping in the lab. Ford couldn’t sleep at all until he found a way to sever Bill from his mind for good. Project Mentem had been a bust last he’d checked, but it was worth another shot. What else hadn’t he tried? There was something… a protection spell? A charm?

Ford contemplated his options all the way down the stairs, one hand keeping him steady on the wall while the other held his mug. 

He still wasn’t sure exactly what he wanted yet, or what his next step was, but Ford could do this. He just had to secure his mind, like he’d planned, and then get rid of the blasted portal once and for all. Nothing had changed.

Nothing had changed. Nothing had changed. Nothing, nothing, except that Ford felt hollow where there must’ve once been something warm and vital in his chest. He didn’t know if he’d ever feel warm again. He didn’t deserve to.

Ford remembered a detail about sleep deprivation, as the elevator neared the basement level again and his heart dropped in time with the doors hissing open. Hallucinations were a common byproduct of the resulting sensory overload and exhaustion. They could take auditory or visual form, though visual hallucinations were a more common symptom by over 52%.

That was the only explanation he could conjure for the faint singing that echoed through the dark, cavernous sub-level before him. 

“It’s not real,” Ford whispered to himself, hands a vice around the coffee mug. He felt cold. “Auditory hallucinations are an expected and well documented symptom to experience in conditions less dire than these. Focus on your intellect, Stanford. Focus, focus, it is not real.”

For a long stretch of time, seconds, or perhaps minutes, Fords feet were glued to the floor of the elevator. No matter how hard he tried, no matter what he said or did, the singing, or the static, remained steady and quiet. 

It wouldn’t go away unless Ford made it. 

Finally, Ford forced himself to creep into the basement, and then the control room to set his mug down on the desk. The music was louder now, more distinct here than it had been before. Had Ford left a radio on down here? Was that it?

Holding his breath, Ford crept around the trashed room, checking behind spare sheets of metal that had been propped up against the walls, kneeling to look under the control panels, and then behind them too. All the while, the music droned on, buzzing and humming and settling under his skin like an itch. 

-any- wind blows—

It got louder as he neared the very back of the room, the words filtering through the humming static and becoming clear. Ford couldn’t deny it anymore. That was a voice. He shivered hard, jolting like ice had been pressed to the back of his neck, and hurried forward. 

-really matter to me… To me. 

There was a pile of debris, in the back of the control room, farthest from the door where he’d entered. Stanley must’ve crashed into it, when Ford and him had been… when he’d…

-just killed a man —a gun against his head…

Ford slowed his pace, staring down at the dented metal plates and machinery that had fallen loose in a heap on the floor, the stray wires and screws jutting out of the mess every which way. Slowly, Ford sank to his knees and pressed his aching palms onto the cool floor beneath him.

He could hear the singing now. Warbling, staticky. Familiar.

-Life had just begun, and now I’ve gone and thrown it all away.

Ford choked on his next inhale, thin and trembly as it was, and searched through the wreckage with wide eyes. 

There. Nestled between a dented panel with half its screws undone, and a jumble of wires and smaller panels of sheet metal, was the source of the sound. 

For a long, long moment, all Ford did was stare.

Oh mama… oh ohh oh. Didn’t mean to make you cry.

If I’m not back again this time tomorrow…

Ford’s hands trembled as he reached out, carefully prying the radio out of the scrap heap and holding it up in the dim light.

Carry on, carry on…

As if nothing really matters…

The voice faded out. Static.

Ford set the radio down on his lap, gently, as it would shatter into a million pieces otherwise, and pressed a trembling hand to his mouth.

“Stanley?” Ford choked out, and it was like trying to breathe glass. But he had to know, he had to, because— because…

He sat there, dully staring down at the radio Fiddleford had cobbled together months ago, when they’d still been in the implementations stage of the data and blueprints they’d collected, when the preliminary tests had begun. A device to send and collect waves and other information from beyond this dimension without actually opening a rift.

And here it was. In Fords hands, dented and scratched and still whole despite everything. Ford had turned his sights completely to the portal before the it’s completion, since Bill had deemed the entire endeavor a waste of time and energy and an ineffective outlet for his genius.

Fiddleford must’ve completed it, back when he was still just as enthralled in the project as Ford was. He missed his old friend, but Fiddleford was likely back home by now, in California to try and reconnect with his wife and child. As bitter as Ford was, he hoped Fiddleford was successful. His old friend deserved as much and more. 

There was no reply to Ford’s question, except, Ford brought the radio to his ear and strained to listen through the faint static. Was that… humming? 

Doo- doo doo, yeah, no poindexter, I‘m done, man. That’s the last song of the evening, I’m not paid for overtime. 

Moses, wish I were getting paid for this.

Ford jumped, wincing at the sudden burst of noise loud enough to make his ears ring, then processed what Stanley, because that had to be Stanley, had said.

“Stanley! Where are you? Are you in the Nightmare Realm? You must be… what sort of method did you find to transmit your signal? Are you al—“

But Stanley continued speaking as though he hadn’t heard him. A thrill of irritation  went through him. Was Stanley ignoring him? Was this some kind of petty revenge tactic?

When’d that song come out anyway? ‘75? 

He hummed.

Sounds about right.

Ford shook the radio and bit back a growl, before he remembered that the technology in his hands was damaged and sorely in need of a repair and upgrade, and loosened his grip again. He set it down in his lap.

“Stanley, I need you to take this seriously, please, for once.”

Wow, that song was everywhere back then, wasn’t it? I remember thinkin’ Ford probably liked it when it came out, wherever he was. The nerd was probably in college.

“Stanley?” he tried again, but he wasn’t expecting a reply anymore. Stanley soldiered on, rambling about everything and nothing and Ford could almost hear the smile in his voice if it didn’t sound so tired. 

Hell, where’d I first hear it? Must’ve been over at a gas station in… eh, Kansas? Somewhere over there, the big ol’ middle states. 

We sure aren’t in Kansas anymore.

Ahh, those were the times. Me, the open sky, and so, so much dirt in my hair. Seriously, where did the dirt come from. I roll around in one haystack and suddenly i’m fishing filth out of my hair a month later.

Stanley went quiet again, before he laughed. 

Aw man, I actually like this story. Buckle in folks, and I’m taking us back to that weirdly cold summer day in Kansas, where I had to steal 5 prized chickens. For some reason.

Look man, when someone pays you a hundred bucks and tells you he wants chickens, you don’t ask questions. 

Anyways, I’d been-“

For the past few… well, it had to have been days since Stanley fell through the portal by this point, if Fords state was anything to go off of, Ford’s mind had been eerily blank. He’d been a hollowed out shell of his former self, a ghost in his home and life that held onto the living plane by only the barest threads and pure spite.

It was like a switch had flipped. Ford’s fingers drummed on the outside of the radio as he forced himself to his feet, mind whirling at a hundred miles per hour and making calculations and theories and discarding some and contemplating others, and he was nearly jittering as he walked out of the control room entirely. He’d need to find a way to secure this side of the portal from Bills influence, recollect his journals, and then, he was bringing his brother home.

He stopped just before he got into the elevator and turned around to stare down the wrecked portal that loomed overhead. The once perfect inverted triangle, now ruined and warped nearly beyond recognition.

He grinned in a way that was more just like baring his teeth.

“You may be a god, Cipher, and you may think you can control me, but never forget. I am a scientist.”

The portal stood dead as it had been, but Ford didn’t care. He whirled around and stalked into the elevator. He felt more awake than he had in days. And he had research to collect and a demon to banish.

Stanley was still talking, as the elevator began to shudder and rise, and Ford’s adrenaline shot began to ever-so-slightly wane. Something about… attack pigeons?

-And when I finally think I’m in the clear, I duck around one of the hay bales and come face to face with, and I’m not kidding here, a cow wearing heavy duty armor, like a helmet and shit the guy in ‘Nam would wear. It even had holes for the ears!

There was a strange sound then, and Ford realized with a start that it was coming from him. He was laughing. It wasn’t even than funny, really, but something about Stan delivery made Ford wheeze. 

When was the last time he’d laughed? It must’ve been before this whole thing started, when he’d been with Fiddleford or B—

The laughter died in his throat. Oblivious to Fords inner turmoil, Stan kept on jabbering.

And there I was, 5 chickens smuggled into my coat and in my bag —and if you’ve never tried to carry 5 chickens, never do, it’s hard as hell and not worth it at all— staring down ol’ Bessie. 

And then, because this fucking farm couldn’t get any weirder, the cow started moo-ing like it was setting off a tornado siren, and all the other cows in the whole place started mooing in sync too. It was fucking terrifying man.

They must’ve been calling the attack pigeons, because those suckers came back, and they started dive-bombing my sorry ass, and really, that was when I reached my limit.

I dove into the hay bale like a damn football player going for the end line, and even though it was by far the itchiest thing to ever happen to me, it saved me from death-by pecking so I’ll take take it. 

The itchiest, of course, save for my stint in Albuquerque.

Ford could almost imagine Stan shaking his head as he paused again. With a start, he realized he was still smiling.

Just. Don’t try selling pillows in Albuquerque is all I’ll say.

Stan gave an audible shudder. 

So many feathers… And itch powder. The itch powder didn’t help. 

Ford couldn’t help the chuckle that slipped out of him at that.

Tags! (I’m sure I’m forgetting someone, pls tell me if you want to be on the list! Or just follow the tag that also works) @aroace-get-out-of-my-face @pleasantartisanhottea @littlelilliana15 @empressofsamoyeds @pinesfamilycatsau

Super Epic Secret Surprise!

[definitelynotshouting]

your half of the ransom

inspired by this post and scar's tweets about secret life :] i speedran this just in time for the first eps of the new season to drop!! as always likes and reblogs and especially comments in the tags are appreciated❤️ enjoy!!

Scar wakes to a field of sunflowers.

The sun itself is a swollen yolk bleeding gold at its edges when he blinks, cascading down from the horizon to melt over the earth with indiscriminate fervor. It dips the petals of each field-flower in honey, honing their silhouettes to supple knife-points— even the soil beneath him, packed firm from countless nights of sleep, has burnished to a fine, patinated bronze. In the amber of its rays stray pebbles transmute to pyrite, the subtle scrabble of roots to filigree, and caught in the open mouth of such gaudy resplendence, Scar digs an elbow into the dirt and hauls himself, reluctant, back to his own unsteady feet.

Even at full height the sunflowers still tower, blocking all signs of hearth and home. But the sun (popped, bleeding, all gored-out gold in the upturned belly of the sky) remains his guide— Scar picks his legs up in a faltering stumble to follow it before catching rough fingers against the stalk of a nearby sunflower. He flinches; this early, it's too easy to perceive each stalk as part of a swarm, a yellowed panoptic presence bearing down on the world-weary muscles of his shoulders.

Their seeds will need harvesting soon. Scar hums, a match-strike against unyielding silence, and casts his gaze back to the sun above to orient himself in the direction of his base.

Until they're ready, he has nowhere else to be.

Trader Scar's is too-empty for so comely a morning, a hollowed-out shell long rebuilt and bristling with more wares than he has those to sell them to. But it's a familiar charade— Scar slips into the back with a single sunflower clenched tight in his palm, bruising the petals and scratching against the insides of his fingers. He changes in rapid, efficient motions; last night's poncho is discarded over a nearby chest in exchange for a brighter one, yellow wool lovingly dyed; his hair is released from its tie, combed through, then braided again; the soft leather shoes he'd worn underneath the stars are left to clump by the doorway in favour of far-keener diamond. Worn in but undamaged, the crystal chimes without dents or scratches— there's nothing left to fight here, anymore.

When Scar steps back out to the front, a ghost is waiting patiently for him at the counter.

Or— the ghost of a ghost, if he's being generous. The outline of a shadow, the flicker of a distant mirage. "Oh," Scar says, and the word scrapes like rust from the well of his throat. He'd recognize those wings anywhere. "Well, hello there, Grian."

Grian's filmy outline says nothing. They never do, when the shades appear for a rare visit. The barrier between living and dead remains a clear divide, a gorge through which Scar cannot pass— all that's left between them now are the soft, faded echoes of what was, and what it could have been.

Still, in the year he's spent here, that's never deterred him from a potential sale. Scar props a hip up against the counter, eyeing the flickering shadow and mustering up his best imitation of an enthusiastic smile. "So what brings you out here to my neck of the woods? Looking for something to buy? Some fine goods to trade, perhaps? Man, I don't think I've seen you around in a dog's age. How about some catching up?"

The back of his neck prickles, electric; Grian's shade is a stygian blot in his vision, a fuzz of static that extends its presence from floor to ceiling. His ghost keeps his silence.

Scar tugs his smile wider, flashing two rows of bright, gleaming teeth in Grian's direction until the strain threatens to choke him. "No? Not even a little bone for ol' Scar? Well, tell you what, don't you go standing on su— se— oh, ceremony! Come in, come in! You make yourself at home, you know how I just love a visitor— how about I make us a drink to share and you tell me where in the world you've been, mister."

He doesn't bother waiting for a non-existent reply; instead, Scar swoops down to snag his fingers against the cupboard he'd installed within the counter months ago, fumbling with the latch before throwing its doors wide open with a gust of musty air. Inside, an eclectic mix of quite high-quality wares and some of Scar's own humble belongings tangle, speckled with cobwebs and the first faint stirrings of freshly disturbed dust.

Scar purses his lips, eyeing each item in turn. A nautilus shell here, a few scraps of wood there, some glass bottles, the handle of a ladle he'd cracked over six months back.... Squinting, he thrusts his hand deep into the mess, sweeping the items aside and shuffling new ones into view until— there!

Toward the back lies a dented iron kettle, brittle with disuse. Scar snaps forward, straining out his arm until the tips of two fingers meet the edge of its dusty wooden handle. With a grunt, he flicks it closer, wincing at the shrill scrape of iron on wood as it inches toward him.

SCAR.

It is not a voice. No mere voice can resonate a single word like that in his chest, trembling in his bones and drumming out from the chambers of his very heart. Like a ripple on the still surface of a lake, it rattles through him, scattering each thought to the far corners of his mind and stripping him raw, flaying open his ribs to splay beneath the scorching sun. The yelp that bubbles up to his lips flies past them unbidden, rocketing out with such force that he jolts, and rams his skull straight into the overhanging lip of the counter.

White-on-red sparks, a cherry-hot bolt of fire centered on his crown. "OW! Oh, oh my gosh, I-I— Grian?"

None of the shades haunting him and this server have spoken. They've never spoken. They've never— so why now, when he's made his peace with that—

Scar wets his lips, tongue dry as desert bone, and drags the kettle out of the cupboard with one quick yank. Clutching it to his chest, he rises back up on shaky feet, holding it up as if to ward off an incoming attack. Some shield; its hollow interior reverberates with a screech when he raps his knuckles against it. "Now— now hang on, mister, you can't just— you— oh my gosh, I-I think you just made my heart stop there for a second." A bracing breath. Two. "Y-You can't just shock a man in his own home like that! You...."

Scar trails off. The misty impression hovering on the other side of the counter remains impassive, impersonal— this is not the Grian he knows.

The Grian he knew.

Deep within the static writhe of his shade, the after-image burn of greyed-out eyes begin to squirm to the surface. Scar flicks his gaze back to the kettle with instinctive, long-honed deference, staring hard into the distorted lines of his own reflection.

YOU WON. Once again the words rip something vital in him, boil up through his veins to tear themselves, wet and coppery, on the limp meat of his tongue. Scar risks a peek up, lump hanging heavy in his throat; each syllable comes out as a squeak, threatening to crack the smooth silver of his voice.

"I— yep, I sure did! I sure did, and— thank you very much, for noticing! I, uh, I still don't know how I did that, what with— oh, you know how it is, with, with the, uh, the— friends situation, how that all panned out. Y'know, actually, I wonder if that's wh—"

The eyes blink at him, asynchronous and blank. Hollow. In the heartbeat it takes for them to train back on his own, a soul-wrenching wave of gooseflesh ripples up over Scar's arms.

He whirls himself away so fast his vision spins. "So, uh— tea! You like tea, right Grian?" Without ceremony Scar scrambles to the other side of the room, forcing the counter still between them, every nerve in his body winding tighter, tighter, kinetic energy in a bottle. "How about, um, a—" he rifles through a new cabinet, clumsy with frenzy�� "oh, shoot, now where did I put that— I've got some, uh, some dandelion root! Hand roasted by yours truly, of course. Not that anyone else could do it now, but— oh, oh, and look at the lavender, now that's just delicious, you've gotta try it, G, I know you'll just absolutely love it."

Silence. Scar's hand pauses, braced tight on the handle of the cabinet.

"Grian," he says, slow, quiet. Lets the words drift up, shining soap bubbles, to pop against the ceiling. "Why— what are you doing here?"

To his credit, Grian is direct. IT'S TIME.

Without permission, Scar's fingers tighten around the handle of the cabinet. "It's— what? Wait, wait—" He blinks. Does not turn around. "Time for what?"

Silence.

Scar licks his lips, worrying at the split still stinging at the right hand corner. "Time for what, Grian?"

The distinct pall of burning ozone scalds through the air. Tentatively, Scar shoots a glance back down into the kettle, peering at the distinct smudge still smearing the wall behind him. No eyes in its reflection; some of the tension riding in his shoulders loosens, slackens his tendons and begins to uncurl his fingers from the cabinet knob.

Without warning, a wash of ice wisps forward to numb the small of his back. COME HOME, Grian says simply. The words echo in the gap beneath his sternum, drag themselves up each vertebrae in his spine, and Scar freezes stiff, solid.

"This is home," Scar says, blank.

NO.

Some hot ember, banked countless months ago, sparks back to life in the pit of his stomach. "It is," he says, more firmly this time. "It's— that's it. You said it yourself: I won. And I did it fair and square, I'll say. I followed every rule, every task to the— to the nth degree, and... and now I, um." He falters. Grits his teeth until the molars ache. "I get to live with it."

But a sudden chill that has nothing to do with the shade behind him abruptly slips beneath his skin. Hesitantly, still clutching the kettle in one hand like a lifeline, Scar says belatedly: "... Right?"

Despite the sun nearing midday, the temperature around him plummets. NOT ANYMORE.

"Oh," Scar says. The metal surface of the kettles creaks as his second hand joins the first, digging nails into rust and grime. "I— again?"

YES.

"... And what if I don't want to do it again."

He does not phrase it as a question. They both know his answer.

Scar sucks in a sharp shock of air anyway, rattling the kettle against his chest and daubing a blotch of dust over the soft wool of his poncho. "Is—" he bites his lip— "will everyone... be there?"

YES.

Ah. Scar's eyes slip shut of their own accord; behind them, dozens of veins brim over, webs of blood welling up and spilling to slake a thirst so abyssal it could drink and drink for years without satiation.

"... Will you be there?"

For one long, nightmare-eternity, Grian does not reply. Then, a knife between his ribs: YES.

With slow, halting steps, Scar turns. "Okay," he breathes, and drags a hand over his eyes to cloak them both in darkness, and sags back until his skull knocks against the cabinet door with a dull, tender thunk. Each exhale emerges as a series of shaky puffs, damming up his lungs and swallowing all the air in his esophagus. Scar shudders, scrapes his bitten-down nails against iron, and breathes with the roiling of his gut. "... Okay."

When he opens his eyes again, Grian's ghost has vanished.

The spot it occupied is still frigid when he waves a trembling hand through it; Scar inhales, exhales, inhales again. Rinse and repeat, the perfect cycle, the mantra against extraneous thought. Then, solemn and deliberate, he holds the kettle out in front of him, trailing one wandering finger over its dents and bruises, tracing the paths between the known and the new.

"Guess I'll see you there," he tells it, and lifts its grubby handle up in absent toast.

High above, the bleeding sun strikes noon at last. Scar does not harvest the sunflowers.

[thesunisatangerine]

against all odds (to wait for you is all i can do) – part one

alexia putellas x photojournalist!reader

status: completed

(a/n in the tags) [parts: one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve]

word count: 1.1k

The thing was, you didn’t plan on getting laid tonight. 

After a couple of days trying to settle in at Barcelona and looking for your lost luggage, all you wanted to do was to finally start your vacation. You just wanted to relax and experiencing the night life in Barcelona was definitely a good way to officially kick it off. 

So there you were at the bar of an (apparently) exclusive night club in the city–the location was emailed to you by Derek with a VIP pass and a note that said, ‘have fun ;)’–nursing your second, half-empty glass of mojito, the speakers blasting rhythmic reggaeton music, when a woman slid into the space next to you, cool and confident with the way she leaned on her elbows against the counter as she gave the bartender her order in smooth spanish, “A gin rickey, please.”

The woman looked to be several years older than you–and taller, too, even with your heels on–and maybe it was the alcohol or the proximity but there was no stopping yourself from openly admiring her. Her black, cropped top and her tight, high-rise pants revealed perfectly broad shoulders and toned arms, as well as the taught lines of her stomach. When your eyes travelled back to her face, you found her looking at you with a raised brow and immediately, your cheeks warmed. The fact that you were gawking shamelessly and got caught doing so… just wow.

Words of apology were already on your tongue but the curves of her lips were mesmerising, the elegant slope of her brows distracting, and those eyes… the depth in them threatened to drown you that all coherent thought deserted you. 

“Wow,” you breathed out.

“Excuse me?” Came the bemused question, an instant slap to the face that sobered you up immediately. 

“I’m so–I’m sorry, that’s what I meant to say. I’m–” You palmed a hand over your face as you began but a small chuckle stopped you halfway. You risked a peek through your fingers and saw the woman with her lips to the glass, something akin to a teasing smirk on her face while she remained leaning on the counter by her hip. 

“You’re not from around here, are you?” The woman asked as she took a sip from her drink.

Not really the question you were expecting but you’d rather take a reprieve over a disaster. And at that, you smiled sheepishly at her. “Is it that obvious?”

“Hmm, no, not really. Your slight accent gave you away but your Spanish is impressive.”

“I’m still working on losing it but I’ll take that as a win. I’m assuming you’re from around here?”

“My home town is about an hour away outside of the city but I stay here most of the time for work.”

“That must be nice, being close to home.” Feeling more at ease now, you sipped at your drink. The woman did the same. Then you continued. “So, what do you do?”

For a moment there was nothing but music and chatter as the woman regarded you with an unreadable expression. Her eyes glinted–with what exactly? curiosity?–her head cocked slightly to the side. Then she sipped at her drink again. Did you say something offensive? you wondered.

“I work between the sport stadiums. And you? Where is home and what brings you to Barcelona?” 

It was clear from the vagueness of her answer that the stranger didn’t want to talk about her job and it didn’t help your growing interest for her. You wanted to ask her about further details but the dismissive tone with which she answered made you hold your tongue and her question, anyway, made you pause as you pondered to answer.

As an orphan who lived a few years in the system, the subject of where home was had always been a sore spot for you even if the stranger didn’t mean anything deeper by it. In some sense, your adoptive mom was home but there was always a part of you that longed for… something.  But, of course, you couldn’t bring that up right now especially to someone you just met. So you just told her where you were from, that you were on vacation, and that you work as a photojournalist for a press agency you helped establish. Something in your answer must had piqued the woman’s interest because her brows shot up.

“Which branch do you work in?”

“Spot news. But I’ve been meaning to expand my portfolio and get into another branch. Maybe try sports or portrait?”

The woman hummed in appreciation. “Any sports in particular? Wait, do you even like sports?”

“I honestly know close to nothing so I haven’t made a decision yet, but it will definitely be women’s sports,” you replied. She nodded and sipped at her drink again, never breaking her gaze from yours and you felt your cheeks warm again. Those eyes… they were dangerous; they lit up every nerve in your body and it felt good. You continued. “What about you? Are you much of a sports person?”

And to your total bafflement, the woman beamed at you, radiant and glowing, dimples in her cheeks as mirth shone in her eyes.

“What?” you asked, a bit nervous and at somewhat of a loss. 

The stranger let out a small chuckle, shook her head slightly as she rubbed the bridge of her nose, an attempt to hide her smile. “Nothing, nothing. And yeah, I’m a big sports fan. Then a beat passed before she continued, “you ever thought of covering women’s football? There are plenty of matches happening in the domestic leagues right now.”

“Maybe I will,” you hummed, mulling it over. It sounded good actually. And then you asked, “what else do you suggest for someone to do in Barcelona?”

The woman downed her remaining drink and placed the empty glass on the counter. Before you knew it, you could feel the warmth of her breath against your ear and you shivered when she purred. “Dance, of course.”And then she was holding your hand, pulling you off of the stool you were on, and began dragging you to the direction of the dance floor. 

All at once, warmth encompassed you: the crowd immediately swallowed you both, bodies pressed on you but the heat that emanated from the woman before you was the sole beacon for your attention. She had a loose arm around your waist and as the both of you danced to the music, you took that opportunity to wrap your arms around her neck and pulled her closer. She slowed down and she still had enough height on you that she had to lower her head.

“I never caught your name,” you spoke into her ear. 

“I’m Ale,” she replied. She pulled back to smile down at you. And then, she kissed you. 

[4lbon]

alex/lando, somno free use d/s

-

Lando only slightly slips into consciousness when the plug gets pulled out. It’s hard not to, so sudden, so intense, making him technically awake, but not yet aware of what’s happening. He gasps, maybe, he’s not sure. What happens next is a blur, brain not able to keep up with a quick succession of events: being pushed onto his stomach, sheets thrown off his body, Alex pressing inside in one quick thrust. He hasn’t even opened his eyes yet.

He moans, probably, instinctual and guttural and out of his control. Doesn’t really impact Alex at all, as he presses his torso against Lando’s bare back, hands on either side keeping him trapped pressed against the mattress. It’s good. Barely awake, it’s all warm and fuzzy still, as his eyes finally blink open, still crusty with sleep. It doesn’t change much. The lights are still off, and there’s not much to see when it’s all happening behind him. It’s the other senses that are overwhelming, the hot breath on the back of his neck, tiny little grunts that feel deafeningly loud in the otherwise quiet room. It’s good, it’s good, Alex deep inside him, each thrust into his prostate even dizzier than the last. Like he’s never been fucked before. Like his brain hasn’t woken up enough to remember what it’s like.

He whines when Alex leans up, away from him, to change the angle, hand pressed into the the back of his shoulders as he fucks in short, quicker thrusts, only making Lando feel more eager, more desperate, knowing what’s coming. 

He likes hearing Alex come, even when he can’t see it. A shaky groan, a hint of a whine, all as hot, warm come fills him up. Lando sighs into the sheets, as Alex keeps fucking him until he goes soft.

It’s a pendulum swing, of the euphoria of being filled up to being empty. It’s the first moment since waking up he’s been properly empty, and it aches and hurts and makes him suddenly aware of how hard his dick is, pressed against the mattress.

His subconscious whining has communicated what he needs clearly enough, when Alex presses the plug back in. He can hear himself, thank you thank you thank you, not present enough to feel control of his own words yet.

Alex’s weight shifts off the bed. Lando hates the absence immediately, panic dumping adrenaline in his system, eyes shooting open, desperate to get out the words he needs.

“Can I come?”

He can hear Alex stopping, contemplating. Each second waiting feels like torture, afraid to look over, like any movement could change his mind.

“Hump the bed.”

Alex doesn't wait, doesn't stick around to make sure he does it. Lando listens anyway.

[dirksawesomesprites]

WHY IS WRITING SO HARD

why cant i just stick to sprites why do i torture myself in 2 creative ways

damn me

falls to my knees

i wanna post sprite edits of my fanfics so bad hold me back hold me back hold me back hold me back hold me back hold me back hold me back hold me back hold me back hold me back hold me back hold me back hold me back hold me back hold me back hold me back hold me back hold me back hold me back hold me back hold me back hold me back

[coffeesleep-ooc]

SQQ transmigrated early...or did he?

Shen Qingqiu was anxiously vibrating. This disciple selection was not just any selection, it was THE disciple selection.

He had prepared for this since he first transmigrated!

Then, why was this happening???

"What do you mean that Luo Binghe doesn’t exist???? What is PIDW without the protagonist?!"

Shen Qingqiu scanned the njmerous children digging holes with a focus that could rival a doctor in a delicate operation. He still could not find anything.

[System is analizing data, please stand by.]

"Useless piece of-!"

"Qingqiu-shidi, is everything sll right?"

Shen Qingqiu quickly raised his fan to hide his (enraged? Scared? Completely barking mad???) expression.

"There is nothing, Zhangmen-shixiong. This shidi was merely wondering if his peak will remain with its current number of disciples."

Nothing his ass! He was at the disciple selection. He had a young Ning Yingying, wide-eyed and begging for a new shidi. He had all the intentions of stretching his ooc lock to his limits.

But he had no protagonist!!! What the fuck?!

Shang Qinghua was pale and sneaking glances at him all the while, but honestly Shen Qingqiu was too busy having a crisis over here to care.

[System has finished analysis. System has found no inconsistencies.]

"The-! How can there be no protagonist in this scene and still no inconsistencies??? Tell me what good is your analysis if you can't say why!"

[System has encountered temporal threads that explain the protagonist’s absence from this introductory scene. Does user wish to reveal data?]

"Temporal threads...?"

Wait, is that like time travel?

Shit. Damn. He was in such trouble.

"Reveal data then! I need to know the size of the problem."

[WARNING! Temporal thread may unravel hidden information and displacements may occur if data is revealed!

Does user still wish to proceed?]

From the side, Liu Qingge gave him a concerned glance. Yue Qingyuan was already subtly moving towards Mu Qingfang.

Shang Qinghua was biting his nails from the stress.

But Shen Qingqiu noticed none of this.

"What?! What does that even mean???

[User's hidden information and mental displacement may occur. Do you wish to proceed?]

"Hidden information? Of course i would like to see that! But what is mental dis-"

[Downloading temporal threads data!]

Shen Qingqiu got a headache.

Then he got nausea.

He raised his fan higher to hide how affected he was. Maybe it hadnt been such a good idea to ask the system for that info when he was stabding in the middle of an important sect-wide event.

[ERROR!!! PROTAGONIST STATUS HAS OVERRIDEN SYSTEM'S DOWNLOAD!

Retry?]

The nausea intensified.

With a tremendous amount of willpower, Shen Qingqiu breathed in and out once, before willing the yes button to click.

[Downloading temporal threads data!

ERROR!!! PROTAGONIST STATUS HAS OVERRIDEN SYSTEM'S DOWNLOAD!

Retry?]

What was happening with this thing???

"As many times as necessary!"

Oh shit. His head.

His eyes got blurry with tears of pain while the system tried once and twice and ten times.

[Downlowad successful! Installing complete!]

Shen Qingqiu’s knees buckled.

He fell.

The other peak lords cried out in alarm.

But he didn't hear them. He didn't see them.

He was seeing a future, another and another...several futures in which Luo Binghe came back from the abyss, imprisoned him, tried to reason with him, and failed to save him from differentways of death. Then, his blackened lotus lost himself , and in hid madness, tried turn back, turn back, turn back...

He emptied the contents of his stomach as he physically and emotionally felt his self-destruction, his throat being slit by Lao Gongzhu, his body being eroded under Xin Mo's poisonous power, his body being burnt by acid in the water prison, rotting under the sower's influence. His body being impaled and his organs pierced by something big and -!!!

He was too busy regaining memory after memory after memory to realize he was convulsing and bleeding from his seven orifices. He couldn't hear how Shang Qinghua mumbled to himself or how most of his martial siblings were screaming or talking in various levels of volume, he couldn’t see their white faces, the healer's serious and frightened visage, or Shang Qinghua's round round eyes as he (seemingly) stared into space. He couldn't feel Yue Qingyuan's trembling fingers as he pulled his hair away from his face, or Mu Qingfang's cool qi trying to stabilise the rampaging energy insie him.

He remembered, finally, a soft smile in his disciple's face.

"It seems that my existence only brings pain to Shizun, if i erase it, maybe Shizun will live happily in peace?"

Shen Qingqiu gasped. Tears mixing with blood on his face as he understood finally why Luo Binghe was not here.

He never was.

Shen Qingqiu closed his eyes, and then everything went dark.

[tired-demonspawn]

The morning after and the mornings after that chapter 2!

this time Stone's pov of the situation :)

https://archiveofourown.org/works/65457025/chapters/168656947

i would say halfway there but unfortunately that metric only applies in terms of the release schedule.

in terms of wordcount we are, give or take, 1/3 done.

[azumasoroshi]

some of yall gotta lock tf in cuz i was reading a fic today where the author marked their fic as completed when it wasn’t and so the first chapter ended on a hella cliffhanger

and one of the comments was like “omg this is so good is there gonna be a part 2??? cuz that is an illegal cliffhanger” and the author was like “omg yes thank you there’ll be a part 2!! i only marked it as completed because people avoid unfinished fics”

like. should you not mark unfinished fics as completed? yeah no dont do that. should yall motherfuckers ALSO be reading unfinished fics so that this isn’t a problem? YEAHHHHH MAYBE

i fucking LOVE reading unfinished fics cuz that means i get to write comments about how much i loved the latest chapter without irrationally worrying that something i say will be disproven in the next already existing chapter LMFAO like it’s fun!!! all you gotta do is:

write a short summary of what happened in your bookmarks and note down what chapter it’s on out of how many, eg. gojo gets hit with suguru coffee blast meet cute 1/?

if it’s really short atm eg. <2k words 1 chapter, just put like some random word eg. explosion 1/? and you can just relive the experience blindly again when you come back to enjoy it. have fun with this one by the way, ive done some really obscure ass words/memes where i dont know what the hell they have to do with the story when i come back to it and then i read it again and im like OHHH I GET IT NOW. and sometimes i never understand what past me had in mind when writing it which is really funny it’s like a time capsule

^pro tip you can also do this for fics that are finished. literally anything. have FUN with your BOOKMARKS they’re so easily customizable and if you get self conscious you can always just make them private lol

subscribe OR just periodically scroll through your bookmarks OR mark it for later OR use original tags to mark it as unfinished or like. literally anything idfk

if you feel like being a real chad and leaving a comment it’s super easy too you can just be like omg love x scene that happened in this chapter it was so angsty/cute/crazy/unexpected/insert adjective and i loved it/im rolling on the floor/im dying/im in the ambulance, cant wait for next chapter xoxo heart emoji like it’s THAAAT easy. said by someone with dogshit social anxiety and a tendency to overthink every action ive ever made, IT’S THAT EASY!!

and like. boom. that’s it. you get new content from fics you love delivered straight to your door!! hello??? even if they never update again are you really gonna mourn the loss of like 10 seconds of your time. cmon you’re already on ao3 for hours at a time like. lock INNNNNNN

me personally i get so much fuckin shit in my emails that i can’t turn off notifs for. so when i get a notification that some fic i dont even remember updated i get hyped as SHIT because finally some good fucking FOOD!! even if i dont remember it right now i must’ve liked it enough to subscribe to it and i know my taste better than anyone else so it must be good shit lmfao…and if it’s a fic i REMEMBER then it’s like YEAHHHHH BABY. do you even comprehend how many times ive checked my phone at the bus stop and gotten a notif from either a fic or author i’ve subscribed to and just. instantly start grinning like a maniac because YESSSSSSS

can personally attest that this has happened multiple times from ao3 user hollow_lime_green (Hanatamago) and many other authors. do ittt. brighten up your day. pspspspsp do itttttttttt

[lighthouseshepard]

writing idea - john gets considerably injured and doesn't tell arthur cause he thinks arthur would judge him cause "arthurs had so much worse happen and he just got back up" and arthurs like "dude you've had a human body for like two weeks i would expect you to not be used to pain" and its like a stereotypical hiding injury thing you know

HI HI thanks for this!! again i tried to keep it under 1k but. it ended up... 4.3k.....

heres a mostly unedited first draft i might play around with more later!! (: not so much a considerable injury but this is where my brain went anyways!

As John takes the stairs up to their small apartment building, Arthur in tow with one arm wrapped loosely around his just behind him, he stumbles.

It’s a quick, clean slip of his left ankle, rolling outward at an unnatural angle just as he reaches the last step. The movement itself would have been almost unnoticeable if not for the sharp stab of pain which accompanied it, a searing pressure radiating outwards in undulating bursts. He hisses under his breath, hurriedly letting Arthur go so as not to accidentally drag him down too, and tries to casually play off the lurch.

“Sorry,” he says quickly, righting himself. Immediately he bangs it against the cement edge, eliciting another silent wince he’s immensely grateful Arthur isn’t privy to. “Lost my footing, I guess.”

Arthur hums, instinctively reaching out for John’s guidance and huffing when none was received. Cautiously he takes the remaining steps, coming to stand just beside John at the top before the door.

“It’s alright, John,” he replies, head tilted in his direction. “Thanks for not pulling me down with you.”

His smile begins to fade after a moment of silence in which John stares dizzily at his own feet, struggling to control his breathing. “You okay?”

“I’m fine,” comes the hasty retort. “I just… hit it on the stone, I think.”

His brow furrows. “Hit what?”

“My ankle,” John growls, blinking away spots of light dancing across his vision. In the dying sunlight they blended in amongst the cloudless sky, shimmering specks deceptively working to trip him up again as they wavered in front of him. As soon as the words leave his lips he regrets them. 

“I mean,” he clarifies, “I barely knocked it. Nothing to worry over.”

“Oh.” Arthur frowns, searching for John’s hand in the middle distance between them. “Do you want me to take a - well, not a look, but perhaps we could patch it up? Is it bleeding?”

“No.” John pushes slightly past him, fidgeting for keys in his pocket. Arthur’s arm is left hanging at his side, fingers lightly clenched. “I said it’s fine, Arthur. Can we drop it?”

“Okay,” Arthur mutters exasperatedly under his breath, following him hesitantly inside once the door is unlocked. “Whatever you say.”

John all but limps his way into the front hall. If the shuffle makes a noticeable sound against the faded rug he attempts to ignore it, desperately gritting his teeth. With each shift of his leg the throbbing increased, sending burning jolts of agony up through his foot. Beads of cool sweat were breaking out on his temples. Irritably he wipes them away, squinting into the living room through the haze of pain clouding the forefront of his mind.

“Stupid fucking ankle,” he mumbles.

 “What was that?” Arthur calls from behind him. John struggles to turn, one flattened palm braced against the wall. He watches as Arthur unwinds the scarf from around his neck, smoothly kicking off his shoes into the corner. Shoes that he, too, needed to probably remove if bending down didn’t seem like a far impossibility.

But he doesn’t answer. Instead he slowly twists back around, hobbling towards the promise of relief found in the couch awaiting him.

“John? Did you hear me?”

His eyes shut tightly as soon as he sinks into the cushions. The pain refuses to dull despite the lack of pressure once he sits, if anything only growing stronger when he attempts to prop it up on the coffee table, as though gravity were relentlessly trying to tug it down again for his own good. He groans, the noise pulled unbidden from his throat, and hastily covers it up with an aimless cough he feels as a weak imitation of one in his chest.

“John,” he hears a second time. Arthur’s voice is closer now, somewhere directly to his left. Although he turns his head in acknowledgement, his eyelids remain closed, brow furrowed. 

“What? I heard you.”

He could practically sense the crossed arms. 

“What’s going on?” Arthur asks, his tone firm. “Why are you sitting like someone threw you there and you don’t know how to get up?”

“How do you know that?"

"Lucky guess."

"Nothing’s going on. I’m… comfortable.”

“Really? You don’t sound like it.”

“I said it’s nothing,” John snaps. The wince which pulls his lips taut lessens any blow he’d intended within his retort. “I’m just tired, that’s all.”

“I thought you hit your ankle on the steps?” Arthur says thinly, stepping closer. “So which is it?”

It never ceased to irritate and amaze, Arthur’s ability to weasel the truth out of him. Back when he’d just been a voice behind those deep amber eyes it was magnificently easier to conceal the truth, hiding himself in falsehoods he had ample time to conjure up while Arthur slept or moved about the world amongst others, unable to talk to him. He hadn’t been bound to a body which would betray him at the slightest inconvenience: all his emotions, he felt, were visible on his face and in the lines of his silhouette all the time. Being given away by the twitch of his mouth or the hesitancy in one look of his eyes was maddening. He couldn’t control it, hadn’t yet mastered the subtle art of physical deception. He had no reason to, he knew, but it continued to bother him regardless, being so visibly and openly seen by everyone around him. Every thought was laid bare, ripe for someone else to pluck.

These visual cues didn’t apply to Arthur, of course, but it didn’t need to. It didn’t matter when it came to him. He could sense each ripple of truths withheld in John’s voice as though they were tangible vibrations running beneath his fingers, plucking incorrect notes from a string of music. Whether this was a skill gained through time or familiarity, he didn’t want to ask. Perhaps he’d just had plenty of practice, before John came along.

“It’s… both,” he says lamely, eyes flicking open to watch as Arthur shifts from one foot to the other impatiently. “Stop looking at me like that.”

“Like what?” he exclaims, a frustrated scoff behind his words. “I’m not even looking at you. I can’t.”

“Like you know exactly what I’m thinking,” John presses, willing himself not to wither beneath that sightless gaze. Like a parent, he thinks to himself, who’s just caught someone doing something they shouldn’t.

“Maybe I do.” Arthur comes to stand beside him, bumping up against the edge of the couch. “Maybe I’m just trying to help, you donkey. What is going on with you?”

“It’s-” he begins to say, but he’s quickly cut off.

“Don’t tell me it’s nothing. You’ve been like this all day: grumpy, antagonistic, walking… very oddly. Did you not sleep very well?”

“I slept fine,” John mutters. “How could you possibly know I was walking strangely?”

“Ah, so he admits something!” Arthur says with a scoff. “I can feel it along your arm when I’m holding onto you. The movement of your gait is different from anyone else - Noel, Oscar, even Marie. Your footsteps all sound unique, too. If I didn’t know any better I’d say you were trying not to limp.”

The silence stretches. John breathes in shallowly, as if the quieter he became, the more likely he was to become invisible.

“John?” Arthur asks uncertainly. “Have you been limping all day?”

“I… not all day, Arthur.”

He sighs, a ragged exhale. “Jesus fucking Christ, John, I knew it!” he says, throwing his arms up. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

John tries to prop himself farther up on the couch cushions, sliding the dead weight of his leg along the coffee table. “Because it’s not important, Arthur,” he protests angrily. “It’s just a - a sprained ankle or something! Noel says it happens to people all the time.”

“You told Noel?” Arthur’s demeanor shifts, and John can’t quite place where it was going. “Is that who you hung up on over the telephone yesterday, when I walked in?”

“I - yes, I told Noel,” John says, glancing away. “I didn’t want to… I mean, I wouldn’t-”

“But you didn’t tell me,” Arthur states, frowning. “I don’t understand, John.”

“Because I didn’t want to bother you with it, alright? Jesus fuck, Arthur! It’s just a little bit of pain!”

His shout rebounds around the living room, echoing along corners and twisting through the dark. Once it dissipates, all that nervous, fearful energy fading into thin air, John realizes the sun had already set. In the shadow of the singular lamp they’d kept on after they left earlier that day, Arthur looked smaller than John had ever seen him previously - socked feet, soft button down shirt untucked, shoulders slumped while his head was turned away from John’s direction.

Hurt, he understood after a solid minute of nothing spoken. There was hurt on his face.

“Arthur,” he says hastily, backtracking. “I didn’t…”

But Arthur was already interrupting.

“Is it bleeding?” he asks flatly. “From where you knocked it as we were coming in.”

John’s eyes widen. “What? No, no, like I said it’s probably just a sprain.”

“Don’t get up.”

“I wasn’t. Where are you going?”

He watches helplessly as Arthur begins to trod across the living room to the hallway just behind them. His left hand searches for the wall, brushing against it occasionally as he vanishes around the corner, the thin lines of his silhouette blending into the darkness. John waits with gritted teeth, listening to the faint but unmistakable sound of a drawer opening in the bathroom, before he’s rejoined in the living room.

“Give me your foot,” Arthur instructs. He comes around on the opposite side, taking a careful seat on the table in front of the couch. “Which one is it?”

“It’s… it’s this one,” John stutters, glancing at the little white box he’d placed between them. “What is that?”

“First aid kit. Came with the apartment, I think. Never thought I’d have to use it.”

There’s a bite to his tone which causes something in John to cower. Panicking at the unfamiliarity of the uneasy feeling, he thinks immediately to fight back against it. Yet no manipulation tactic in his mental catalog nor no insult he’d ever learned from Arthur was readily able to be wielded. He stares, unsettlingly dispirited, at Arthur’s hands while he begins to search through random items in the kit.

“Arthur.”

“Put your leg on my knees, John,” he says. He’s facing away, still wholly focused on determining which items were what through sensation alone. The subtle surprise when John does as asked without further complaint doesn’t go unnoticed.

“Oh. Thank you. Now tell me where it hurts.”

Stretching over as much as he was able, halfway balanced on the edge of the cushions and held now partially up by Arthur’s own legs, John indicates with one pointed finger. 

“Here,” he says, lightly touching the far side of his ankle. “Move your hand just - just there.”

As slender fingers come into contact with the swollen skin, John hisses. Arthur moves as if to draw back, but after some hesitation makes a second attempt with a touch so gentle John hardly senses the wandering examination at all.

“It’s swollen, John,” Arthur says, staring into the middle distance as he feels along the reddened skin. “You’re going to have to take your shoes off.”

“I know it’s swollen,” he grinds out, “I can feel it.”

Immediately he regrets the display of aggravation. Eyes flick worriedly to Arthur’s face, searching for any kind of reaction there, but he may as well have been surveying a blank canvas.

“I think we should try ice,” is all he says. “Before attempting any kind of compression. Wait here.”

“It’s not like I could go anywhere,” he mumbles beneath his breath as Arthur leaves him for the second time. “I’m not running a fucking race on this thing.”

When he returns, grasping a cloth wrapped bundle, John studies him curiously. Nervous muscles stiffen in preparation for another round of sharp throbbing; but as Arthur sits again opposite him, the grip which guides his foot is somehow even kinder than before, cradling the injury into position across his knees.

“Let me take your shoe off,” he murmurs. “I’ll be quick.”

"I’d rather you didn’t,” John protests. “Can’t we just - God, Arthur!”

No apology is forthcoming. It’s palpable in the tension of Arthur’s fingers regardless, the unhappy twist of his mouth. He fumbles the laces undone with one hand and slips the shoe off, dropping it unceremoniously to the floor. One black sock follows. The hem of his trousers is rolled back up to his calf, delicately smoothed along by a soothing touch.

The introduction of cold is almost worse than the prodding he’d just undergone. John jolts as the cloth touches his skin. A pang similar to shattered glass ricochets across his foot and he has to bite his tongue to keep from shouting. Arthur holds him steady, other hand firm on his calf, bent over the injury.

“Easy,” he says quietly. “It’ll hurt for a minute or two, but this will help to numb some of the pain and swelling.”

“Numb?” John gasps, “or worsen? What even is that?”

Arthur readjusts the bundle. “Peas wrapped in a washcloth. You should know, you bought all the groceries last.”

“Why the hell would I buy peas? They’re repulsive.”

“Well I didn’t, and we don’t have ice in right now, so it’ll have to do.”

True to his word, after some uncomfortable minutes of silence, the throbbing begins to lessen. John sinks back in relief, a sweet dullness overtaking pain receptors which had not let up on their constant alarm for what seemed like eons now. Thoughts broken up by the unrelenting ache finally begin to clear. From behind the haze he sighs, tilting his chin up towards the ceiling. Long hair spills over the back of the cushions.

“That’s… much better,” he says weakly. “Thank you.”

“I imagine it is, yes… John?”

“Yes?” he answers, anticipation sitting nauseatingly in his gut. “What?”

“Why didn’t you tell me you hurt your ankle?”

In the low light he steals a glance over. His vision was better than most - better than Arthur’s, when he had been able to see out of his eyes. Things came across with astonishing clarity, even when there was little illumination to help refine the world around him. John narrows in on the long pink scar across Arthur’s throat, an indelicate reminder of the Dreamlands, the incomprehensible weight of that last stand reduced to one single, jagged divide. His torn ear hid neatly enough behind reddish gold curls, but the mark across his face where those dangerous sands had scraped away the skin there was not so easy to miss. 

In the break between their conversation he rolled up his shirtsleeves and there too John could spot scars, dots and lines of invisible constellations, healed but not forgotten. The wooden pinky finger taps his ankle as he shifts the peas. John’s pinky, he thought. Or, it had been.

Everything about Arthur was a testament to some horror he’d survived, that they had survived together. And John, in this new body, had nothing to show for it.

“John?” Arthur asks. “Are you okay?”

“No, I’m not okay,” he argues. “It hurts.”

“Is this helping at all? We can always wrap it afterward. Hopefully it won’t need to be seen by anyone.”

There’s concern in his voice, so genuine despite the way he’d just been treated that something snaps just around John’s lungs, a sharp, bitter pull. Whatever he had been about to say dies under his tongue. Nothing comes out, although his lips part for several seconds.

“John?”

His restraint falters.

“I’m sorry, Arthur.” 

“...What?”

“I’m sorry,” he says, yanking the words agonizingly out. “It wasn’t my intention to lie to you from the start, I - I didn’t know how to tell you.”

“Tell me what, John?” comes the baffled prompt. “That you injured yourself?”

“Yes,” he emphasizes. “I don’t even remember how I did it, I guess I just… stepped incorrectly? Tripped over something? I don’t fucking know, Arthur, and it’s so goddamned stupid. I can’t even control my own two legs! How am I going to keep existing in this body if I break under the slightest influence? It’s not like you get hung up over a fucking sprain, or don’t bounce back from a coma, or a car crash, or-”

“Hang on, John, wait,” Arthur interrupts. “Is that what this is about? Me?”

“Yes! No. I don’t know, Arthur. A bit of both?”

Frustration boils beneath his skin, hot and shimmering. The corners of his eyes prickle but he doesn’t move up to rub at the sting coiled there, waiting for release.

“You don’t let anything stop you,” he says, the living room blurring. “Gunshot wounds to the chest, electrocution, multiple stabbings, so many falls I’ve lost count-”

“Technically the gunshot would have killed me if not for the wraith, " Arthur offers feebly, but John doesn’t seem to hear him.

“Not even getting gutted through inside those mines in Addison! Not even my shitty job of sewing you back up.” He swallows, breathing heavily. “You’re practically fucking invincible, and meanwhile I take one wrong step and I’m incapacitated for days, can’t even take a stroll with you down the street, can’t carry you up to bed when you’ve fallen asleep on the sofa.”

Tears were flowing now, trickling in trails of shame down flushed cheeks. “It’s ridiculous. I witnessed you wade through literal nightmares, Arthur, and you did it without losing yourself. You still managed to laugh where you could, to have hope, and-”

The thought was running swiftly away from him. He twists sideways as far as he could, facing the other side of the room, held in place only by his ankle. Again wishing to disappear, again wanting to crawl back inside Arthur’s head where it was safe.

It takes Arthur far too long to respond. For some time nothing moves in their midst, save for the rapid rise and fall of John’s chest, the hitched cadence of his breathing. Eventually Arthur shifts. John listens to his clothes rustle and wonders when the floor would swallow him whole.

“John?” Arthur says softly. 

His jaw clenches. “What.”

“Look at me.”

Sniffing, he turns. The hand not keeping the frozen vegetables on his foot coaxes his chin up and over. Arthur’s touch doesn’t linger, giving him ample space. John wishes it would. Frustration continues to slip across his face, lines of damp salt.

“I didn’t react that way to all of those things because I wanted to, John,” he says gently. “I did so because I had to. I was surviving, trying to keep us both alive. What would have happened if I gave in and just laid down and let it all overtake me?”

John mulls it over. 

“Nothing,” he concludes, wiping angrily at one eye. “We wouldn’t have gotten very far.”

“Exactly. You think I didn’t struggle? You saw me, John, you saw through me!”

He laughs, the first bright sound to filter through the room since they’d come home, tinged by bittersweet memory. “You were there for every second of it. Remember me waking up from the coma? I could hardly drag myself out of the bed, much less walk. And everything else that’s happened to my body, well…”

Briefly he touches his stomach. “Sometimes I wonder how there’s any blood left in me. I feel patchy, like I’m just made up of gaps a person could see straight through. It all still aches, John. I’m aware of it all, every stupid mistake or scar or… whatever else Addison and the Dreamlands, all those monsters did to me; but if I refused to accept in some capacity, where would that get me? Fuck, I’d never leave the bed, and I’d have every right to do so. Why do you think I still sleep in some mornings?”

“You’re saying you’re hiding things too, then,” John says slowly. A flutter of remorse crosses Arthur’s smile, curving it downward. 

“Yes,” he nods. “A little bit. I didn’t want you to worry, John.”

“This is the same thing, then!” John exclaims. “I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want you to worry!”

“It’s not the same, but… it is similar, sure. I’m still figuring this all out, what to do now afterwards. I know we both are. I suppose we’re each guilty of something here, aren’t we?”

A mutter answers him, unintelligible. Arthur sighs, rubbing John’s leg placatingly. 

“I have experience with this kind of thing, John. You, frankly, do not. We don’t know how this body is going to react to the smallest of injuries, so when you’ve hurt yourself, or tripped, whatever, you need to tell me. I can’t help you if you’re so determined to be… stoically adamant that you can handle it.”

He winces. “No, poor choice of words. You’re more than capable of handling anything. The point here is that you don’t need to do it alone. I didn’t do it all by myself, either, even if it was our body at the time. I still had you there with me.”

“Okay,” John mumbles. The tears had stopped, drying in faintly gleaming tracks. Unable to help himself, he reaches over and directs Arthur’s free hand to his face. Arthur catches on quickly enough. One gentle thumb brushes the dampness away beneath both eyes.

“You said I didn’t lose myself in the midst of all that,” Arthur adds contemplatively, “but I did. You brought me back over and over. I won’t let you drown here, either. I guess we need to be more honest with each other in general.”

He flashes a small smile. “Works in progress, hmm?”

“Sure,” John says, wavering under that look. It was impossible not to. “Okay, Arthur. Thank you. I guess I…”

“Hmm?”

“I know it wasn’t easy, but you made it seem so effortless. I guess I wanted to be able to react the same way.”

“Nothing about being human is effortless, John. If it were easy, you’d be something else altogether.”

Neither are sure what else to say, so they choose to say nothing at all. Arthur removes the cloth, saturated with condensation. The swelling had gone down somewhat. Beneath the inflamed skin a dull ache persisted, but it was milder, simpler to deal with. Darkness shot through with distant city lights and a sliver of the rising moon sits just behind the glass window panes of the front room, enticing and comforting with its allure of endless promise. In the lamp’s glow, John watches Arthur start to slide off the table, cradling his foot until he’s able to place it down atop its surface.

“I think you should sit here for a while,” he advises, frowning. “I can help you down the hall later. If you want, that is. It’s doubtful you’ll be able to keep much weight on this over the next few days if you want it to heal properly.”

“Great,” John mutters. “Wait, where are you going?”

“To change out of these clothes? Why?”

“Can’t you,” he stutters, “stay here? I can’t reach the washcloth. What if I need it again?”

“I can place it next to you,” Arthur says wryly, catching on. “It’s only a foot away.”

“What if I have to get up?”

“You shouldn’t be moving at all.”

“Arthur, please.”

“Christ, alright,” he agrees, fondly. “Just for a while. I’m exhausted too, you know.”

He slips next to him. They fit together seamlessly after some adjusting, John avoiding old wounds, Arthur working around this new one. It’s a recently acquired habit, this circling of one another, quietly curling up until they were consoled enough in their own selves and each other. John’s head ends up across Arthur’s thighs, his foot propped up on the armrest of the other end. He was so tall his leg stretched past the edge of the sofa, halfway dangling in mid air.

“John, darling?” Arthur asks absently, untangling dark curls spread out across his lap.

“Yes?”

“You’ve… carried me up to bed before?”

John blinks. “Of course. I couldn’t leave you on the sofa like that, shivering.”

“I wasn’t shivering,” he retorts with mock affront. “Was I?”

“It was kind of pitiful. To give you credit, you had kicked off the blanket I put over you earlier.”

“I was wondering where that had come from,” Arthur mumbles. “Thanks, John.”

“You’re welcome. You sleep like you’re the prize boxer in a dream ring.”

“What does that even mean?”

“You kick,” John says meaningfully, eyes already beginning to close. “Hard.”

“Oh. Sorry. At least I don’t hog the blankets all the time,” Arthur retorts sheepishly.

“I do not hog anything. I’m much taller than you now! I need more of it.”

“Not all of it.”

“Buy a second blanket, then, if you’re so concerned.”

They bicker until John falls asleep. Sentences drop to single word responses, and soon enough he’s out, trying to get one last quip through the heavy pull of slumber. Arthur sighs as he feels his breathing even out, one palm flat on his chest. He hadn’t even gotten a chance to change clothes. 

“John?” he whispers. “John?”

He doesn’t answer. Arthur lets loose another weary exhale. There was no way he could move now.

“I think you did this on purpose,” he says softly, yawning. “You just want me to play with your hair, don’t you? Unfortunately for you, I’m probably going to fall asleep right here beneath you.”

He brushes stray strands off John’s forehead. It continued to puzzle him how someone who had once spent thousands of years inflicting agony on others now flinched beneath the prospect of bothering those closest to him with pain of his own.

Arthur drifts into unconsciousness soon after the thought dissipates like smoke, head dipping to rest sideways on one shoulder. John, clinging to the last dredges of wakefulness, peers up through heavy lidded eyes just in time to catch a glimpse of Arthur’s silent goodnight, John, on his lips. 

[weltato]

A Complaint - AO3

I have a question for the AO3 readers: why is interaction so hard for you? I never normally see this much of a drought, my goodness.

I will admit, the bookmarks are very nice, thank you to those people, but this is kinda sad. Normally I'm not bothered, but it's just- can't even say hi? You just read a fic and leave? You don't wanna take a second of your time to hit kudos? I understand some of the hits might be "shit I didn't want to click on that one" and some will be "eh, I tried it, but didn't like it" but I just can't believe that over one hundred people have done that. And true, maybe there's the rare few that have been coming back to read the fics and that's bumped the count up, but I have ONE (1) comment saying anything. Just one. I know it says two there but that's my own reply and I'm not counting it. These are my two most recent fics btw, this is a recent issue for me, my older fics haven't been this dreadful.

Genuinely, that second image bothers me more than the first one. At least that one got a comment and people have bookmarked it, ok then. That one is fine actually, that's not a problem for me. But the second one is just..."wow" is really all I can say.

That, and a resigned sigh that this is the fate of the internet right now. Tumblr posts are getting less interaction than they used to thanks to the widespread like-culture bleeding through from other apps and AO3 readers are putting the authors on such a pedestal that they're afraid to even leave a comment or a kudos anymore.

I'll admit, I only recently started leaving comments more often and that I used to be part of this problem, and I'll also admit that these two fic stats are for a fandom that is pretty much dead thanks to the show killing itself at the end (TUA S4 look what you've done), but even my niche fics - Red Dwarf, Wind in the Willows, VHS Christmas Carols - have got relatively balanced stats in comparison.

Either it's the fanbase being dead (probably the cause), users not interacting anymore (still a problem), or my writing is just going down the toilet at the moment (I don't actually think it is but everyone has different tastes in writing style) but this is something that's irking me right now and I had to complain somewhere.

I'm not usually bothered by numbers and statistics, I know it not gonna benefit me in the slightest, but sometimes I look at things and wonder why the interaction on it is so shit. This is one of those times. You read the top, right? You know this is a complaint, it doesn't necessarily need to make sense.

I'm gonna shut up now.

[silkenedstars]

Hi this got way more attention than what I initially expected (5 hearts) so I took the liberty to rewrite the entire essay, hence why it was delayed for… almost a month, I’m so sorry about that skjdgns

Anyway, as Sunset Wayfarer and Ardour Blossom Moth are both abnormalities with little information available for them (Sunset Wayfarer more so than Ardour Blossom Moth), there will inevitably be people disagreeing with what I've concluded from both abnormalities. I had that very experience with my friend who was helping me edit this essay and honestly? If you have any interpretations of these two that differ from my own, please let me know! I love hearing other people’s thoughts on things.

I will also be referring to both abnormalities by their initials (SW and ABM) to preserve my sanity since this is going to be a long, long post. (As of editing, this essay is 27 pages on google docs god help me) I will also be referring to both abnormalities with feminine pronouns because I love doomed yuri (but you're free to refer to them with masc pronouns for doomed yaoi, or like, literally any pronoun bc it doesn't matter).

Also special thanks to the limbus company wiki (wiki.gg not the fandom one) as this essay would've taken even longer to write without their work.

Okay okay so to start off: what Sunset Wayfarer is supposed to be.

There's barely any information about her, if at all thanks to her remaining an encounter-only abno (unlike ABM, who has a lot going for her) but we can still get the general gist of what she's supposed to be.

This is the only image we have of her and look at how peaceful this scene is? I'm not the best at describing pictures by any means but I think we can all agree that SW here gives off a friendly vibe.

If you come from lobcorp then you know that just looking friendly isn't enough, but fortunately SW acts just as friendly as she looks. Regardless of what you choose to do for her mirror dungeon event, she'll heal your party and her dialogue all throughout is understanding of your choice.

Now for her personality, yes, she has one. Most abnormalities in the mirror dungeon encounter do but I digress.

Starting from the first set of dialogue you're given when you first come across her, SW's personality is pretty straightforward.

"Look at those butterflies! Aren't they just beautiful?" - This is the very first thing that she says to Dante the moment her encounter starts. Not only is she acknowledging Dante's (and the sinners') presence with that sentence, but she's also bringing their attention to the butterflies surrounding her, beings that she deems beautiful.

Here, with these two sentences, you already get the sense that SW is someone who appreciates the beauty of the world around her; someone who focuses on the positive side of things.

"And gander at that sunset, too! Really makes you want to go for a stroll." - Here again, she's bringing attention to something that she likes seeing. The second sentence also indicates that she prefers the outdoors, but considering that we encounter her in the woods, I feel like that's a given.

"Why don't you stop for a moment and take a breather here?" - And here, not only is she asking Dante and the sinners to take a moment to rest, but going off of what she has said previously, she's also asking them to take a moment to take in their surroundings.

"Something yellow gestures warmly at you." - Dante that's rude. Interestingly though, and do correct me if I'm wrong, but this is the only instance when an abnormality that's offering help has their action described to be warm, or any other synonym of friendly.

For Fairy Long Legs, we only get dialogue from the abnormality and no commentary from Dante.

For Faelantern, we only get Dante's narration but they don't use any adverbs. Sure, the small fairy is smiling, maybe even dancing, but it tells us nothing of their intention. For all we know, the fairy could be planning to murder Dante and the sinners... which they are, but I digress.

Next up is the first choice we get to pick, as well as the rewards for it.

"Wasn't it tiring coming all the way here?" - SW is being compassionate here. She had the option to stay quiet and leave Dante and the sinners to rest by themselves, but instead, she asks about the group to see how they're doing.

"Really, check out those butterflies. Just watching them will warm your heart." - And right after, she tells them something that will help them. "Do this, it'll help you" is what she's saying here pretty much. Even though SW doesn't know anything about the group, she still wants to help them: she's caring.

"You looked at the butterflies as the voice suggested. They indeed fill the heart with a certain warmth." - Aside from this proving that Dante is really gullible (nothing new, we all already knew this) and showing us that SW was being honest, this also implies that she has healing capabilities. This I will get back to in detail later.

"Looks like some of them want to tag along!" - This part is relatively clear. SW has spent so long in the place of her encounter that she can understand how the butterflies act.

"A kaleidoscope of butterflies started following you, even after you left that scenic spot." - This part is a little difficult to figure out in relation to SW, but I think I worked out something. Even if they're two separate entities, SW and the butterflies surrounding her are connected at the end of the day. They are a part of her just as she's a part of them. It's difficult to say if they are the same being, but they share a connection which is why I'm confident that the butterflies decided to tag along with Dante because they were acting on SW's worry and concern over the group.

And at last, the ego gifts and healing. She heals all allies regardless and those with lust skills additionally heal their sp. Firstly, since sinners with lust skills got additional healing, this must mean that SW is an abnormality related to lust. This I will get into later too. Secondly, the ego gift:

There's another mention of lust, so SW being related to lust is even more likely. But do you see it, the ego name?

Eclipse of Scarlet Moths.

I'll be honest, when I first thought about SW and ABM being a perfect ship, I didn't think about this ego at all at first. Seeing it later was a funny coincidence though.

Eclipse of Scarlet Moths... huh? It's an interesting name for the ego since we know that the scarlet moths in question are the butterflies that were hanging around SW, so why the name change? I think there's a point to be made about the eclipse part of the ego name too, but I'm not familiar enough with astronomy to make that point.

And lastly, we have the option to ignore her and leave:

"You must be very busy then!" - She's understanding from the get-go. She doesn't try to get the group to stay, if they want to go then they go.

"It made the same gesture as when it first greeted us. Perhaps it was waving goodbye all along." - These two sentences are interesting as they imply that she's used to seeing people come and go. This is a theory of mine, but I like to imagine that SW used to be an abnormality in one of the side branches of L Corp, one that the employees visited frequently because of the respite she offers them in a way that allows them to extract energy from her, but I digress.

"Another time, I suppose!" - She's still positive here, and judging by her words, she's willing to let the group rest with her the next time they drop by, whenever that will be.

And at the end, she heals the group in an unconventional way, but healing is healing so it doesn't matter. This does imply though that SW likely noticed that the sinners were feeling "tired" (her words) from the get-go. This means that she's observant as well.

I do want to point out here that her healing, both for when you accept her offer or reject her, isn’t only literal but metaphorical as well. Specifically, it’s a symbolism for how kindness affects other people. If you accept it, if you let yourself be vulnerable so you can connect with another person, you're rewarded for that connection via that person helping you out. That's also why identities with lust skills get bonus sp healing, thanks to lust and its themes of wanting to connect with others.

On the other hand for rejecting, you're never punished for doing so because it's understandable why you wouldn't want to open up to a complete stranger, regardless of whatever their intent may be. But the healing is still there, because that original kindness that stranger offered was there. It shows that even if you reject any offer from others to help you, you'll still carry that small kindness shown to you wherever you go.

Or like, you'll remember for 3 turns then forget about it but I digress.

So what is her personality? What about her healing capabilities? What does her being associated with lust mean for her?

Her personality is a mix of the traits she has shown us so far: she's an optimist who takes the time to appreciate the world around her and its beauty, she likes taking her time to do just that, she likes spending her time outdoors, she's caring even towards strangers, she's warm, friendly, she's compassionate, she's helpful, she's honest, she's understanding, she's gentle and she's supportive.

There's an obvious lack of character flaws, but she doesn't need them. As of now, SW is an abnormality that's the manifestation of goodwill, it wouldn't make sense for her to have character flaws. That said, you can definitely give her some, or even better, write her in such a way that even her positive character traits end up fucking up a situation.

...Sorry I said that like there's going to be anyone other than me writing SW x ABM content. Anyway.

Her healing capabilities are next. I'm sure most of you guessed this already by now but she heals, because her healing is a reflection of her care and kindness. This isn't just that though, her ego gift shows that she's capable of harm as well, it's just that she'd much rather help others rather than harm them.

And lastly: What does her being associated with lust mean for her?

If I made this before the check up event came out, I wouldn't be able to answer this. Buuuut since I'm making this after the check up event, I can answer it!

Remember how Hohenheim described the lust pettaclum? Here are the screenshots in case you don't:

Ironically Yi Sang's explanation in particular is closer to SW than Hohenheim's explanation. SW might not exactly be sharing her knowledge or her ideas, but we do know of something that she likes sharing with others, don't we? That being the beauty of the world that she lives in.

There is one problem with this though, that being that while SW does want to spread her joy that she finds in the world (thus a desire to propagate), it's not to the where she's obsessed with doing that. We established earlier that she's not forceful.

Despite this, she's still associated with lust. But what if instead of that, it was love that she actually has a connection to? Sharing the beauty of the world with others, helping along strangers that she comes across are both forms of love, aren't they?

Anyway enough with this love stuff and enough with SW, it's time to talk about Ardour Blossom Moth!

To start off, she has soooo much more information available: observation logs, three different events, 3 ego gifts, Ishmael's ego for her, Faust's LCE ego for her, background art, enemy information, several sprites and attack animations.

ABM is also the one who puts in the doomed part of the doomed yuri she and SW make up.

Anyway, due to the sheer amount of information available for ABM, I'll explain everything there is to her first then I'll connect them all. And after that? The yuri explanation all of you have been waiting for.

So to start off, Ishmael's ABS ego:

Let's analyse the art first!

The first thing I noticed is the lack of ABM herself. I checked Ishmael's sprite and there's nothing that could indicate that ABM is hiding on her in this art either. I will come back to this later, this is important.

The next thing I noticed was the environment, specifically the corpses that are surrounding Ishmael. Some of them are reaching out towards her as well, maybe seeking redemption of sorts? I'll get into this later too.

Notice how everything is burnt? This does fit in with what ABM is on the surface, but I believe there's a deeper meaning to this as well. (Hint: it's doomed yuri)

I think someone could make a point with her clothes too but that definitely won't be me since I know next to nothing about fashion. If anyone that’s an expert on fashion is reading this, I’d love to know your thoughts.

"Though I can't guide you... I can offer a warm embrace."

Now we have her quote here. This is where I mention that egos aren't all that reliable to learn the story of an abnormality since they're more about how a sinner connects to a certain abnormality, but I don't think we need to worry about that in this one instance since I believe that there's a strong connection between how Ishmael openly acted on her obsession during her canto and ABM's personality in general. This I will get into later, of course.

But the line itself is interesting.

"Though I can't guide you..." has interesting implications. If we go with the corpses reaching towards Ishmael in hope of redemption, then doesn't this mean that Ishmael (or ABM in this case) believes herself to be too far gone for redemption herself, or not the being of salvation that the corpses thought her to be?

Then the following words; "I can offer a warm embrace." Yes please I want the hottest embrace you can offer— I mean what who said that? Ahem. It's an offer, a compensation for something that she can't offer. It's interesting that she offers this, too. Did she see that the corpses were yearning for salvation and her warm embrace will be the closest thing she can give them, or is it that she herself yearns for redemption and is unable to reach it, so she can empathise with the corpses' desires as she offers her embrace, something she desperately yearns for herself because she cannot have it to any meaningful degree?

Next up are the stats for the awakening version:

The ego's risk level is HE while the abnormality is WAW, so the connection with ABM is a little bit weak though I'd assume this is because Ishmael is a person capable of changing and ABM is an abnormality stuck in her ways.

As the lobcorp manual points out, HE class abnormalities can easily kill a number of employees so you need to pay more attention to them, but they're still relatively easy to manage so there's no need to be concerned over them.

WAWs, on the other hand are very devastating and can easily kill huge groups of people. You'll need to pay a lot of attention to them and be very careful with them if you want to avoid a huge loss.

All this is to say that ABM's level of obsession far exceeds Ishmael's. But... why obsession? Where did I get obsession from? I'll explain it more in detail later, but it's kind of obvious, isn't it? Ishmael's ego is wrath and ABM is associated with it, and wrath is a form of obsession, isn't it?

The ego resources further point to this. If just ABM being associated with wrath isn't enough to prove that she's associated with obsession, then the ego resources for ABS certainly should. It has two more sins associated with obsession: the desire to spread what you are and the desire to become something else entirely.

Ardour also means great desire/passion so there's that.

And the resistances: wrath is ineffective, lust is endured, sloth and gloom are both fatal. The first two check out, ABM is a fire related abnormality after all, the weakness to gloom is also understandable since the greatest counter to rage has to be depression; you can't feel angry if you're struggling to feel anything in the first place.

But sloth? Though not as much as wrath or lust, sloth still has some association with burn. Faust's LCE id even has sloth as its first skill, so why does this ego give Ishmael sloth weakness? Not even just Ishmael, ABM herself is weak to sloth.

Well, sloth and gloom have similar meaning to one another and while they are different at their core, they still share their similarities with their symptoms. It's like people who confuse greed and gluttony with one another. They're two different sins, but they have enough similarities with each other to be confused for the other nonetheless.

So the weakness to sloth further enhances the meaning the weakness to gloom has.

I won't really talk about the stats of the ego since they're really inconsistent even when sharing an abnormality (both pursuance ego heal, fluid sac only has one ego that heals), they + the passive might be important to mention (passive specifically explains why the ego has lust as a resource) but I won't get into it because this essay is already very long and while I am neurodivergent, the more I write the more I lose my sanity so I'll just move onto the next thing to preserve what little sanity I have left writing this.

Now, for the corroded version of ABS!

There's barely any difference between this and Ishmael's, as is the case with most ego. The only thing noteworthy about this is that unlike other ego art where the sinner missing means that the abnormality has taken over, for ABS we go from only having Ishmael to only having ABM.

This is technically still the sinner being taken over by the abnormality, but I do wonder if this is actually to showcase Ishmael becoming ABM. Specifically, Ishmael losing herself in ABM's obsession and becoming her in the end, similar to what happened in her pquod captain id.

Take a look at their idle sprites, too.

Notice the similarities between them? Ishmael is still there, but she has been corrupted (corroded, if you will) beyond recognition. Notice how similar she looks to ABM as well. I wouldn't be surprised if this corrosion is just the transition, and the next stage is becoming ABM herself. (Diversity win!!)

Next is her corroded line:

"Do you see? My writhing struggle, hoping the world is cocooned in flames with me..."

Well now, doesn't that sound like someone who's full of resentment and wants to bring the world down with them?

Personally this line is very obvious in its meaning (it's very much screaming hatred if you ask me) but let's analyze it a little bit anyway.

The part that pops out here for me is "hoping the world is cocooned in flames...". Cocooned, like how larva become moths via cocoons? ABM's association with lust gets stronger the more we look into this ego.

It also fits in with the narrative that Ishmael is becoming the abnormality via the corrosion. ABM wants to spread her hatred and does exactly that by either turning humans into abnormalities just like her, or leaving them a charred mess.

"Do you see? My writhing struggle," - It's a pain that Ishmael/ABM seemingly want to be acknowledged, but so far no one has. That makes her resentment make sense. Her pain is ignored by countless others, no wonder why she wants to spread it around so it'll finally be acknowledged.

Last for this section is her attack animation for both awakening and corrosion.

The animation for awakening is her swooping down to kiss the enemy then pulling away just as they explode. The one for corrosion is largely the same; she sucks away at the enemy's energy/blood/whatever but she doesn't pull away from the explosion this time.

Kissing the enemy.... is certainly a choice, though it could be the embrace that she was speaking of.

Anyway, that's all done, time for the next part! Now we go to our next piece of analysis, Yi Sang's observation logs regarding ABM! It's still not exactly reliable, that'll be when we get to the abnormality events and ego gifts, but Yi Sang's thoughts on ABM should still give us some insight.

I'll gather the important lines from the first observation here:

"Nay, allow me to rearticulate. It would be more evocative to say that the flame itself has taken the form of such an insect."

"Watching the little bonfire, watching the twigs turn into bright red lanterns, then into black soot--I could not help but reach out to appreciate its warmth."

"Many share this sentiment, no? We need not touch the fire to know it blisters our skin and burns our bones. Yet we still yearn for its heat, to grow nearer to it."

As a quick note, I think Yi Sang  going right up to ABM and coming right back burnt into a crisp is more so Yi Sang being the weirdo (affectionate) he is than anything about ABM herself. It could also be a play on the words "moths to a flame" with how Yi Sang walked right up to ABM and got burnt.

On that note, based on these lines, she really does seem to have a pull for certain kind of people. The metaphor was always there, with one of light's symbolism being that of guidance and fire is a source of light. Those who are lost, who have lost hope, who don't know their place in the world and anyone who shares a similar feeling were always going to find ABM's light attractive and cluelessly walk towards her without realizing the danger they were in.

Here is the second observation log. The first half only confirms what we knew of ABM through Ishmael's ABS ego so I won't talk about them, but the second half is interesting. Below is the only important part I'll be focusing on:

"Thus, it follows that breaking its wings would allow us to take the offensive in this battle."

For those of you who haven't played lobcorp or watched any of the story on youtube, here's a fun fact for you about abnormalities: They can't die, they're basically immortal, but most of them still feel pain.

That is to say, while Yi Sang's suggestion of breaking ABM's wings is justified and the only option that they really have, it's still extremely cruel, especially so coming from Yi Sang. Not only is ABM going to feel the pain of that, but she'll also have her freedom taken away from her.

But maybe that's not so much of a bad thing as one might initially think. What do I mean by this? It's doomed yuri related, I'll get to it later don't worry.

Now, onto the 3rd observation log that's connected to the 2nd one:

Rather than pointing out the important parts, I'll make a commentary of everything that has been noted.

In the 2nd observation log, Yi Sang points out that the embers the sinners get from ABM's embrace do not burn and only bring warmth. However some of the sinners have experienced painful burns with a cause he doesn't know about.

In the 3rd one however, he realizes that these embers spark when ABM fans them with her wings; thus the need for her wings to be broken.

This does highlight some of ABM's personality and, despite how cruel it must be, violence is needed to win against her.

Maybe it's manipulation on her part; acting helpful by bringing people warmth only to pull the rug from right under them by sparking the embers, forcing them to burn alive. Or maybe it's just instinct for her to keep any flame from extinguishing. The embers are small after all, barely capable of hurting anyone, and it's only through the powerful flap of ABM's wings do they become a devastating force.

I believe it's the second interpretation that's actually happening as it fits right in with the belief in ABS; that she is incapable of guidance due to her very nature, but she can still offer some comfort thanks to that exact nature.

There's also another connection with lust here. ABM spreads her embers to others, turns those embers into powerful flames which then spread onto more people, so on and so forth. In a way, that's also propagation, isn't it?

Faust's LCE id is also interesting. At first I was thinking of skipping it because I didn't think it had anything of importance (even back in lobcorp, ego equipment themselves have minimal information on abnos) but then I remembered the very brief word she used for ABM, "self-destructive", so I came running right back.

"Subject's engagement threat level: moderately high. However, considering its self-destructive nature under specific circumstances... Ardor Blossom Moth final designation: WAW-5."

This is the line you get when you first obtain her LCE id. It's clear that the subject in question is ABM since, this is her ABS ego id. Would be funny if she was actually talking about Dante but I digress.

Self-destructive nature under specific circumstances... From my own experiences, I've always taken self-destructive (behaviours) to be just another form of self-harm, which it is. Any act of sabotaging yourself is self-destructive, be it smoking, pushing away your friends or literally exploding.

This is also why Ishmael has a direct ego that resonates with ABM. We saw how she acted during her own canto. But Faust also has this ego. Even if it's not to the same degree as Ishmael, how much does Faust resonate with ABM?

Well for her, it's less resonating and more empathising. Take a look at this:

This is the narration given to us by Carmen. Faust resonates with and achieves a higher attunement level because she's willing to understand and empathize with ABM. It's hard to say if Faust has a connection besides empathizing with ABM since we're not given further info on her id story nor have I read Faust's source book. Her canto isn't out yet as of now either so I might come back to this if it is.

But this is pretty much it for Faust's LCE id. The rest of the information we can gather from her id either concerns every other abnormality or is something else entirely.

Also as a fun fact, LCE Faust's sin affinities completely match with ABM's, though I don't know if that's a result with her empathizing with ABM or if it's in regards to her own feelings.

Now that we're done with that, time to move onto... ABM's various events! I'll start with the easiest and shortest one, that being the LCB check up dungeon event:

Only two lines from this matter for us.

"The flaming wings die out one moment, only to roar vigorously in the next."

"An incessant attempt to set fire to everything around it."

This reads as desperate to me, unusually so. I'm going to have to bring up a point I was planning on discussing for the part reserved for it, but ABM doesn't even fight like this. Sure, her movements aren't exactly what someone would call levelheaded either, but it's certainly not frantic.

Then again, during the fights with ABM, we're in her ideal environment while a containment unit in LCE is the furthest thing from an ideal environment for her.

Next is the mirror dungeon event. Unlike with SW, I won't analyse the ego gifts since a quick look tells me that they only reinforce what we already know.

"Orange circles float in the air before your eyes. The lights flutter and dance in the air, creating a haze." - I believe that the orange circles Dante mentions aren't actual circles but instead several other ABMs. How do I know this?

This is the artwork we get for this mirror dungeon event. You might be inclined to believe that the orange circles in question are very obviously the circles in this image, but that's not the case.

We know from this image (that is ABM's background art for her battle) that the orange circles we see in the event art are mini volcanoes (I don't know if that's what they're actually called but I digress).

And it'd be one thing if Dante really was talking about these, but the way they describe the orange circles as "the light flutter and dance in the air, creating a haze" would fit into ABM much more than the mini volcanoes. Going off of this, we can safely assume that the haze in question is formed by the army of tiny ABMs flying about in the event art… which is the case.

"Something is burning to death within. Would you be scorched as well if the flames touched you?" - This is something I'll get to again later, but we've seen this before, haven't we? Ishmael's ABS ego, specifically the corrosion. I already pointed out the similarity in sprites and how you can still see Ishmael within the corrosion sprite, but how she's still beyond recognition.

Now is where we get to the choices:

"Enchanted by the haze, you extend a finger, waiting for one of the lights to land." - There isn't much to say here, I've already said this during Yi Sang's observation log. Despite seeing the danger, Dante still reaches out their hand for... something. Though Dante's case is very different from what I mentioned in Yi Sang's observation log since reaching out was a choice that Dante made, and they were more interested in the haze itself rather than the light and warmth provided by ABM.

There are definitely faults in this take, but I don't think the details matter all that much.

"A glimmering ball gently perches on your digit. Then, a fire engulfs it." - I'm a little unsure of this one, but it seems to me that one of the ABMs took this as invitation. It feels similar to the corpses back in Ishmael's ABS ego art reaching out towards Ishmael/ABM, and Dante's finger immediately catching fire without any pain further enforces this to me.

"Another glow attaches to your body, then four, then eight. They multiply until you have been entirely shrouded in light." - This piece of information clarifies that the small lights aren't exactly ABM, but instead a child abnormality of her, in a way. The ABM we know is big, but these child abnormalities are likely the size of an actual moth.

Judging by how the event was resolved, I doubt that the smaller moths gathering on top of Dante was a good thing by any means. Sure, they came out of it unhurt, but any sinner who had an id without a wrath skill equipped got hurt.

Which makes me wonder if this exact event happened to the sinners as well, by which I mean the small ABMs surrounding their body. Losing 10 HP is practically nothing, so I'm assuming this means that the moths aren't capable of doing serious damage. This would explain why ids without wrath skills got hurt while those with wouldn't; they'd be able to withstand it thanks to having an affinity for wrath already.

This option is very anti-climactic but the safest thing to do.

"Resisting the temptation to reach out, you decide it's better to stay away from such dubious warmth." - There's not much to say here aside from the temptation to reach out towards ABM's flame is instinctive, maybe innate, it's still a pull you can resist. Though I doubt how resistable it might be to certain kinds of people.

"You feel a cold wave crawl up your spine in an instant, but it may be the right choice." - It is, leaving is the right choice, at least in terms of keeping yourself safe. The coldness that Dante feels the moment they turn around is exactly why ABM's flames are so dangerous. Flames are warm, and whatever is warm is also comfortable. It's far too easy to stay where it's comfortable despite how dangerous it might be.

"Even children know not to play with fire." - But that doesn't stop them from doing so, does it?

And here is the high risk high reward choice.

I'm not going to bother analysing this choice one by one but comment on it as a whole. Aside from this choice giving me vibes of someone who doesn't care for their own life, ABM forming within the haze is curious.

While it's a little hard to decipher what this is supposed to mean, I know from other abnormality encounters that an option that lets you obtain 2 ego gifts at the cost of a fight are options where you piss of or upset the abnormality you encountered.

What does this mean for ABM, though?

Faust's LCE says that ABM has a self destructive nature, we established that before. If someone has reached a point where they act self-destructive over something, I doubt that person has any sense of self worth. For an abnormality like ABM that's associated with wrath as well as what we know of her so far, I'm willing to bet there's a lot of self hatred involved as well.

What I'm trying to say here is that Dante in the 3rd option (something draws you into the haze) likely reminds ABM of herself. As an abnormality, she's bound to her fate and cannot defy it (otherwise she wouldn't be an abnormality in the first place). Seeing someone who has control over their own fate have a lapse of judgement and be drawn to your existence as a result would be an insult.

She knows that Dante isn't overcome by the instinct to reach out towards her flames in search of warmth, because Dante would've reached out, instead they walk right into the haze and it pisses ABM off. Here she is, bound by her own nature and unable to escape it, and this human who would know nothing about her pain is in awe of her existence. That just pisses her off.

This is also why we get the Ardent Flower ego gift together with Hellterfly's Dream. I can't comment on the latter much but I can say for sure that Ardent Flower is a representation of this exact feeling; of feeling belittled because of how someone perceives you and feeling angry due to it. Yes, ardent is a synonym of passionate, but passion can be fueled by both love and hate. Feel free to guess which one ABM has plenty of.

Now onto our last section for ABM before I tie everything together. Her enemy information:

First a quick look at ABM's stats. The resistances for her body line up with Ishmael's ABS ego, with the only difference being that ABM also endures envy but that makes sense, it's one of the resources for ABS.

Her wings are more or less the same with the only difference being that they're more fragile.

Onto her attacks. Yi Sang already got her attack patterns down but there are still some things that I want to bring up. Aside from the cycle of putting people on fire, stoking the flames to create stronger fire, then spreading more fire, her attacks also have a focus on wrath; namely inflicting her enemies with wrath resist down then converting her non-wrath skills to wrath skills.

She's basically a limbus player if a limbus player knew how to read instead of winrating every encounter lol. (It's me, I'm limbus player.) She's also what Nclair wishes he was, but I guess a human's hatred was never going to be on par with an abnormality's hatred.

Her skills are 2 sloth, 2 pride and 2 wrath respectively. What does that mean? For sinners, the sin affinities for their attack skills represent their feelings for the current mirror world they're in. To make a quick example: Heathcliff. His canto is already out so I don't have to go in depth with this explanation, but up until his KK id (which seems to be the happiest he has been, ever, do correct me if I'm wrong though) every single id Heathcliff had features an envy skill. This was a way for PM to show his feelings of inferiority born from his past, and that manifests the strongest in the form of envy because he's not allowed to have Cathy (the only person who didn't treat him like shit), but someone who's better than him in every aspect is.

What does that mean for ABM though? I interpret her sloth skills to mean that she has resigned herself to her role. She's destined to live an existence where she brings harm upon anything that comes too close, it's instinctive for her, so why even fight it at this point. But you know who else has sloth skills and has given up on defying their fate? That's right, Hong Lu! (this isn't about him)

Next, her pride skills. I interpret them as her response to her fate. Although she was born like this, she still yearns to be free; to escape. That's why it's such an insult when someone like Dante steps right into her domain like they're offering themselves up to be one of her. It's a personal slight, it's an insult to her ego, her pride.

And lastly, her wrath skills. I interpret them as another kind of response to her fate, as well as her feelings towards it. She's stuck with her role? Fine, she'll do such a good job at it that she won't be the only one suffering from her existence by the end of it. Her wrath skills also represent her frustration for her circumstance, but that one was obvious.

Her battle event goes like this:

I won't talk in depth here, but Dante is right that it's the core of ABM; it's the scorched remains of who she once was if that person ever even existed, if ABS Ishmael's corrosion is anything to go by.

Also note that this is one of the few events where you're asked to roll under the designated number and not above it. It's almost as if suppressing your emotions is what gives you an advantage, I wonder what that could mean?

Notice a certain line here: "Their fingertips begin to blister and bubble, but perhaps [Sinner]'s passion burned hotter than the flames itself."

With someone as self destructive as ABM is, you're bound to get hurt trying to help her. It's only by having a strong will, one that's stronger than ABM's hatred for herself and those around her can you truly reach out and help her.

It'll hurt, it'll be painful, but it's the only way to really touch her heart.

So then why does the chosen sinner throw away ABM's core? Didn't I say that was the remains of who ABM was?

These two questions are related to one another. The chosen sinner threw away ABM's core because Dante rightfully perceived the core to be what fed ABM's flames, thus it had to go. Following this decision, ABM's flames immediately calm down. She loses her ember and the sinners all lose burn.

All this to me is what proves that the core is ABM's remains. Part of her consciousness is still in there, somewhere. It might be dormant but the emotions that part feels (namely wrath) is exactly what acts as fuel for ABM. It's only by separating who she once was from the flames that are literally consuming every second of her life does the fire grow weaker.

So what happens when the chosen sinner fails the check?

The pain is simply too much, the will to help isn't strong enough. You can't be blamed for pulling away after realizing you'll get hurt, but pulling away from the person hurting won't make their situation any better.

It's an understandable choice, an understandable reaction, but in the end it just hurts more.

ABM's reaction isn't exactly clear here. Is she acting on instinct, is it a defense mechanism that triggered the moment she realized someone reached out not towards her flames, but to her heart for once?

Or is this anger in response to what has been attempted? That someone would dare reach out to her only to back away because of the pain, when the pain she's constantly in is so much worse than what they have been temporarily through?

It could be both, it's definitely one of them, but we'll never know for sure.

Now with all of that analysis done, what is ABM? Who is she? What's her deal?

ABM is, to put it simply, a form of corruption. Specifically a hatred so strong that it eventually takes over every aspect of your life, until you're left completely miserable. Sometimes the hatred you feel will be weak, sometimes it'll be so strong that it'll be painful just to experience it, but the feeling will always be there until you hurt yourself and your loved ones. It's the kind of hatred that makes you resent yourself, it's the kind of hatred that you'll take to your grave but most importantly, it's the kind of hatred that exists as a never ending cycle.

But as much as you resent yourself for being so hateful, deep down, you still want an out for this situation. You might've sunk too far to ever get out of the hole you dug yourself in, but that won't stop you from wishing for someone to reach out and drag you out of it.

That's why the scorched bodies in ABS Ishmael's art are reaching out towards her. They're all hurting, they have hurt others, but they still wished to be saved from the cycle they're stuck in.

But Ishmael cannot do that herself. She's stuck in that cycle as well. If she were to grab their hand, it'd inevitably end up with more pain. Her embrace; her understanding, her empathy is the only thing she can offer. It's the only thing she has to offer.

The same can be said for ABM as well. When Dante reaches out towards her, she's quick to "embrace" them; shrouding them in light as the smaller ABMs attach themselves to Dante. It hurts, it must hurt. Maybe not Dante specifically, but it's a painful experience for the sinners who haven't felt the pain that naturally comes with wrath.

There's more to say, but I feel like anything more I add will just reinforce what I've said about ABM being and representing a cycle of hatred and corruption.

And who is she?

ABM is someone who has been born into and stuck in this cycle of hatred all her life. Though she is capable of showing compassion to others and can help others out in her own way, she'll almost always end up doing more harm than good due to her very own nature.

She's irritable, she's prideful, she hates herself, hates those around her too, she's resigned to her own fate and the only way to pacify her is to contribute to the very cycle she's stuck in and responding to her violence with just as much (if not more) violence.

...wow, she's almost the exact opposite of SW, huh? A majority of her personality is just negative traits with just a few positive traits that end up doing harm anyway.

Wait hold on a second, everything I described sounds more like toxic yuri between the two and not doomed yuri? Well then, allow me to explain exactly why they are doomed yuri and not toxic yuri.

You know how I talked about ABM essentially being and representing a cycle of hatred (while SW is a representation of goodwill)?

SW is both the end to that cycle as well as a contribution to it.

She's the only one who shows unconditional kindness towards ABM, the only one to never resort to violence with ABM even if it hurts her.

It'd surely piss ABM off, after all, how could you just love someone like her? Someone who's the epitome of hatred? And given her temper, SW's kindness would inevitably end in her death... but remember! Abnormalities are immortal so SW's death will be temporary. And considering SW's personality, I don't think she'll stop being kind towards ABM just because of one death.

It's that very fact that turns SW's and ABM's relationship from a toxic one-sided yuri to a slowburn doomed yuri.

It's inevitable that the two would feel love for one another, SW towards ABM because of all the small things that ABM does, and ABM towards SW because she's the first being to treat ABM with unconditional kindness and without a hint of violence.

And this is where the doomed part of the yuri comes in. Though they may love each other greatly, ABM is destined to burn SW to death eventually, over and over again. I don't think SW would particularly care about this given how many times she would have to burn to death to even reach this point in their relationship, but that doesn't make ABM feel any less guilty or horrible for her very own nature.

Imagine the guilt you'd have, the kinds of thoughts that would follow you when you try to touch your beloved only to burn and hurt them. Imagine how horrible it would feel when they tried to reassure you saying they don't mind the pain, when you really should be the one reassuring them.

They cannot kiss, they cannot hold each other, they can't even touch one another without one of them dying.

Sunset Wayfarer is the answer that would free Ardour Blossom Moth from her cycle of suffering, but given their very nature as abnormalities, all she ends up doing is putting herself and Ardour Blossom Moth in a different kind of cycle; one that's still full of suffering.

The only way for these two to have a moment of peace... is through violence. Only by ripping off Ardour Blossom Moth's wings, only by extinguish her flames by force and leaving her in a vulnerable state is it possible for the two of them to touch one another and hold each other without fear of pain or death.

Their relationship, no matter how much they love one another, will always end with one of them being hurt.

Also um,

notice how similar the butterflies surrounding SW and one of ABM’s ego gifts look??

even projmoon themselves ship these two abnormalities they're literally meant to be

[ohmytiredheart]

It's uncanny how much the FNAF lore actually makes sense if you look at it through the eyes of TMA