#memories in a box in the deepest depths of his mind

[leth-writes]

SOULMATE AU

-inspired by the mind-reading prompt from the soulmate prompts I reblogged

-also inspired by the posts of the lovely SlasherScream!

-the idea is essentially that once you meet, your minds merge

Bruce Wayne

Oh no. OH NO!

All i can picture is Bruce panicking. He’s terrified by the idea of you seeing into his head, of seeing how broken he feels he is. Bruce is ultimately dictated by his trauma and his love for his family, and these two forces are in constant conflict in his mind, leading to a mindscape that can be incredibly jarring. Sometimes it feels like his brain is being pulled in two between the logical and emotional halves, though the logical side often pushes the emotional side far, far down. He really suppresses those emotions in an attempt not to get hurt again.

Bruce has spent so much time suppressing his emotions that his mind is overly logical. Being in his mind is like being in an episode of an investigative show, constant thoughts and a whirlwind of deductions. It feels like he’s got the entire world figured out, especially before you’re able to really connect. He tries so hard to force you out of the darker corners of his mind, boxing them away in the deepest reaches so you can’t stumble into his deep, dark thoughts, worries, and memories.

When you first meet, his mindscape feels almost… shallow due to the boxing away of so many parts of him. It feels almost like you’re seeing Brucie, rather than Bruce; just a shallow facade meant to draw your attention away. This can be remedied by showing how much you trust him. Get comfortable around him, don’t show any judgment, and open up some of your own forgotten memories. Seeing such a display of kindness and trust will help convince him to be fully honest with you, but it takes a couple of months for him to grant you access to the totality of his mind. It’s slow-going, but it’s definitely worth it.

Bruce’s mindscape feels like a black and white detective film, funnily enough. It’s sharp and cold at first, but those edges meld together the more you unravel his hidden corners, creating a more impressionistic mindscape full of fleeting emotional impressions. It surprises you just how smart he can be; you knew he was a master detective but you weren’t expecting the level of deduction he’s truly capable of. He’s got you fully figured out in minutes.

When you blend together, it’s like a wonderful impressionistic melding of more logical and more empathetic mindscapes into one full world. Spend some time getting to know him, spend some time slowly opening up, and you’ll be rewarded with a beautiful experience. Moving forward, he’s going to be even more protective than he normally would, mainly out of fear; you know everything about him, which definitely puts a target on your back. Having someone who is mentally connected to one of the most powerful men in the city, both in and out of the cowl, is tantalizing to both supervillains and his enemies in his daily life. Don’t let the harsh words and rumors get to you, Bruce defends you in the public eye constantly. It becomes almost an inside joke among the press in Gotham; ask Brucie about his soulmate and you’ll see a cold side to him no-one’s ever noticed before.

Dick Grayson

Dick’s mindscape is, at first, seemingly one-note. When you first meld, it feels like his mind is a deep, clear pool; you feel like you can see right to the bottom. You both spend a lot of time just cuddling, exploring your shared mindscape together, feeling like you’ve found an oasis in the desert. It feels calming, like soothing balm to your overworked mind. Dick often compares your mind to a burst of color in the dark, feeling like you light his mind up, bringing positivity and light when he’s trapped in his dark thoughts. Don’t be fooled by the depths you’re able to access right away; Dick has some hidden compartments of his mind he’s not even consciously aware of.

Dick has locked his true longing for his parents, and his desire to lead a normal life, deep in the recesses in his mind, to save himself from emotional harm. He loves his parents to this day, and visits their grave to update them on his life all the time. It hurts him to think they aren’t there to see his accomplishments, but he knows deep down they would be proud. He begins writing letters and taking pictures of the two of you, all to place at their grave, so it feels they’re connected to him even now, with their deaths so far in his past. Please visit their grave with him; bring some flowers or some food, tell them about yourself and how much you love him. It’ll move him almost to tears.

Dick also feels a deep longing for a normal life. He’d never truly act on these urges, he can’t imagine ever giving up Nightwing, and feels a deep sense of responsibility for his city, but he does have some desires to experience the intimate, domestic life. He feels even more responsible for the safety of the city after he meets you, and might drive himself ragged trying to keep you safe by clearing out every villain in the city. He doesn’t stop until he’s almost killed, and he feels the panic and despair in your mind as you clutch his hand in the medbay, sobbing your eyes out. Afterwards, he spends more time on the domestic aspects of life, and reveals those hidden desires. Seeing you so upset, feeling your mind almost shatter under the weight of your fear and grief, motivates him to keep you safe by keeping him safe. He’s less likely to take risks, and sometimes even passes up the more dangerous missions to the Justice League as a whole. 

He totally gets you cheesy gifts. I think that, in a world of mind melds, there’d be stupid little keychains that say stuff like “I met my soulmate and all I got was this lousy keychain”. You hate it, but you use it as a keychain to remind yourself of him every time he’s away. He buys you a lot of Nightwing merch as well. Please wear it, even if it’s just to feel his mindscape stutter out of shock and awe. He loves how cozy you look in that oversized Nightwing sweater; he begs you to make it a permanent part of your nightly wardrobe.

Dick is known for his long rants to the press about how amazing you are, even though in actuality he gives them no identifying features. The press feels they know you so well they don’t even realize they have no idea who you are. He’s known for his smitten, lovestruck sighs and swooning every time they ask about you, beaming so hard his face hurts and filling everyone in on how you “just looked so cute wearing that oversized sweater, so cozy, I thought I was gonna die!”. It’s part facade, part reality. He’s just letting his true feelings out with the mushiest language possible.

Your melded mindscape is like a deep lake, mainly clear and visible, with some darker murkier parts you can explore together. It’s like a balm against overactive minds, calming and cooling down any tempers and giving you a space to explore yourself and your past with someone who’s truly welcoming.

Jason Todd

Jason’s mind is really intense, really quickly. It’s like a burst of color and noise, all of his worst feelings and thoughts being forced to the forefront by the surprise of the meld. He would do well with a calmer presence who can soothe his mental energy, bringing him down from that overactive constant anger and worry. It’s important to realize that Jason isn’t always gonna be like that, but the lazarus pit has really messed with his mental state in a lot of large, and even more unnoticed, ways.

The mental bond really goes a long way to calm him down. Having another person sharing his mindspace gives him a reason to see a therapist and work through his trauma, trying to make himself more appealing and less scary to you. Please let him know he doesn’t scare you; being able to feel that warmth and affection will go a long way in his journey to change. Jason ultimately wants to do better for you, even though he feels the lazarus pit has corrupted everything. He gets really emotional, knowing his death and the pit have even corrupted something so sacred as a mental bond. Help him acknowledge that it isn’t his fault, and that you truly care for him, no matter the state of his thoughts, and you’ll unlock that softer, more tender side.

Jason deals with a lot of intrusive thoughts due to the pit. He’d love it if you helped, though he always reminds you it’s okay if you don’t feel able to do so. Just helping him let them pass, rather than trying to suppress them, will do wonders for his mental state and really help lighten up his mindscape.

Jason’s mindscape, at first, is like a storm over the north sea; huge, crashing waves and whipping, howling winds strong enough to split him in half. It can feel overwhelming, like you’re a little boat lost in this huge force of nature, with the threat of capsizing constant. However, please know that Jason would never, ever hurt you. He’d rather never see you again, no matter how much it would hurt him, than make you scared. As you two work together, going to therapy and doing calming exercises, Jason’s mindscape will eventually reveal itself to be a calm night at sea, the waves like glass; clear and smooth, but still with that slight possibility of harm. It can be really nice just spending time with him, him reading aloud his favorite Jane Austen novel, being gently rocked by the soothing wave of the mind meld.

Jason is intensely private. The press quickly finds out not to so much as mention his soulmate, as it sets him off into an angry rant about privacy and what it means to be a public figure. Jason has never hated his fame more than when he wasn’t able to go out with you without fear of being discovered. Uncle Clark offers to fly you both out to another country, giving you opportunities to date without the threat of the press breathing down your neck. He’ll take you to a French restaurant, surprising you with his perfect French, and then eat ice cream with you while you stare into the waters of the Seine as the sun sets. He’s a true romantic at heart.

[amerthehammer]

The Struggle of Conviction: A Pro-Israeli Voice in an all-Palestinian Family

The Struggle of Conviction: A Pro-Israeli Voice in an all-Palestinian Family

Date: October 16, 2023

In the midst of today's turbulent events, I feel compelled to share my deeply personal journey. At 34 years old, recently marking my 34th birthday, I reflect upon a life born into a devout Islamic Palestinian family. A life where the value of unity was instilled in me from an early age, but as time passed, it became increasingly apparent that my beliefs were evolving differently.

Interestingly, I developed a strong affinity for Christmas over the years – a holiday imbued with the magic of shimmering lights, grand trees, and endless decorating possibilities. This was a stark contrast to my Islamic upbringing, where Christmas had no place, and festively adorned trees were nowhere to be found. Yet, year after year, just outside my window, I would see my neighbors' beautifully adorned Christmas tree. Returning to school after the Christmas break, my friends and classmates would eagerly share their holiday experiences and gifts, while I silently grappled with the absence of such celebrations in my life. It was a challenge, but with time, I learned to adapt.

I certainly didn't fit the mold of the ideal Muslim. Failing to observe the fast-during Ramadan, for instance, led to a cascade of judgment and shame. From my earliest memories, my mother fervently impressed upon me the dire consequences of not meeting specific religious requirements, warning of eternal damnation. Within my family, an unspoken consensus had taken hold: I wasn't just destined for hell, but I was headed for its deepest depths. Neglecting to pray five times a day or to observe the fast, as my family believed, was seen as falling short of God's expectations. After enduring a ceaseless stream of such admonitions, I began to internalize them.

It was only after receiving a cancer diagnosis that I realized the futility of striving to meet my parents' religious expectations. I had to come to terms with the understanding that winning that battle was an impossibility. In those challenging moments, a mentor's words echoed in my mind: "Choose Life," inspired by the 1996 British black comedy-drama film "Trainspotting," directed by Danny Boyle. The day I was diagnosed with Hodgkin's Lymphoma, alongside a tumor in my chest, I found myself in a hospital room, surrounded by Palestinians, my parents, and a host of relatives – some of whom I hadn't seen in years and others I had never met. It was in this pivotal moment that I made a defining decision.

In that hospital room, weighed down by my circumstances, I confidently marked the "Judaism" box under religion on the form. This form would pass through various hands, and the reactions I encountered in response to my choice were nothing short of bewildering. While judgmental looks were cast my way, I met them with a radiant smile.

In summary, my journey has led me to remission and well-being, but it has also exposed me to deep-seated prejudices within my family against Jewish people. Over the years, I've overheard my parents and relatives expressing derogatory remarks about Jewish individuals, suggesting that they were in defiance of God and deserving of their misfortunes. Growing up, Jews were often portrayed as an ominous presence, lurking like a shadow in the background. It was only when I learned about the Holocaust that I realized the long-standing fear-driven narrative that had persisted for generations.

Even before I had the opportunity to study World War II in school, I would question my father about Hitler and his actions. The explanations were consistently simplified: "The Jews were blamed for economic hardships, and people were suffering. What else could have happened?" This narrative conveniently omitted any reference to the complex historical context, including World War I and the Treaty of Versailles.

As I delved deeper into the history of World War I, I made a disconcerting discovery: the "stabbed in the back myth" had not faded into obscurity but had found a contemporary resurgence. This myth centered on the belief that the German Army's defeat in the First World War didn't occur on the battlefield but resulted from betrayal by communists, socialists, and Jewish individuals on the home front.

What struck me as profoundly unsettling was that, this time, it was my own parents who were articulating these beliefs. Though I could never fully comprehend the depth of this hatred, as someone who has endured bullying in life, I can empathize with the emotions involved. However, I firmly acknowledge that there's no valid comparison between the struggles I've faced and the enduring hardships that the Jewish community has historically and continues to endure.

With recent events in Israel on October 7th, I found myself grappling with a sense of shame regarding my Palestinian heritage. The scenes I witnessed were deeply distressing, with Hamas involved in brutal acts against innocent men, women, and children. The chilling cries of "God is great" in Arabic only added to the anguish. This experience has reinforced my belief that it is often the self-proclaimed "god-fearing" individuals who, paradoxically, perpetrate the most harm.

The Israeli-Palestinian conflict transcends mere territorial disputes; it is profoundly rooted in religious differences. It has evolved into a religious war between Muslims and Jews, each side fervently asserting their faith. I've long perceived Islam as a demanding faith, one that places a continuous emphasis on submission to God. Growing up, I couldn't help but envy my Christian friends who appeared to have a less burdensome religious experience – attending church once a week and joyfully celebrating Christmas. It seemed as though they faced fewer challenges compared to my upbringing in a devout Islamic household, leaving me with the impression that they received more for less.

In conclusion, I find myself standing alone in my perspective, firmly believing that the Jews have a rightful claim to Israel, especially after the horrors of the Holocaust. While some may argue that the land belongs to the Palestinians, history suggests otherwise. Following the fall of the Ottoman Empire, Palestine fell under British rule. While the British made promises to both sides, the only promise that materialized was the creation of Israel. It's a historical fact. I've never shared my family's abhorrent antisemitic views, and I never will. I stand in solidarity with the Jewish people of Israel; they deserve their homeland, unequivocally. These words may draw criticism and hostility, but I'm undeterred. Antisemitism must be eradicated, and Palestinians must confront the historical reality.

[sciencestyled]

Pandora’s Bizarre Brainy Adventure: How Curiosity (Almost) Killed the Cat

It was a typical Tuesday in ancient Greece. I, Pandora, was lounging around Mount Olympus, trying to keep myself out of trouble. You know, after that whole box incident, I’ve been on a sort of divine probation. Zeus had given me strict instructions to stay away from anything resembling a container, and honestly, my reputation could use a bit of polishing. But as anyone who knows me will tell you, curiosity is my middle name.

One fateful afternoon, I found myself in Athena’s library. While leafing through scrolls on human anatomy, I stumbled upon a strange contraption labeled “Neuroimaging: The Ultimate Mind Reader.” Intrigued, I couldn’t resist tinkering with it. Little did I know, this machine was designed to peer into the very depths of the brain, revealing secrets and thoughts better left unexamined. In hindsight, maybe that label should’ve been a clue.

As I fiddled with the buttons, a hologram of a brain appeared, swirling with colors and lights. Before I could say “Hera’s handbag,” the machine started whirring and sparking. Suddenly, I was transported into the minds of various gods and mortals alike. And let me tell you, the stuff I saw—Hera plotting her next scheme against Zeus, Poseidon’s obsessive collection of seashells, and even Hermes practicing his stand-up comedy routines—was pure, unfiltered drama.

Then, a thought struck me: what if I could use this technology to uncover the most fascinating, scandalous, and downright hilarious secrets of the human brain? Surely, the mortals would be just as interested in this juicy gossip as I was! Plus, it would be a great way to redeem myself. So, I decided to write an article, spilling the beans on the latest and greatest in neuroimaging.

Of course, nothing ever goes smoothly. My first attempt to use the machine on a mortal brain resulted in chaos. The poor fellow ended up thinking he was a chicken for three days straight. But after a few more mishaps (and some stern words from Athena), I finally got the hang of it. I discovered that neuroimaging could expose everything from your deepest fears to your most embarrassing memories. It was like having the ultimate gossip box at my fingertips!

Excited by my findings, I began crafting my article. I decided to call it “Pandora’s Gossip Box: Exposing the Brain’s Juiciest Secrets with Neuroimaging.” Catchy, right? I delved into the wonders of MRI, fMRI, PET scans, and even EEG and MEG, each offering a different way to snoop on the brain’s activities. The possibilities were endless, and the drama was off the charts.

Take MRI, for instance. It’s like a front-row seat to the brain’s private affairs. Imagine catching those sneaky hydrogen atoms in the act, spinning and twirling like they’re at an Olympian gala. And fMRI? That’s like reality TV for the brain, capturing every scandalous neural activity in real-time. PET scans, with their radioactive sugar, are the undercover agents of the brain world, lighting up hotspots of activity like a divine soiree.

I also couldn’t resist adding a section on EEG and MEG, the brain’s wiretaps. These technologies eavesdrop on electrical and magnetic chatter, revealing the brain’s most fleeting thoughts and impulses. It’s like having a spy cam in your noggin, capturing every moment without disturbing a single hair on your head.

As I penned my article, I realized how neuroimaging raised important ethical questions about privacy and consent. It’s one thing to gossip about the gods, but quite another to pry into the minds of mortals. Still, the potential benefits for understanding the brain and diagnosing diseases were undeniable. I was hooked.

So, dear readers, that’s how a simple trip to Athena’s library led me down the rabbit hole of neuroimaging. From the quirky quirks of the gods to the complex mysteries of the human mind, this journey has been nothing short of exhilarating. And now, I invite you to join me in exploring the brain’s juiciest secrets. After all, who doesn’t love a bit of gossip, especially when it’s all in the name of science?

Now, buckle up and get ready for “Pandora’s Gossip Box: Exposing the Brain’s Juiciest Secrets with Neuroimaging.” Trust me, you won’t want to miss this scandalous peek inside that thick skull of yours!

[thevisibilityarchives]

Roma (2018), Alfonso Cuarón

BIPOC

Summary: Returning for his first film since 2013’s Gravity, famed director Alfonso Cuarón transports viewers to the hustle and bustle of Mexico City where a young housekeeper named Cleo, experiences the joy, pleasure, and pain of that which we call life in this heartfelt drama. 

Full review: As the screen fills with soapy water, lapping in waves across a floor, the bubbling suds set the stage for a film that finds its heart within the theme of cleansing; emotional baptism and renewal, the cleansing of a soul laid bare and its pain washed away. 

It’s been nearly 10 years since director Alfonso Cuarón last swept audiences away with Gravity, the sci-fi thriller featuring Sandra Bullock that joined Cuarón’s diverse filmography, a small but mighty collection of films speak to a man who will not be pigeonholed into the confines of any one stereotype, culture, genre, or style. 

With his latest entry Roma, Cuarón returns to his Latino roots, this time drawing upon personal inspiration to bring to life what feels like the embodiment of a living memory. 

Set in 1970s Mexico City, Cleo, a live-in housekeeper for a moderately wealthy family, becomes the center of our cinematic universe for the duration of the film. Her days working for the family are a churn of unending routine, cleaning and caring for a group of raucous children.

 Endlessly she cycles through the same tasks with no determinable goal in mind; no lofty dreams of greener pastures or constant periods of yearning. Her needs are provided for: home and hearth, a surprising amount of love and warmth granted to her by the family she cares for themselves. There is a degree of enviable simplicity in Cleo’s life, a minimalism lost two generations past to growing decades of consumerism, in which to simply have all we need is not enough in the Western world. 

For viewers in North and parts of South America and the Caribbean, it may be difficult to picture the idea of a live-in housekeeper without the connotations of the centuries during the slave trade bearing down upon the mind, and an ever-present barrier exists between Cleo and her employers, Sofía, Antonio, and their children.  Cleo is young and dark-skinned, possessing Indigenous-Latino features as she speaks Mixtec among her fellow housekeepers, in juxtaposition to her employers Sofía, Antonio, and their children, all light-skinned Hispanic Latinos. 

Yet the lines are blurred between class and creed, employer and friend, family and servant in ways that are inherent in such a dynamic, and Cuarón approaches them with boundless empathy, filling the screen with what ultimately comes to feel like a family drama. Family here is exemplified in its deepest sense:  the connections that bind us, extending beyond the boundaries of flesh and blood, offering a family photo album of Cleo and those who surround her in picturesque black and white tones. 

The course of life for Cleo, Sofía, and the rest of the family changes when they each face unexpected events in their lives. For Cleo, it is a heart-rending pregnancy by the first and only man she has intimately known. For Sofía, it is the discovery that Antonio is having an affair and no longer intends to financially support the family. 

What we expect to become yet another tale of woe beyond the border, reinforcing the plight of people of color in poverty,  instead plays out with the ideal amount of humanism and realism necessary for the film to captivate in the ways it does. Joy can be found in the depths of despair, and whether intentionally or not, Cuarón cultivates a character who exemplifies both the burden and successes of Second Wave and Intersectional Feminism. 

Roma can be streamed on Netflix. In light of the removal of content recently from streaming sites like HBO Max and Netflix, consider buying a physical copy as well if you enjoy the film which can be found at big box stores like Target and Best Buy. 

Citations:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mixtec_language

Note:

For the purposes of this blog, Latino* is used universally as a gender-neutral infinitive to respect both nonbinary individuals as well as native Spanish-speakers. 

[butterflypeachgrove]

Guidance (2)

(Welp, here it is after.. *looks tiredly at calendar* four freaking months. This one is a bit of a lore dump so strap in. Forgive me if the story feels jumbled. Hope you all enjoy.)

| Part 1 

Warnings: referenced child neglect, OOC Child!Zhongli, gore (mentioned and slight), yandere (not from Zhongli though), emotional manipulation, referenced imprisonment, referenced cult, non-consensual touching (not in a sexual way tho, you pervs), angst near the end

Summary: The cogs of fate begin to turn...

The cave that Shi Yông called home was very.. minimalistic to say the least.

A large pile of slightly dusty animal furs, linen, and wool formed into a vague shape similar to that of a bird's nest that was pushed into the furthest part of the cave seemed to be the only most notable feature of the young adeptus's abode. Other than that, plus a woven basket of dirty bamboo shoots and a smaller one full of what looked to be different types of stones, the cave was practically barren.

Your hold on your crook tightened. 

'He really is alone..' you thought as you fumed silently.

"So..Shi Yông," You smiled awkwardly, trying to keep your building rage from showing on your face, "How long have you lived here?"

The boy paused. 

"Um.." His face became pensive, "I..I don't really know? As long as I can remember, I guess?"

"And how long is that?" You pressed.

The young adeptus's face grew pensive once more only to shift in discomfort after a few moments. Shi Yong bowed deeply in apology. 

"Forgive this one, Laoshi. This one is..unable to remember."

You frowned behind your mask. 

He should remember. He always remembers. He remembers everything. He never forgets, never, never, never-

You restrained a sigh and shoved away one of the whispering tendrils of fate that had caressed your mind. 

God, clairvoyance could be so annoying sometimes.

You replied to Shi Yong's little apology with a hum and waved a hand of dismissal. 

"It's fine, child, " You assured, petting his head.

You looked back out of the mouth of the cave (once again not noticing the way the youngling god seemed to completely melt under your touch), watching as the sun dipped below the horizon, leaving an vibrant red sky in it's wake.

'It took longer to get up here than expected..' You mused. 

While your initial plan was to bring Shi Yong back to his cave, gather his things, and leave, it would seem that your hopeless sense of direction and Shi Yong's state of already being lost had wound up making things even worse. 

You inhaled through your nose.

"It would seem that we will have to depart in the morning," You thought aloud.

Shi Yông blinked, then cocked his head in confusion. Then, the thought seemed to finally catch up to him and he froze. And while his gulp was silent, the subtly bobbing of his throat gave indication that he was nervous. 

"Depart?" He asked softly, clasping at your robes again with his fingers practically digging into the fabric, "You mean.. leave the mountain?"

"Yes my dear disciple," You nodded, patting his clawed hand, "By nature I am a wanderer, I do not like to stay in one place for too long."

'Well..more like I hate being confined...'

You mentally shuddered at unwanted memories that you promptly shoved into the deepest depths of your mind.

 "But for now," You murmured, reaching into your robes, "We'll rest for the night."

"Are you thirsty little adeptus?" You asked cocking your head. 

Shi Yông copied your motion as he stared at the small linen skin pouch that you now held in your hands.

"..Why?" He replied with a tone full of hesitance. 

You smirked behind your mask. 

You then proceeded to pull out a small, dark brown ceramic tea pot, a box of tea leaves, a water pouch, and two wooden cups alongside a small bamboo mat out of the impossibly small pouch. 

Shi Yông gaped.

"What-!" He pointed at the bag with fascination and wonder, "How'd you do that, Laoshi?!"

You chuckled heartily at the youngling's amazement, watching in bemusement as his tail wagged like a young puppy, his eyes wide with interest.  "Just some simple dimensional magic, little one. I could teach it to you one day, if you'd like?" You offered. An offer the young god excitedly excepted with an eager nod.

"Could you teach it to me now?" He asked with wide, sparkling eyes.

"Hm. Not now, little Shi Yông. Someday, but not now."

"Why not?"

You lifted your head to give the cave's ceiling a knowing look, as if the stalgamites shared an important secret with you.

Probably the secret about dimensional magic.

Shi Yông pouted. No fair! He wants to know too! 

"Laoshiiiii~" The little one whined, complete with puppy eyes and teary lashes. A whine that was met with a swift, but light bonk to the head via crook. 

"Oh don't pout, my little adeptus. You will learn all I have to offer in due course. Don't worry~."

"But why can't I learn it now?"

You pulled some firewood out of your bag, set them on the floor slightly away from the tea supplies, and shrugged. 

"Because you're not ready right now."

The little dragon puffed out his cheeks in irritation and stopped his little clawed foot.

"Who says I'm not ready learn? I'm a mighty long! There's nothing I can't do! Teach me! Teach me now!"

His demand was met with another bonk to the head.

"Aiyah.." You sighed, shaking your head, "Such a demanding disciple I have. Back on my world, such back talk would earn you a good thrashing across your bottom," You then turned away from the firewood and looked at him through your mask, "Shi Yông.. Dimensional magic can be finicky at best and wildly unpredictable at worse. You need to know exactly what you're doing, or else it could horribly back fire. Heck-" You made a gesturing motion with your crook, "-it could end up sending you to an alternate universe, or back in time, or, at very worse, could wind up scattering and trapping your soul across different planes of existence-"

Shi Yông looked at you with a blank look on his face, clearly confused. 

You sweat-dropped, thankful such embarrassment was hidden by your mask.

"Ahhh," You coughed awkwardly into your fist, "My point is, Dimensional magic is very advanced and very dangerous if not used with care. I.. Just don't want you getting yourself hurt, that's all."

He unfurrowed his thin brows just the slightest bit at your proclamation.

"Now, help me start a fire would you?"

"...Ok.."

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

Blood..

Death...

Ashes...

Seven sovereigns standing above the rest, bodies and skeletons of other gods crushed beneath their feet, with Celestia above simply watching the massacre unfold, smiling with bloodied, gilded teeth.

A Golden contract..

A Windswept Lyre..

A Lightening encrusted sword..

By the word of Celestia, a nation cast in the moon's shadow crumbled. "We need no other gods!" its people proclaimed, with twilight sword in hand. "You are not our maker!" its people cried, with a golden dragon at their back. "We shall free them from their gilded cage built on lies and deceit!" its people bellowed, a mighty crown upon their head. 

They were all crushed.

Every. 

Single.

One.

They were no match for Heaven's mighty hand.

Death came in one fell swoop as gods descended with unbridled fury. Even a fate worse than death came upon them, twisting their bodies into mangled minions of the Abyss, many having their minds twisted and lost. 

You cried.

The bloodshed continued, red oozing down from the sky. 

You begged.

Your body remained chained. Your children lay dead, their pleas and cries for you unanswered, their souls reaching towards the sky for you-

You screamed.

You jostled awake, panting and sweating and gulping down air you didn't need. You sat there for several moments, ripping back what remnants of your mind still remained within the folds of your power and recollecting yourself. The cave and sky were dark and little Shi Yông was currently nestling within his little space of linen and furs, safe and sound. 

You brought a shaking hand to your face, wiping away tears that had built up during your slumber.

It's okay. You're okay. None of that has happened yet, none of it except-

You little ones smiled up at you. Your concubines laughed like bells in your ears. 

Your stomach lurches. It took everything in your power not to vomit at the once happy memories. Tears escaped your eyes once more as you suppressed those vicious sobs as to not wake your precious new disciple. Several moments pass of this virulent back and forth between self-inflicted peace and stabbing, tainted memories. 

"..Your grace?"

You whirled around at the sound of a voice, an all too familiar one, coming from the cave entrance. You sighed. 

"Good evening Eligos.." You look up at him with blank and dulled eyes, your mask having been long forgotten on the floor by your slumbering self. 

The specter of pale bones and a horse's skull looked at you with what you could only guess was pity or perhaps.. empathy, if you could assume that far. 

"Did you have that dream again, your grace?" His deep voice was raspy and slightly dry, but it dripped with a soft kind of concern that only old friends or family members were privy to give. You were unsure of whether or not to answer and instead simply looked away with a shadowed face. Eligos responded by simply floating over to your side. 

His presence is cold, as it always is given his phantasmic nature. 

"How.." Your voice breaks and you wet your trembling lips, "..How did you find me?"

"Your dream led me to you," He whispered, "Just like last time."

You laugh bitterly and hang your head, hands cradling your face. 

You looked up at him from between your fingers. "..Are you going to tell them?"

"Did I tell them last time?"

"..."

He practically raised an imaginary eyebrow.

"...No," You groan.

"Why do you not trust me, your grace?" He leans down, presence practically wrapping you in cold serenity. You hate it.

"You know I don't trust anyone from the Celestial Court," You mutter darkly.

"Yet you did not attack me, neither then nor now."

You flashed him a dagger hidden within your robe, enchanted, radiant with your condensed power, before concealing it once more. "You can never be too careful," you said simply, tone flat as you got up from your bedding on the cave floor and moved to quietly tidding up the young adeptus's home. You dutifully ignored the seer spirit as you did so. 

Eligos sighed. 

He then tore his gaze from you and looked to the youngling god who was still tucked away in his little nest. 

"Is he.."

"Yes." You nod.

With a flick of your hand, a golden string flowed from one of your fingers and wrapped around the little sleeping child, slithering up one of his arms and swirling into a golden sigil-like pattern that rested between his shoulder-blades. 

"..He is one of Celestia's fated chosen."

The silence between the two of you was thick, broken only by the sounds of you shuffling about. 

"I see." He murmers and nods, "...Are you going to kill him?"

You threw your head back with a pitiless, dry laugh. 

"I could never bring myself to kill a child, you know that." ..That was true, but it wasn't the whole truth about why you kept Shi Yông alive. Eligos didn't need to know that though. You shook your head, "No, I've made him my disciple. I will teach him the true way of godhood. I will raise him."

You then dug a glare into the specter's skull.

"Will you try to take him from me?"

He bows his head to you.

"I would not dare go against your wishes, your grace. If you wish to have him as your own, then it shall be done."

You scoff loudly.

"Yes.. my wishes. As if Celestia ever cared about what I wanted," You roughly sit back down and start to reorganize your dimensional pouch to keep your hands occupied when you finally remember there was hardly anything in the cave to clean anyways, "If they did, they would have freed me and spared my-"

You stop, unable to finish that sentence. Red rims your eyes and you inhale sharply through your nose. 

"No, no," You turn and shake a finger at Eligos with a snarl, "You all treat me more like a pet or a prize more than a person. Even the tree you keep my true form in still looks like a cage from the inside."

A shadow falls over Eligos expressionless face. 

"I am not Celestia, your grace."

"Yes, but you serve them."

"I serve you!" He hissed lowly, the atmosphere around the two of you dropping far enough in temperature that you can see your breath form a pale mist, "It has always been you!"

His sheer cold presence engulfs you as he practically towers chest to nose with you. 

"I may be of the Celestia Court, but my allegiance has always been to you. That has not changed, nor will it ever change."

"Then why did you never free me?" Your eyes narrow, "If you were truly on my side, why did you leave me in there to rot?"

"You are what holds this world together. If you were freed then everything will fall. Your children's sacrifice would have been for not-!"

"MY CHILDREN-!" You halt your scream and look back a Shi Yông. Soft snores still met your ears. You then turned back to Eligos with a seething, disdainful glare full of rage and poisonous daggers.  

"My children.. sacrificed nothing. Celestia sacrificed them. You used their brain, their blood, their bodies when they screamed for you to stop, when I screamed for you to stop. You lazy louts did nothing when that Bastard who calls himself your king ripped my babies apart and built this world upon their ashes and bones. Where was your loyalty then, hm?"

Eligos was silent. 

"If I were freed, even if this false world falls, none within who are innocent would die. I still see humans and those born of my leyline blood as my children after all. You all just wanted me contained," Your eyes pierce into his soul, "You just want me all to yourself." 

"...Are you done?"

Your eyebrows shoot into your hairline.

"What?"

"I said 'Are you done?'" Eligos glared with empty eye-sockets, "Did you get it all out of your system?"

"What?" You sputter, "What are you-?"

Before you can even realize, Eligos has you backed into a wall, shoved against the rocky surface and pinned against it by the shoulders. 

"Listen here-."

Your eyes widen, then harden. 

Eligos screeches when you slash his ghostly form with your dagger, white ooze dripping from the wound as he stumbled back. 

"You knew I had a weapon, yet you still had the nerve to try and intimidate me like that," You chuckle darkly with a smirk, "Color me impressed."

The specter glowers as you sheath the dagger. 

"You may not believe me when I say it, but I am yours. I will serve you even if you were to cut me into a thousand pieces," He hisses, his form flickering as the enchantments on the dagger begin to kick in, "You can banish me or run from me, but I will always find you. You cannot resist me forever. Those dreams of war will not leave you so easily, your grace. You and I are tied, whether you like it or not!" 

"G e t  O u t ."

Your power obeyed, whisking the celestial specter away without another word. You stumble back against the wall, letting out a few shaky breaths. You heard back over to your bedding, slipped your mask back on, and let out a sigh of relief.

I need to keep this on.. They'll keep finding me if I don't...

Without even realizing it, you had stumbled, almost drunkenly over to the young god's bed, completely drained mentally and emotionally. Your hand reached over and gently carded through the sleeping adeptus's long, matted hair. 

You chuckled to yourself, "I really need to give you a bath..or a comb."

How surprising that the little one still managed to sleep like a log after all that. Truly, perhaps not even a hurricane could wake him once he lay down for sleep. You rested your cheek on the rim of the makeshift nest, with your hand still resting on his head before moving to rest on his upper back, fingers tracing his upper spine where the sigil had been.  

"Soul child.." You murmur gently, "My soul child.. I will protect you and all your siblings to come with all my heart. On this I swear."

That night, you fell back asleep with a hand rest on your child and tears staining the inside of your mask. 

----------

Extra:

Reader: *pulls out knife to fight Eligos*

Their bonking stick sitting patiently in the corner: Lonely~, I am so lonely~, I have no bodyyyyyy-

Tagging: @raidengaile  @i-put-the-yan-in-polyandry @mikachuchu @willowedwisteria @bamboowrites ​

[slasherscream]

hear me out crazy ass boy gang with a s/o that writes them songs but has never shown them. randomly the guys find them knowing them some are gonna be insufferable with the amount of arrogance they now possess and some of them have no clue what to do with the concept of someone loving them and verbalizing it 🥺

A/N: oooh my gosh i'm obsessed with this concept

billy loomis: Was waiting for you to get back from school/work, and couldn’t keep his hands to himself. He wasn’t necessarily trying to find anything, but the book was on your desk- you were asking him to read it, at this point. He’s only halfheartedly looking until he realizes the words are lyrics. It doesn’t take a genius to realize the love songs are written with him in mind. At first it makes him smirk. But he can see the evolution of your relationship through the lyrics. General feelings of infatuation melting into the deeper connection of being in love with him, as opposed to being in love with love itself. It’s an ego boost, for sure. Mostly it’s a relief. Here are your feelings, written out on page, clear as day. Your every unfiltered thought. He doesn’t tell you he read the book. He just walks around with a knowing smirk on his face that you’re very suspicious of. You’re easily distracted from this onset of smugness by his sudden romantic nature. He’s never been a bad boyfriend, but he’s certainly never been so downright doting. Not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, you decide to just enjoy this random streak of tenderness.

josh washington: You two were moving in together and he was just trying to unpack some of your boxes for you. He’s honestly just setting up your desk for you. All the boxes are marked so that either one of you can unpack anything inside with at least a vague idea of where the stuff should go. Something about the unmarked notebook that doesn’t look like its for school makes him take a look inside. When he realizes how personal it is he wants to put it down. Then he spots his name... and well, he isn’t a saint.

He melts as he goes through the pages. He knows the two of you love each other. You have to love each other, with all the bullshit you’ve been through. But he knows it’s not easy to be with him. Sometimes he worries that you’ll wake up one day and be done with him. Be done with all the problems that come with being with him. He wouldn’t blame you but the thought leaves him hollow. He doesn’t know what he’d do without you. He doesn’t know if he could handle you being gone. You love him though. It’s inked into the pages. Some songs written out slow and careful, and others written out sloppy and fast, like you had to get all the feeling out of your chest because it hurt to have it all trapped inside. You’ll walk in carrying takeout and find Josh crying. You nearly drop the food to run and comfort him. When he tells you what’s wrong - or really, what isn’t wrong, you won’t even have the heart to be angry. He looks somewhere between overwhelmed and awe. All he can think to do is pull you into his arms. He holds you so tightly you wonder if he’s afraid someone will come and take you away.

stu macher: He was just going through your stuff because he was bored, honestly. He wasn’t expecting to find anything juicy. The minute he realizes he’s holding onto a notebook full of songs he’s giddy. It’s practically a diary! You'll come into your bedroom and see him poring over your words without shame. He won’t even have the decency to stop. “Hey babe!”, will be his absentminded greeting as his eyes stay glued to a far-too-familiar book. You’ll have to literally snatch it from him. “Didn’t know you felt this way about me.” His teasing will be relentless. You’ll have to threaten to break up with him, and give him a bit of the silent treatment too. Eventually he’ll ease up on you, his grin going soft around the edges. “You should show me them on your own next time. Else I’ll have to go hunting for ‘em.” It’s not an idle threat. Now that he knows the book exists he’ll really tear up your entire house looking for it. Don’t bother trying to hide it. It won’t be worth the headache. 

jd: His first instinct is to become insufferable. As he reads more of your lyrics, he starts getting overwhelmed. Even as he holds the proof in his hands, he can barely wrap his head around you feeling so strongly about him. He traces over your handwriting and relishes every word. You'll catch him in the act but you won't have the chance to get angry. He kisses you like a man starved. Whispers every thought of love he's ever had against your lips, uncaring if he sounds obsessed. He was allowed a glimpse at your soul. It's only fair that he bares his in return.

kevin khatchadourian: Honestly was indifferent at first. He was going through your things because ‘why shouldn't he?‘ when he found all the songs. Page after page he reads. Slowly but surely it starts to get to him. The only person who's ever loved him is his father, and that love is built upon an endless tapestry of falsehoods and manipulation. His father loves someone who doesn't exist. His mother knows him, always has, but she despises him. Celia loves him, but it's pathetic. The hopeless and unthinking love of a dog. And now there's you. When he's with you he drops the act of normality he puts on for everyone else. You were around so constantly that he couldn't stomach wearing the mask 24/7. Beyond that though, there was something about you that made him want to show you everything. At first he thought he wanted to scare you. Now he doesn't know what he really wants from you.

As he reads through the pages he's sifting through your words, finding the deeper meanings. Watches as you stop writing about his mask, and start writing about him. Jagged and malicious and apathetic as he might be. You're infatuated          maybe you even love him. You've written out the words in a hundred different ways. He can see it every time you look at him, reach for him, follow him, talk to him. Reading it is different, somehow. You probably never wanted him to see these words. To know the depth of how you feel. You were probably afraid he'd mock you. A few months ago he would have. Now? He puts the book back, exactly where he found it.

He won't tell you about reading it, but the words are always on his mind. You'll think you misplaced the book one day and be beside yourself over losing it. Eventually you’ll find it again, out of the blue. Something is off about it though... but you’re not sure what. You’ll never know that what you have is a replica of the original book. A good replica, granted, but a replica nonetheless. Kevin thought about the songs too much, and committing them all to memory hadn’t scratched the itch. The constant cycle of the words running through his head. The irritation he’d feel when he forgot a part of a song, or mixed lyrics together. Having the book itself? It quieted his mind. He’s uncomfortable with the fact that he keeps it under his bed, tucked away inside a lock box, just so no one would be able to look at it. He’s never felt so protective over an item before. He tries not to think about it too much.

nathan prescott: He actually looked at your song book on accident. He needed to borrow some notes for a class and you told him he could just go to your room and grab them. He would never go searching for something like that. Saying he values his privacy would be an understatement, so he'd never disrespect yours. As soon as he realizes these are songs he wants to stop reading... but he's desperate to know what you think of him. People lie so easily, but here's a chance to see the raw truth of how you feel. He's terrified as he starts to read. Then he's just shocked. He'd hoped you weren't like everyone else around him. Wanting him to fail, to lose it, waiting for some sort of pay-off or trickle down. Even if you were, he wanted you so badly he was willing to have you any way you came, as long as you stayed. But here you are, your deepest feelings written out in ink, and you love him. You don't even pity him, you ache for him, want him. The next time he sees you he tells you he loves you for the first time. You'll never know that he read your songs, you'll only notice how much your relationship seemed to change over night.

sebastian valmont: Has to deflect. The only reason he’s being such an asshole about your songs is because he’s trying to deflect. He’s the only one here who has also written about you. Maybe not in lyrics, or in poetry, but he’s written about you. His diary is full of you. He started writing about you the moment he met you. Not unusual for him, considering absolutely everything is in his journals. But from the start there’s been something different about the entries that mention you. All his words suddenly become electric, leaping off the page. His descriptions of you, of the time you spent together, nearing obsessive in their detail. As if you were a puzzle he was trying to solve.

If there’s anything Sebastian is good at its manipulation. He knows he has you. He can have anyone, if he puts his mind to it. He’s made people fall in love with him before. There’s a long line of people who wants his head on a platter for that very reason. You’re the only prize that’s ever mattered, though. He has you now, sure. But what about tomorrow? Or the day after that? It’s easy for eyes to wander, for the heart to turn fickle. Sometimes he watches you and tries to imagine what you might want from him. Tries to figure out what he could do to keep you interested from moment to moment. If he ever shared his worries with you, his worries that you could just get bored with him and leave, just like that - you’d tell him you don’t want him to be anyone but himself. And Sebastian doesn’t want to be anyone but himself, he doesn’t. But people contain multitudes, are more than a single face. He’d rather be a version of himself that captivates you then a “true” version of himself that you can grow tired of.

But here’s written proof that you love him. As he is. All the long nights you’ve spent talking to one another, side by side. The conversations where you traded barbs and philosophy, and everything in-between. The dinners, and picnics, and phone calls, and rooftops. He was so busy observing you, and trying to create a version of himself that you could love, that he forgot that there was something real for you to fall for. Didn’t even know how much of himself he was earnestly offering to you. Now he can see it in ink, and it’s scary, even with how much he loves you, to realize how much of the real him you know.

So he’s an asshole for a few days. When you confront him he falls apart like a wet sandcastle. You won’t have time to get angry before he’s pushing his own journals into your hands. Sebastian has never played fair, but something about you seeing through him despite all his masks made him want to show you more. As scary as it had been, it was also a moment of pure connection. The most electric, addicting thing he’s ever felt. He wants to feel it over and over again.

[that-foul-legacy-lover]

The Day the Ocean Erupted

Foul Legacy Childe x Reader Gender Neutral (no pronouns mentioned) Angst, Hurt/Comfort Warnings: Allusions to death, drowning, pain, storms, thunder, rain

~ * ~

You remember the day the ocean erupted.

You’d been in your office, at 2 PM exactly, pen in hand and ink spotting your fingers, the culprits a stack of papers in the upper corner. The sun had filtered through your window and casted shining streamers on your desk as you wrote, typical of Liyue’s golden summers. You tapped your pen against your chin- how to phrase this next sentence? Should you focus on one or two types of silk? You hummed contemplatively, then scribbled a few more words. Sturdiness- that was important to mention in a report, especially one about something elegant like silk. The room filled with a comforting silence as you wrote word after word on the paper in the delicate warmth of the sun.

The first drop came and went without attention. But it was soon followed by another. And another. And another, until the sky was shedding all its tears into the streets and ocean of the city. Your pen had fallen from your grasp with a resounding clatter as you stood to peer outside the window, your eyes narrowed. Rain? In Liyue? Now? It was ridiculous.

Then something burst out of the ocean and you fell backwards in shock, pushing yourself away from the window despite being on one of the upper levels of the harbor. You rushed downstairs and pushed your door open, catching glimpses of an enormous serpentine creature rising from the waters as people rushed up and down the streets in a panic. The rain poured down in buckets, drenching everything and everyone, and all around there’s a frenzy of screaming, shouting, yelling, the same phrase reworded a thousand times, The Fatui did this, it’s the Fatui’s fault, the Fatui are to blame, and you could only think of one thing- your associate, your acquaintance, your companion.

Your friend.

Childe. Where was he? Vanished to the Golden House, they told you, but not as Childe, as Tartaglia, the Harbinger. For business, he said.

But soon you were swept up with the waves of screaming, and the thought had been lost.

That was weeks ago, when the Traveler had harnessed the power of the Adepti and defeated the old god Osial, with a final blow from Lady Ningguang’s Jade Chamber to seal him in the sea. The entire nation held its breath as Fatui activity wavered, dropped, then fizzled out completely. Life returned to normal, the seasons rolling by like a sigh of relief as reassuring whispers spread the news that the Fatui were finally, finally stopping their irritating interferences with the harbor.

You finish your final words and set your pen down, a thoughtful frown prominent on your face. You’ve never really been affected by the Fatui. For the most part they simply existed, a rumored plague on the Liyue Qixing with their endless meddling, but to you they were simple guards standing near doors and on the docks. On occasion when you had to wait there you would make conversation, to which most of them would respond to either in earnest or slightly tense surprise. For all their supposed horrid tendencies and practices and nosiness, you had found that many of the Fatui were, quite simply, people; people from a different nation and far away from home. People who had their own interests and likes and dislikes. People who had their own reasons and dreams and realities.

People who had all vanished when the last ripple in the ocean had stilled. And among them, your friend Childe, the Eleventh Harbinger Tartaglia. He was the only Fatui you would really consider a friend, the others being mere acquaintances. He was always teasingly kind to you, offering to get you a meal or asking to spend some offtime together. You, ever-suspicious, had often refused, but he was persistent and determined to chip down your walls one by one. And when they shook and crumbled your friendship had blossomed, despite the odd melancholy in his eyes whenever he looked at you, a question you never knew the answers to.

All this he was. But he was gone now, you suppose, following the tall, elegant woman you had seen exiting the Northland Bank to the mysterious depths of Inazuma. He looked so exhausted, outwardly appearing as tired as you sometimes felt inside, and your brow pinches.

You sigh and set your pen to the side before rising from your chair, cursing yourself for contemplating old memories. You don’t expect Childe to return anytime soon, if ever, so perhaps some thoughts are best left packaged in their pretty boxes scattered around the attic of your mind. The door swings open as you slip on your coat- it’s chilly outside, and you walk to the teashop for a new blend and distraction from the conflicting turmoil in your head.

The rain begins just as you hurry back home, having forgotten your umbrella in a moment of carelessness. Liyue’s winters, while cold and biting, never froze the storms that encroached almost every other day, instead letting icy droplets of slush fall on people’s backs and clothes. The clouds shield the few stars in the sky from view, blocking out the moon and turning the raindrops an inky black. You shove your door open and immediately shut and lock it again with a sigh of relief, shaking out your clothes and rubbing your chilled hands together. Your breathing is the only sound in the house, and your bones soon settle with a deep chill as the pressing quiet seems more and more foreboding. You cock your head to the side and hear an ever-so-faint rustling sound, and you pick up your weapon before making your way down the hall.

When you reach the living room you blink in surprise. Unlike what you expected, nothing is broken, not a dish is out of place, no drawers are flung open and riffled through. Nothing is wrong, nothing is out of order, your limited vision tells you, but a cold breeze sends goosebumps down your arms and you make your way over to the ajar window, very nearly bumping into furniture several times. You fumble with the latch and pull the window shut, dragging the curtain closed as if to cover the rain with elegant patterns and cloth, and for a few moments, you listen to the steady pour outside as it creates a chiming melody on the roof and glass.

Something breathes next to you. You whirl away in shock, clutching your weapon tightly. Something is here with you, watching you across the room, observing your every move as you hurry to light a match for some semblance of sight, the lamps in your house completely useless right now. The match strikes and connects, a yellow flame bursting to life, flickering like a firefly. You hold it up and come face-to-face with a single eye. Enormous and pearly, it gleams softly in the darkness, although whether it is blue or purple you cannot say. Sharp, plated red armor surrounds it, mask-like and curling into twin horns. The creature’s skin is also armored and bony, shades of purple and black with occasional splashes of red or silver, covered by a pair of translucent, sparkling wings like the deepest sea. It towers over you, claws and teeth razor sharp even in the persisting gloom, and you gasp and stumble away in terror. The starry wings and deep, rich colors, and the feeling it emanates, of being crushed and drowned by shining waves…

An Abyssal creature, some sort of monstrous beast from the depths of your world. It must be.

You back away from it, your chest tight with fear and the thought of death, of dying at the hands of this monster, holding your weapon so tightly you fear it might crack in your grip.

You’ve never been a fighter, only practical enough to keep a weapon you could use nearby. Between you and the creature, the creature would win with a simple swipe of its claws, and you would bleed out on the floor until you didn’t exist anymore, just another body lost to the infinite ocean.

But there is no attack, no clashing, no burning, searing pain, only a soft, sad whimper. You open your eyes and see the creature reaching out to you, crawling across the floor like standing causes it agony, as it lets out a broken and desperate wail. You take a step back again, then a step forward, your fear seeping out of you. Holding the match higher, you lean forward and squint, dots of color bleeding into the environment.

Ginger. Wondrously fluffy ginger hair, although it's wet with rainwater, and a single streak of white like snow.

You know who, and you say who before you even think who, uttering out it’s, his, name in a hushed whisper.

Childe.

Your weapon forgotten, you stand shellshocked in a corner of the room, so still and frozen that Childe himself attempts to rise to his feet, only to fall back to the ground with a pained cry, a sound that snaps your thoughts like shattering ice as you rush to support him. He scratches his claws on the ground, hiccupping, sobbing, whining tearfully at a pain you can’t see. You place a hand on the side of his face and he leans into it, almost slumping to the ground as he brings his hand up to cover your own. He stares at you, pained and suffering, with the same melancholy as before, a melancholy you now understand means I cannot love you, even though I so wish to, it is forbidden by fate and stars, and your heart breaks. 

You pick up a distant rumble of thunder, and Childe yelps in fear, wrapping his claws around you and pressing his face into your side, trembling. Your fingers stroke through his hair, running down the sides of his face and horns, and his sobs die to labored breathing as exhaustion finally overtakes him and lets his body relax.

You remember the day the ocean poured down from the sky. It was now, in a dark room with a pinprick flame of light, holding the consequences of the Abyss.

[iridescene]

— primary colours [ a reader x thoma oneshot ]

characters: reader x thoma word count: ~1.9k content warnings: college au, mutual pining, childhood friends to lovers. some alcohol consumption. a/n: i have never been to a corn maze before. this might be fun, ost: 🎶 let’s get lost by carly rae jepsen

you loved thoma; you truly did.

you like to believe he’s the first thing you remember about this world – after all, you’ve known each other from before the advent of each other’s memories; and from the inane to the important, there was little the both of you didn’t do together or know about each other. his amiable disposition, his unwavering determination, his sometimes outrageous creativity, not to mention the way would be there for you and made sure you were never left out… as childhood blossomed into youth, so did these ‘reasons why thoma is my best friend!’ (as scribbled by you on a kindergarten assignment) fall locked within the innermost depths of your heart, transforming into just a few of the reasons you had now grown to be hopelessly, irrevocably in love with him.

it had long been your deepest wish to tell him how you felt, yet the time never seemed right; never seemed opportune, never seemed lighthearted enough for you to make sure everything you had both built in all the years of knowing each other would not be brought to ash by three simple words.

it was easy to name all the things you loved thoma for. as for the things you loved him despite…

you gaze at the tall, blond figure in front of you, clad in his signature crimson windbreaker with a picnic basket slung about one elbow. in his hands he held a crumpled paper map, looking back and forth between his surroundings and the markings on it. with every raise of his head, you watch as the autumn sun reflected off his verdant eyes, bringing out their breathtaking viridescence – a welcome sight against the dizzying walls of golden corn around you, their hues made richer by a sun approaching dusk, and the cloudless blue sky overhead.

it had been thoma’s idea to visit the corn maze – summer had come and gone in a flash, and the both of you, overwhelmed by the onslaught of bullshit that came with every new year at college, were desperate for a small change of pace. it was also along this line of reasoning that upon arriving at the farm which hosted the maze, thoma suggested the both of you leave your phones locked in the glove box of his car, lest either of you be distracted by obligations and fascinations of the outside world, defeating the point of this trip as one of respite.

at the time, you trusted thoma enough to believe this break from telecommunication not only exciting but also necessary, but now you wondered if the restlessness you felt – the uncertainty of not knowing where exactly you were, of information being beyond your reach, of being beyond the convenience of calling for help (something you had once deemed the ‘easy way out’, but weren’t so sure about anymore) – was a result of, for lack of a better term, addiction-associated anxiety, or simply a by-product of being helplessly lost.

it had been hours since you entered the maze; more than half an hour, to your estimate, since you had last seen one of those ‘checkpoints’ – wooden signs interspersed about the area – and gathered your bearings. though thoma had been the one to lead the way, you couldn’t help but feel perhaps this situation was partly your doing for not insisting hard enough that the both of you play it safe, take the quickest route from one checkpoint to the next, instead of indulging his adventurous detours. you huff, part in exhaustion and part exasperation, and call out to thoma.

“thoma…”

at the sound of his name, thoma pauses. he sighs and turns to face you, the smile on his chiseled face a mix of embarrassment, amusement, and resignation. since when did he get so handsome? the unanswerable question prompted by his visage once again echoes through your mind.

“i know,” he begins, gingerly folding the map into quarters before he throwing his hands up in defeat. “i’ll admit it. i have no idea where we’re going anymore.”

he looks to the ground and scratches the back of his head, a sheepish countenance on his face as he apologises, “i’m sorry.”

SINCE WHEN DID HE GET SO ADORABLE? the thrilling sequel to the previous question now reverberates through your mind as an inaudible yet somehow earth-shattering screech. he looks like a puppy! he looks like a puppy when they’ve done something they’re not supposed to, and– you gulp, attempting to bring your high-speed bullet train of thought to as collected a halt as possible and calm your heart, now pounding past every last speed limit fathomable, to a once again breathable pace. you step toward him, and place a hand on his shoulder.

“thoma,” you tilt your head to meet his eyes, squeezing his shoulder and offering as reassuring a smile you could muster. “it’s alright. besides–” you tilt your head towards the basket around his arm, “why don’t we take a break here?”

following your gaze, he glances to the picnic basket around his arm, then to the dirt path underfoot – fortunately wide enough to accommodate the both of you and any passers-by, should they move in a single file. “okay,” he accepts of your proposal, and removes the picnic mat from the basket, laying it upon the dusty ground.

you soon settle into your impromptu picnic with thoma, you munching on a rich, buttered cob of corn, while he cracked open a bottle of apple cider with his utility knife. leave for the occasional caw of crows or whisper of a passing breeze, the silence between you is comfortable, as it always has been; yet you couldn’t help but feel something stirring in the space between you.

you two had fought before, yes; had both dragged things out into the open as soon as they upset you and left things to fester till they reached fever pitch. yet, every single time, be it through time, space, patience and words, the two of you had always made up.

is thoma upset that he couldn’t navigate us through the maze? you begin to wonder, did he have a reason for doing things the way he did, and is now crestfallen at things not going according to plan? keeping these speculations in mind, you part your lips to speak; unexpectedly, thoma beats you to it.

“man…” thoma drawls, leaning back as he rest his weight on one of his palms, “and it was so pretty too. the perfect backdrop. too bad we probably have no time.”

you blink in confusion, the concerns you had prior now shying away from the tip of your tongue. “backdrop to what?” you venture.

thoma chuckles. he takes another sip of apple cider, and rests his cheek against his shoulder as his eyes – god, those vivacious, captivating emerald eyes – meet yours.

“to tell you i love you, of course.”

you freeze. you blink, eyes wide as saucers as you stare transfixed at thoma. at your stupefied expression, the curve of his smile slowly grows to a grin, then into a full-on, wholehearted laugh that rang like a melody through the gleaming corridors of corn around you and the azure sky above. in your heart, it was as if a nuclear explosion of myriad colors – some you presumed, if tangible, would only be visible to shrimp – had gone off, blowing to pieces the most carefully organised and calculated place within your soul in the most chaotic, ecstatic way possible.

“you… you love me?” you stutter in disbelief, “i mean, you love me, in the sense that you mean as more than just a friend, that you’d like us to go out on dates, and hold hands, and– oh god.” you place your half-eaten cob of corn on the tinfoil it came wrapped in, and covered your reddening face with both hands, drawing your knees to your chest. thoma’s gentle laughter grows ever closer to you, and he gently wraps a hand around your wrist, pulling it from your face.

“yes,” he smiles, green eyes brimming with a tenderness you didn’t quite know they were capable of. “i wanted to tell you for the longest time, but it just never seemed right, or i chickened out, or well… if it’s too serious, it kind of puts on the line everything we’ve had all these years, you know?”

you blink. you know all too well. he continues.

“moments with you… back then, even now, and till forever… they’ll always remain my warmest and most precious memories. i never want to lose them, and i never want to lose you.”

with these words, he cups your face in his palms. since when had they grown so strong, so seasoned, so rough yet so gentle? you wonder to yourself, a silent question to a silent serenity. he pulls your forehead to his, resting your faces against each other, as his gaze wanders to your lips, thumb dancing upon the plush, supple skin.

“may i?” he whispers, and ever so slightly, you nod.

the kiss starts gentle; reverent almost, as if he were not kissing another person but a being ephemeral, delicate, divine – and who’s to say you were not all those things to him; that his rock, his closest of friends, his unyielding companion through tears and through time, should not hold such exalted status in his soul? it is only when you press into him harder, in your own clumsy yet courageous way, that he dares to push back and be cheeky, be adventurous, be himself who fell in love with you.

his tongue teases the parting of your lips, and you can’t help but grin into the kiss. “already?” you whisper against his lips, and softly he jests in reply, “shut up. i’ve been waiting for you all these years. i don’t know how this goes.”

you smile back against his lips, and as you do, you think of the scene leading up to this: the walls of corn, woven from gold, the azure sky overhead, smiling down at you in blessings of pure blue, and of course, his trusty crimson windbreaker, who carried with it the scent of him and of home, both of which would now carry new meaning to you too.

yellow, blue, red – the palette of this memory, all primary colours, each bearing limitless potential, yet only so finite without melting into another. it made you think of your memories with thoma – how your bond had begun simple like each of these hues; yet with the passage of time, each ebb and flow of your intertwined souls would weave a hue bolder, more lucid, more candid than last, before culminating in an incandescent brilliance that burst forth as soon as one’s lips met the other.

as your hearts felt fit, the both of you pull away from the kiss. “wow,” he breathes, “i think i’m gonna like corn a lot more from now on.”

your face scrunches up into a giggle, and that sight alone was enough for thoma to conclude that if you ever exuded any light before, the way you shone in his eyes at this moment could rival even that of the sun’s. you meet his eyes, enraptured and enthralled, and rebut with your own witty remark.

“i never knew apple cider could taste this sweet.”

[lostsoulaltair]

OnS Theories (24S). Second Theory - Explanation of the Memory Segment and the World of Illusions.

Hello everyone, finally we start with new theories, and I must say, chapter 106 just rocked. It was a really well done chapter, sasuga Kagami-sensei!

Nevertheless, there have been many doubts surrounding it, specially one about Mika and Shikama appearing, which actually have a more simple explanation than what it looks like, therefore, let’s begin!

P.S: Theories are held within neutral view and ships are excluded

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Js0bL1jOjeY

Before I start up explaining how this memory segment and the illusions work, let’s make a review or recap of the chapter:

First of all, the chapter resumes were Mikaela saw the big eye in the darkness; of course, such eye represents the depthness within Yu’s heart, as to why, I’ll explain that later on, but nevertheless, he noticed something peculiar about such eye:

Image taken from Seraph of the End: Vampire Reign - Chapter 106

He was aware the eye meant no harm to him, thus leading him to touch it, which of course, the eye gave permission to him, but why?

The reason to this is very simple; despite the eye which in fact is Yuu’s heart, or the source of origin of Yuu; the memories and experiences that have been withstood within Yuu along being engraved deep within his very soul remain there, thus meaning he trusts Mika completely, knowing he does not mean any harm along the very fact that he does see him as an equal, a human to the very core.

After this, the memory segment begins.

Image taken from Seraph of the End: Vampire Reign - Chapter 106

But, is this truthfully a memory segment?

The answer to this is absolutely yes.

You might wonder where or how exactly this is possible, and for that, I’ll bring the biggest reference possible to this kind of scenario and that is the franchise of Assassin’s Creed.

For those who might not know, Assassin’s Creed is a game franchise which of course, focuses on a secret order that works in the shadows to keep balance in the world against Templars, but of course, the main point or comparison is that the game itself uses memory segments, what do I mean?

The MC within those titles, uses a special machine to experience and live in a simulation the memories of their ancestors...

Along this, another anime that uses such events is actually a bizarre anime that I do not recommend to watch, which is Corpse Party. (Warning: Do not watch unless you tolerate horror and gore)

Within said anime, there’s a scene on which one of the main cast gets to experience lively what happened to the unfortunate souls that were living in a constant grudge to their tragic past. Which this could relate as living a memory segment as well...

And this is precisely what happens with Mikaela after touching said eye. ,it could be said he is set into a world made of the memories the very origin of Yuu experienced in flesh, which is why the next panel goes like this:

Image taken from Seraph of the End: Vampire Reign - Chapter 106

In the picture above and my failed attempts to trace a circle, the one looking at everything is in fact Mikaela Hyakuya; which is why he asks about where he currently is, along the creepy eyes in the tanks along spotting a child which is Yuu, the one that lived in with the progenitors and the chosen apostles.

It could be said that the big eyeball that allowed Mikaela to touch it, displayed Mika the distant past, along letting him experience everything in flesh, which is why he took the form of the tiny eye watching everything including Yuu.

Following this, Noya arrives and spots Yuu, which of course, knowing Yuu’s nature, he’s quite happy and hopeful to awake Mika without the knowledge of knowing that, in order to awake the corpse, he needs to disappear, but of course, knowing Noya’s nature, he stops being tolerant with him and decapitates him in the act:

Image taken from Seraph of the End: Vampire Reign - Chapter 106

Of course, to the scene, Ashera arrives and tells Noya that he shouldn’t have done that since Sika Madu would take heed and notice the incidents going around. (To this point, the memory segment is normal.)

This follows up Noya into saying that he’ll create another:

Image taken from Seraph of the End: Vampire Reign - Chapter 106

Within the circled dialogue box and the eye floating which of course is Mikaela, he notices that from the eyes that were floating in those tanks, they instantly materialized Yuu which of course was bestowed with life once it was out of the tank.

But since Noya couldn’t tolerate how noisy the cloned Yuu was, he ended up killing the newborn clone, thus leading to Mikaela’s position:

Image taken from Seraph of the End: Vampire Reign - Chapter 106

Mikaela realized he’d get materialized as Yuu and by experience, understood that if he made a noise, he’d get killed:

Image taken from Seraph of the End: Vampire Reign - Chapter 106

But now, the biggest question comes, which one could it be?

How was Noya not able to detect the changes and why did this memory segment continued? Does it mean the memory segment continued normally?

Within this, there are two scenarios:

First Scenario - The Past Simply Repeated Itself

Within this First Scenario, it’s very likely that the next clone made of Yuu wasn’t killed, which of course paints very well as to why Noya didn’t do anything else like ejecting or killing the current clone standing

Second Scenario - The Memory Segment didn’t consider such action as a huge alteration of the events

Within this scenario, which is likely just like the first one, it implies that the memory segment wasn’t affected that much, which is why it didn’t get destroyed or ejected Mikaela from it, since sooner or later, the next part of the segment would replay leading the events of seeing Shikama and the other demons arriving to the scene, and the biggest proof to this is the next panel:

Image taken from Seraph of the End: Vampire Reign - Chapter 106

After Noya and Ashera stopped paying mind to the clone of Yuu in there, Mikaela managed to wonder who they were and where exactly such events took place, thus leading to the arrival of the other demons which, until that spot, was where the memory segment was going or replaying:

Image taken from Seraph of the End: Vampire Reign - Chapter 106

When the other demons arrived, the memory segment was slowly getting disturbed by something, but what could this something mean?

Correct. The Power of Illusion and Distortion

The First Progenitor is well known to have powers that are equivalent of those to a God; powers that are extremely powerful to invade whatever he wishes to do, but, within this, the First Progenitor hasn’t even considered that within his schemes, there’s already a Trojan Horse invading his plans since the First Progenitor pretty much underestimates everything around him due to his arrogance which is why Rigr uses this disadvantage of the First to execute his plans without his notice:

Image taken from Seraph of the End: Vampire Reign - Chapter 106

Once Rigr finishes the countdown, the First Progenitor manages to fully materialize within the Memory Segment but, how is that possible?

Since the First Progenitor is capable of invading other’s hearts, which is heavily seen within chapter 73:

Image taken from Seraph of the End: Vampire Reign - Chapter 73

Back in chapter 73, Shikama managed to infiltrate in Ashera’s heart with ease, without alerting Yuu about it, since he was pretty much focused on making Ashera remember their agenda and goals to fulfill which lead to the current present.

But returning to the main theory, how exactly does this revolve around the powers of illusion and distortion?

For this, it is needed to understand that the memory segment acts like a Lucid Dream, which can be defined as this:

Lucid dreams are when you know that you’re dreaming while you’re asleep.

You’re aware that the events flashing through your brain aren’t really happening. But the dream feels vivid and real. You may even be able to control how the action unfolds, as if you’re directing a movie in your sleep.

Link source: https://www.webmd.com/sleep-disorders/lucid-dreams-overview

This only gives strength as to why Mikaela was capable of changing few aspects without distorting the events of the past, but, since both Yuu and him lowered their guards, the First Progenitor had a door, but which one?

Correct. Asuramaru

After Asuramaru saw the transformation of the vampire Mikaela into a demon, he was able to remember everything, including how he became an apostle to Shikama and his loyalty towards him.

His main task is to serve him and retrieve Mikaela’s soul but since he was forced to obey Yuu due to the laws of the contract, the only thing Asuramaru might have been able to do is allow Shikama Doji enter within his heart, allowing him to fully enter into the heart of Yuu which was left wide open.

Thus leading to the next event, which is, creating an illusion, what do I mean?

After he managed to enter into Yuu’s heart or rather the deepest part of his heart, he mixed himself within the memory segment, allowing the segment to continue until he reached a safe distance where Mikaela was present, what do I mean?

This could be described as him acting as a part of the memory segment, but, instead of showing the memory of Sika Madu; he exchanged that memory figure with him, which could be single defined as substitution.

Which is why once he got close to Mika, the next thing that happened was this:

Image taken from Seraph of the End: Vampire Reign - Chapter 106

The Sika Madu displaying there isn’t the one from the past, but in fact, it’s the current Shikama Doji wearing a disguise and this is heavily seen by how he was able to manifest the scythes he currently uses as a demon; hence why he states he didn’t expect Mikaela would come that far to the past, and this is actually due to the fact that Mikaela wanted to understand why Yuu was that way and what he was mixed into, thus leading to the next panel:

Image taken from Seraph of the End: Vampire Reign - Chapter 106

Mikaela realizes that the real monster managed to appear within the memory segment or lucid dream he was experiencing since he heavily states that he has to wake up and get out of there.

But within this, there’s something rather curious that many readers within the spanish and english fandom wonder, what could it be?

What does Shikama mean by not letting Mika get away again?

That’s actually easy, what do I mean?

If many might recall, in chapter 98 Shikama made an act of presence in order to retrieve the demon Mikaela by sending Asuramaru, Gekkouin and Kiseki-O to his wolrd, which, they almost managed to capture:

Image taken from Seraph of the End: Vampire Reign - Chapter 101

Of course, what they didn’t consider was the fact that Yuu was heading their way to save Mikaela, which is why the First Progenitor is doing the job himself:

  Image taken from Seraph of the End: Vampire Reign - Chapter 106

Of course, due to the massive difference of power, Mikaela isn’t capable of defending himself, but, within this, there’s something huge to highlight, what could it be?

The current Demon Mikaela isn’t tied to Shikama Doji

What does this mean?

It means that the demon Mikaela is made of all the life experiences and memories Mikaela Hyakuya lived, it means the past he had is the one he lived, BUT, the very reason the First Progenitor targets his soul it’s because he needs a soul to bring back whatever he wants to bring which of course it’s not good news.

Once he gets Mika’s soul, Mika and Yuu will cease to exist.

Which is why, the next thing that happens is this one:

Image taken from Seraph of the End: Vampire Reign - Chapter 106

Yuu goes to his rescue as a voice; he reminds Mika that he’s not alone but in order to save him, he needs to accept the deal and contract of becoming his demon, so he can get more powerful and finally fend against the monster Shikama Doji truthfully is.

With this theory, it is focused to explain the events that happened in the latest chapter.

Hope this theory solves the many doubts the fandom may have!

Hope you enjoyed reading this!

What do you think dear readers?

Let me know!

[prodtrouver]

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞ ❣︎☺︎☹︎ You were my love, but it was all a dream.

It was the feeling of sadness that broke Soobin's smile. His years stained the knitted red sweater he has worn all these years with you. Stuck in an endless black room where the large table stood in the middle.

You've made his life better ever since he entered that room. The laughs you gave to him. The conversations you shared with him. The love you made with him. It made his life feel better.

However, right now — you were about to say goodbye. His hands were wrapped around your wrists, you could feel him express his sorrow at your last time being together.

You were his heart, his mind, his whole world. He's spent so much time with you. He's fallen deeply in love with you but now, you were about to become a memory he once lived with. His times with you will just fly away like butterflies.

"Soobin, love... We'll meet again," your gentleness made him crumble more. His heart in shambles as you both sat in the middle of the large table. His hands shook as he tightly held you close.

"no! I'm not ready. I don't want to let you go — I don't want you to leave." Cried Soobin; his voice had traces of misery and fragility. He cannot express how much he loves you and now, you're about to leave. You're about to leave him.

"Soobin, I have to — you have people waiting for you. You have people who will light up this dark room of yours. I promise you, we'll meet again." Your fingers caressed his shaking hands before you planted a kiss.

Suddenly, hearing a bell ring once; you knew that's your cue. Your heartstrings cut into a hundreds and your heart has dropped to the deepest depth of your world.

Not wanting to lose Soobin, you gave him a last chaste kiss before you let go of his cold hands. His tears seen on his red sweater, you smiled.

"Soobin, I love you, remember that." Slowly, you got on your feet. The smile of sadness was displayed on your lips. The laughters you both shared rang in your head as you slowly step away from him.

His voice called out your name while he sat on the floor. His body felt heavy, almost feeling like it was chained on the floor. Suddenly, his voice stopped. You turned around to see him in a glass box.

Soobin screamed your name. His hands banged on the glass walls. His tears glistened under the only light in the dark room. "yn! Please! Can you hear me!?" He continued to scream whilst you only walk away from him.

He stares at his hands — the redness were showing from the countless times he banged on the glass. He's clueless to what was happening. The tears of sadness has taken over him. Exhaustion filled his chest and seconds later, he passes on the wooden table.

"Doctor! Doctor! Soobin is moving!" Were the first things Soobin heard when he opened his eyes. The brightness of the ceiling lights brought confusion to him. The unknown sounds rang in his head.

"Soobin! Thank God! You're awake!" The familiar voice of Choi Yeonjun echoed. A voice he hasn't heard for a long time. That's when it hit him...

You were never real... The person he's loved for so long was never real.

It was all a dream. You were all a dream.

general taglist: @chaoticdreaminisode @glorybeom @staysstrays @tonightletspretend

[hes-writer]

Reign (3)

Summary: harry sees something he's supposed to have

Warnings:  angst in the beginning, angst in the middle, angst near the end

Word Count: 4881 words

A/N: @devilinbetweenthesheet-s : dont cheat and don’t do drugs, kids

Tarnish (1)  .  Halo (2)  . Reign (3) . Trial (4) .

Errors (5) . Ruin (6) . Crumble (7)

Error Taglist

____

A writer that cannot write is dead.

When one loses the ability to tell their stories and anecdotes through the mere action of swirling words together to create an imaginable atmosphere of real-world fantasy; they are dead. A writer recovering from the mundane and mediocre way of penning experiences to bounce back into what they used to be is difficult. It is easier to free fall and drown in the depths of despair. The moment thoughts and rumination fog up to form a blurry image of conviction is a warning sign, blaring at the back of their minds and sometimes even in their faces.

Harry is a writer--or, he was. Picking up the pen to style the words lingering in his head used to be as easy as blinking; quick and natural. Now, the words claw at the swell of his throat, trying to spit an adjective to describe the way he felt. It was at the tip of his tongue, waiting to be lathed into existence. It did not matter if his cognition was mingled with various chemicals aimed to be able to feel happiness.

He was sober but he had trouble placing his finger on why it was so strenuous to narrate his feelings throughout the breakup. Being high or drunk was never the answer for him. Weed made him tired and made him have a case of cottonmouth. Harry learned from a young age that he should only ever engage with alcohol if he was in a mindset and setting that catered to increase existing good vibes. He thought that maybe he was in an odd phase of perceiving the opposite, and so he intoxicated himself enough to understand that it didn’t matter if he was soaked head-to-toe in sobriety or whizzed out of his mind by the amber liquid swirling in the glass in his hand. But that wasn’t the circumstance. It also didn’t matter if he was grasping his favourite pen to write--because it was comfortable--or tapping his calloused thumbs against his phone keypad. Hell, it didn’t make a difference when he sat down and prepared his typewriter to indulge in a headspace of vintage songwriting. Maybe that would help.

It didn’t.

He had stories to tell. Everything was laid out in misty overcast yet Harry’s great ideas morphed into gentle mistakes, harsh mistakes and discoveries that had him almost ripping his hair out of the roots of his scalp. When he felt the wave of his ocean-thoughts rise and peek where the sand shifted, his fingers were ready to move and discern for the eyes to see. But with each fritter, he couldn’t seem to get even two paragraphs in to decide that it was utter shit.

Harry was old enough to understand that slumping on the wet sand was a part of life. Sometimes picking up a fistful of grains and throwing them back to the sea was a great way to release frustration. But it seemed like this plunge of his ability to write was a hole of quicksand. He was trying his hardest to displace himself as swiftly as possible but it only made his scenario worse. The muddy sand clung unto his legs like sticky glue, heftier with each effort to leave. He wanted to move on. He wanted to forget everything that occurred in the past four years. Harry wanted to erase Y/N from his life because she wasn’t around anymore to bring those memories back to sparkly existence.

What he needed to do was nestle himself into a certain depth, calmly, in order to pull a limb out and ensure that his progress on the so-called ‘moving on’ did not have any drawbacks. Until then, he cannot possibly create songs that he was well-known for if he wasn’t patient enough.

He wanted so badly to tell his side of the story. Harry craved to think as clearly as he did when he told Y/N about his plan for their future. Admitting to his feelings was a hard route. Sure, he can be vulnerable but it took a great deal of convincing on his part to immerse himself in the deepest parts of his brain to understand why he felt the way he did. He usually had the means of songwriting to help him out but that obviously wasn’t working out that good for him.

___

Harry was packing the rest of Y/N’s things in boxes to be picked up later in the afternoon. He was annoyed at first at how she depended on him to fold her clothes properly instead of doing the bundle of the work herself. But he guessed that she didn’t want to be around him for longer than she had to. To be frank, he also did not want to indulge in what might turn into an argument if they spoke about the reason for their breakup. It was just a bit confusing because he had an urge to still want her around despite their less than likely situation.

Torture. If Harry had one chance to describe the way he felt right now; it was torture. With every nook of Y/N’s side of the closet emptying into brown, cardboard boxes--he physically how much she had integrated her life with his. How much space she took up in his life. How his clothes and her clothes were so interchanged between them that he couldn’t decide if the gray pull-over was actually his or hers. And in a moment of selfishness did he tuck it away for his safe-keeping despite seeing the tag imprinted on the inside; a shop that he hadn’t set foot in so it was a guarantee that it was hers.

Her scent embedded in the thin threads of each fabric wafted to his nose; each with a new wave of memories engulfing his senses as if each piece garnered a specific scent tailored to a specific event. Like her sunflower sundress--it smelled of fresh flowers as if the print was a scratch and sniff that released a fragrance. Or their DIY-ed tie-dye shirt of pastel blue and cotton candy pink. It was a matching piece made out of the cheap dye and a simple white tee but it was theirs. Things like these made Harry want to yell in frustration because every time he thought that he was completely over her-- Y/N appears out of visibly nowhere and towers over him.

Seeing her for the first time in days was a breath of relief. She looked fine. Glowing even, and Harry did not know what to make of it. As sadistic as it sounded, he was expecting dry-stained tears and a birds’ nest of hair trampling her head. Instead, Y/N was dressed for comfort in her baggy jeans and an even looser sweater covering her body. Her lips were drawn in a thin line, giving him a nod in greeting as he gestured to the boxes littering the floor.

Harry offered to help--it was the least he could do. And somehow, silence protruded from the tense atmosphere, begging to be cut by a knife yielded through their voices nipping at each others’ emotions.

“Let go of my damn hand,” Y/N stated, her hard stare could turn Harry into stone. He just wanted her to listen before she left.

He shook his head in denial of her request, tightening his grip further. “No. Listen to me, Y/N,”

“What do you possibly have to say that will change anything between us?”

And maybe it was her fault for assuming that he wanted to fix things. The sliver of hope thinly dressed behind closed lids enabled her to think that maybe he was going to say that he wanted to make things work again. That he had broken up with Camille and he realized what a stupid he had done throwing away everything they built up to for the past four years for an affair that couldn’t quench the thirst of his desire to have a family.

Harry sighed, a shadow of mischievous smirk painted on his lips. But maybe it was Y/N’s sight in deception because she could never see Harry as anything other than sweet and kind Harry incapable of hurting a fly.

“What? I don’t intend to. We’re broken. We’re beyond fixing,”

The hitch in her breath was as sharp as the stare he was searing her with. Forcing her to please understand that this would be their last conversation--if time and fate were on their side. “You’re not something I would take the time to handle,”

“Stop saying shit you don’t mean, Harry” Y/N rolled her eyes in annoyance. His macho act was barely an act and more like a stage curtain easily pushed with a flick of a wrist.

“Things I don’t mean?”

“You heard me,” She crossed her arms over his chest in defence, leaning against the closed trunk. “Say what you will but our love was real. Don’t make me seem like I’m crazy. Don’t tell me that I’m a mistake,” Her voice was filled with confidence because she knew the affection that Harry diffused.

The cradles of his palm at the small of her back when they had to walk past a crowd. The subtle graze of the back of his fingers caressing the bare skin of her arm. Kisses pressed to her temple as she read a novel and swirling fingertips twirling her hair. These were acts of love that happened nearly every day in their relationship. A routine that felt different if it wasn’t done to or with each other.

Exasperatedly, Harry felt the same itching crawling up his spine. His ego ballooning into a delicate size and one more word from Y/N’s lush lips would have him on his hands and knees, begging for her back.

“This, us, was a fuckin’ mistake,” Harry’s accent thunked heavily in her cochlea, practically spitting the words out of his mouth as if they were poisonous. Ringed fingers gesticulated the space between them to emphasize how much of a misunderstanding they truly were. “I should’ve known the second things went further than planned,”

Y/N felt her heart drop to her full stomach. The feeling so nauseating that she instinctively palmed her belly over the fabric to protect her little baby from his harsh words. Even though they weren’t directed towards anyone but Y/N. She didn’t think that their unborn child deserved scrutiny from their own father.

“You don’t mean that, Harry.”

Because how could he? Not when he emulated sincerity through his syrupy voice. Not when he spent hours loving on her tummy and spoke to it like he would if she were pregnant. Especially not when every kiss from him felt like a buzz of electricity coursing through her veins because he was the main distributor of her happiness.

Harry truly was an asshole for making her hope and wonder of what the future held when he was unsure himself. He did want a family. That was a statement in all its truthfulness. What he wasn’t sure about was if he wanted a family with Y/N. He could have a family; kids of his own in his own time. But Y/N didn’t have to necessarily be the mother. So was he besotted with the concept of family and marriage regardless of who it was with?

“But I do,”

The rain started drizzling in frequent spurts, planting a fat droplet on her cheek that could be argued as a tear escaping Y/N’s eye. It hurt a lot to hear that from him. The man of her dreams blatantly denying each sugary word because his plans had changed.

“You’re a goddamn mistake is what you are,’

“Why are you. . .saying all these things to me? Are you trying to hurt me?” The shakiness of Y/N’s tone had Harry swallowing his words down his strep throat.

He shook his head in disagreement, “No, I’m not. ‘M just tryna make you see my side. So you can understand,” His head dipped to the side, softening his tone yet stern as though he was speaking to a child.

And that was one of the reasons why Y/N didn’t believe his all-too stoic demeanour about her. Harry was great at making others see his side regardless of how much in the wrong he was.

So why was he struggling?

___

Needless to say, he wasn’t very respectful towards Y/N any other time afterwards. He had unblocked her number months after blocking it at one point and demanded answers that he didn’t have the right to know. In retrospect, Harry was embarrassed by the way he acted. He did cheat on her and suddenly he was a saint because she moved on quicker than he thought she would? Unbelievable.

In his defence, the night he became the drunk caller was the same night he fought with Camille about having children; having a family they can call their own. Ever since that discussion did Harry notice a dispatch in their relationship. It was like they were aware of a missing link that had disappeared in their connection, but neither one of them wanted to be the one to bring it up. Harry supposed that now that Camille knew what he wanted (and vice versa)--she was feeling the pressure of giving in to him. Don’t get him wrong, Harry absolutely wanted a family and he thought that Camille was the right partner to build it with. However, he couldn’t help the voice at the back of his mind slyly whispering that he had forced her to give him what he wanted for the sake of saving their failing relationship.

___

It had been two and a half years since he mildly and miserably accepted that his dream family was being erased like a pencil on paper.

The first year; Harry still clung to the obscure hope that Camille might change her mind of having kids. Many fights sprouted between the two of them concluding in them sleeping at different places for weeks on end until they eventually crawled back to each other like an invisible string. The second-year; Harry brought up the idea of adoption. It was a hard choice for him as he desperately wanted kids of his own. A boy that looked like him and his love or a little girl that smiled at him with deep dimples mirroring his own.

And Harry liked to think that he was just on the edge of convincing Camille to consider the option when his tour was scheduled a few months after. A new dealbreaker was that Harry wasn’t going to be around much to watch and nurture the little bub they might’ve adopted. It was a sudden intrusion to think about since Harry was good with kids. He knew that. That was why he had three godchildren of his own. But what hit him the most was how sure Camille sounded when she yelled at him about leaving for months at a time and returning for a bit, only to leave again. Now, Harry hadn’t considered that part. But surely he will be ready to choose between a family and his career, right? When the time comes, he thought.

___

It pained Harry to admit that his relationship with Camille was dwindling down the drain. The knowledge that there was no future--the one that Harry envisioned--for them was getting more and more real each passing day. 

A late-night grocery trip was one of the many examples that had Harry rethinking his actions for the past couple of years. It was the time period where night owls arose and barely any customers littered the aisles. Still, Harry made sure to keep his hoodie up to shield his face.

Camille had an early flight to Milan in just a few hours later that day and she wanted to purchase some things to bring with her; in case they weren’t available in the country. So here they were at three in the morning.

As Camille walked ahead of him in her sweatpants and a plain tee, Harry couldn’t help but let his eyes flicker to the clothing section to his right The first-floor space was decorated with pastel blues and pinks; a stroller was displayed with a price would not make a dent in Harry’s bank account.

“‘M just gonna grab somethin’ over here, Cam,” Harry muttered as he pointed a thumb behind him. She nodded, “Meet me at the produce? Need to get you some fruits,”

Harry felt guilt thudding his chest because although he was losing feelings he thought were written in stone, Camille appeared to care for him the same way she always had.

He walked to the brightly lit area, puffing his cheek as a cute onesie caught his eye, “You’re so golden” with the word ‘golden’ printed in a shiny, yellow glimmer. He smiled at the thought of baby angel cooing at him as he tickled her tummy. Harry passed by the shoes next, picking up a pair barely the size of his palm. His mind flashed back to a conversation with Y/N years ago,

___

“I’m just saying,” Y/N took a bite of a pickle she held on her left hand, “Baby shoes have no business being that expensive,”

Harry chuckled from his place across the counter, “Babies need shoes too, love,’

She grabbed her fork and stabbed a piece of strawberry from her bowl, “I didn’t say the don’t need shoes. For tiny things, they could at least be a bit cheaper,”

Harry watched as she munched on a pickle on her left and took a bite of a strawberry on the other. His tongue poked out in a gag at the odd combination, resorting in glare and a huff from Y/N.

“You should try it instead of judging me,’

“No, thank you. Watching you eat it is enough for me,’

___

Harry craned his head at each aisle, hoping to find Camille and to distract himself from the endless Y/N related thoughts that somehow returned to his brain. He needed his girlfriend to remind him that he cannot just knock on Y/N’s door and ask her about the baby she has. If he could hold them for a bit because his baby fever was through the roof.

Locating the produce section, Harry whistled mindlessly as he searched for a blonde head of hair, failing to notice that there was a basket in front of his feet. He had kicked it, jolting him out of his thoughts in a hurry.

A man with brown hair sporting an outfit similar to his (sweats and a hoodie), chuckled at him as Harry leaned down to retrieve the gray basket filled with a jar of pickles.

“Sorry man,” Harry muttered, holding the handles up for the man to carry.

“It’s alright, it happens,” The guy had not seen his face yet, too busy inspecting the carton of strawberries.

He decided to continue the conversation, “Strawberries and pickles? Odd combo, huh,” Harry was briefly reminded of Y/N’s obsession with the two rival products.

“Yeah, m’lady loves ‘em. Had a craving in the middle of the night. She’s in the car right now with our lil bubba,”

Harry’s heart fluttered at the mention of a baby. He needed to get his rails in check. He cannot keep having his heart bursting with adoration at the mere mention of a baby.

“I’m Connor,” He said, finally facing Harry after choosing the best carton.

“I'm--,”

“Harry!” Both men turned their heads towards Camille carrying a basket full fruits and green veggies, “Got you some stuff to blend for your smoothies,”

Connor squinted his eyes at the couple and Harry internally screamed because he knew that he and Camille had been recognized. “Harry. Yeah, I know you,” The sudden hostility made Harry confused as Connor grasped his basket from him in a harsh manner, heading towards the checkout.

The rest of the time inside the store was filled with curiosities as Harry carried the paper bags towards the car, barely recognizing Connor’s figure heading towards his own vehicle. Luckily, Harry has parked only a few slots away and could inconspicuously watch Connor and his so-called ‘lady’.

Except, Camille was ushering him to hurry up as she still had a few things to pack at home.

___

On most days, Harry was used to waking up alone. Used to feeling the shiver crawling up his side, used to seeing the indent left by Camille’s body instead of her. He had grown familiar with the sudden cast of loneliness blanketing him thicker than the duvet on top of his body.

The early morning trip to the store had tired him out, paired with the overthinking of the man named ‘Connor’ that flipped his attitude towards him quicker than he could kick the grey basket with his feet. He flopped back to the mattress after washing his face and brushing his teeth. It was noon when he jolted out of bed again at the sound of his front door opening, voices filling the empty space that had Harry running towards the foyer in case there was an intruder.

His tense shoulders sagged in relief when he caught sight of his mum and Gemma, “Oh, s’just you guys,”

Both women looked up at him at the top of the stairs, “You forgot we were coming over for the weekend, didn’t you?” Gemma teased as she headed to the living room. Harry followed, walking down the stairs.

He scratched the nape of his neck nervously, “No. . . “

“Can you help me reach this, H?” Anne called out from the kitchen.

His mum gave him a big hug and a kiss on the cheek, “Yes, you did, by the way. Slept through the whole morning. Good thing Camille let us in before she left,”

At the sound of a bag crumpling and squeals echoing the hollow house, Harry scrunched his nose in curiosity, briskly walking where Gemm was currently holding up tiny baby clothes in front of her. “Who’s that for?” He thought of any possible friends that had had a baby recently but couldn’t recall any.

She immediately stuffed the clothing into the bag, nervously placing a hand on her chest, “Gosh, Harry, you scared me,” Her brows went high on her forehead in alarm, sharing a look with her mum trailing behind Harry.

“Well? Did I miss something?”

“Oh, it’s for one of my friends,”

Harry contemplated on his next words, “D-did you know that Y/N had a baby?” It couldn’t be right if his sister and mum knew about his exes baby and not him, right? That’s just plain odd to still be in touch with an ex's family. His brows furrowed in suspicion as both of them declined his question.

“What? Nooo,”

Awkward silence filtered through the air as Anne sipped water from her mug and Harry was slowly putting the pieces together. Gemme dove to the centre of the couch where her phone was when it rang suddenly, surprising all three of them. Harry was quicker, eyeing his mum and sister and inspecting the emoji substituting as a name before sliding his thumb to answer it.

"Hey, Gems! Are you coming to the park? We're waiting for you,”

Harry felt his heart drop to his stomach just as the phone nearly slipped from his clutch. That voice. He could recognize it from everywhere having spent nearly every morning for the four years that they were together hearing it lulling him out of sleep. It was Y/N’s voice calling his sister who was looking extremely anxious.

He tapped on the ‘mute’ button, “What does she mean ‘we’?”

“Nothing! Give me my phone back,” Gemma tried to reach for the device but Harry held it high beyond her reach.

“I saw the picture you sent me. I told you that you and Anne didn’t have to get me anything,” Harry felt dizzy. “Connor and I got some things a few weeks ago. But that skirt is so adorable!”

One part of him was glad to hear her voice. In fact, Harry found himself smiling too, despite what he just heard. Connor. “Harry, won’t be there right? Hello? Have I been talking to myself this whole time,” Y/N laughed a little; she had a habit of talking endlessly when she was excited. It made Harry more sombre, letting his guards down and his arm in reach for Gemma to grasp.

“Hey! I'm just organizing the clothes, see you soon!" Gemma jammed her finger on the red end call, anxiously glancing at her brother, piecing everything together.

“Who's Connor?" Could it be that the Connor he met last night was the same as Y/N’s? The one who bought pickles and strawberries--one of Y/N favourite food combinations? He mentioned that he had a little girl and Y/N just called to meet his sister and his mum at the park. And baby clothes?

Anne and Gemma looked at each other, quickly deciding that for the benefit of Harry that they should tell him at least a little bit. He was looking as if he was going insane, especially with his bed head pointing his hair out in different directions.

“He’s Y/N’s partner”

Harry gulped, reeling his thoughts to a halt, “Partner? And the baby is...?” The last bit of confirmation was all he needed to lash his feelings out.

“Is... waiting for us at the park! Sorry H gotta go,” Gemma was swift enough to gather all the bags without having Harry chase after her. His state of confusion and shock was enough to render him partially speechless and immobile.

“Hey wait!”

Anne garnered his attention, “Oh, Mrs. Q from next door wants me over for dinner. I’m sure wants to see us both. Why don’t you get ready, Harry?” Anne tugged his arm in the direction of the staircase pushing him to stumble up a couple of steps.

Harry was confused. He made the sounds of his footsteps creeping up the wooden stairs, hearing his mum quietly talking to Gemma on the phone, “Elmsway Park, you said? How long till you're home? I’m not sure how long I can keep him occupied,”

With that being said, Harry was out of his house, silently unlocking and locking the door. He was dressed in some basketball shorts and a graphic tee, slipping on the first pair of sneakers he had tossed aside. Harry jogged to his car, typing in the name of the park on his phones’ GPS. The route was only a few minutes away so he decided to take his time, gathering his scattered thoughts along the way.

He parked just beside the playground scouting the trees around the premises. Harry decided that it was the perfect day. The sun was out. It wasn’t too humid and the birds were chirping on the branches. He could see why the playground was full of children running around in delight. The green patches of grass were partially filled with picnic blankets and food to be shared. Families laughed with each other as one in particular caught his eye.

It made him smile at first, seeing just how adorable the couple was with their baby. He exited the car, making sure to lock the vehicle. With his hands jammed deep in the pockets of his shorts, Harry could feel the tethered grass rubbing against his legs. As he got closer, he couldn’t help the twinge of familiarity spark in his chest, recognizing that what he was staring at was Connor playfully chasing a little girl of about two-years-old as she squealed at how close he was getting to tagging her.

Harry stood by a tree, shielding him away from view. He tried to appear invisible without seeming too creepy. He knew that it was only a matter of seconds before his eyes found the woman he had been missing, whether he wanted to admit it or not.

Connor picked up the little girl in his arms, dotting pecks all over the girls’ cheeks, causing her to giggle and push his face away with a tiny palm. And there she was standing outside the raised platform of the playground, coming up to the both of them with a juice box in hand to hydrate the little angel. Connor turned his attention to Y/N, planting the most adoring kiss on her lips that made her smile so wide and the baby cover her eyes. They laughed together, looking like a picture-perfect family.

Gemma sat on the bench, flickering her gaze to the precious family in front of her and to the figure of her brother walking away from the scene. Her heart broke for Harry, and it cracked, even more, when he turned back. This time, watching Connor and Y/N cheer on baby angel to go down the slide. Both of them clapped their hands in enthusiasm as the girl hesitantly slid down the plastic slide. The smile on her face was infectious.

It almost made Harry smile, too.

___

Let us know what you thought!

Trial aka pt 4 is already up on Patreon! (link in bio)

___

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[fusrodie]

request: Karl teaching Moreau how to work a TV, please?

this incorporates some of my headcanons for both of them, and I apologize in advance, anon, the hand slipped and went places I didn't expect. still, I hope you like it! thank you very much for the request! <3

SFW, angsty with some brotherly love. mentions traumatic past. around 1.1K words.

There was much about Salvatore Moreau that reminded him of the sea. The smell was a dead giveaway, sure, webbed hands and feet too outlandish to ignore. His skin had faded into a grayish blue long ago, tattoos eclipsed amidst boils and scales. He sure looked the part, even before the bald spot and crooked teeth, before the weight of his brain pushed him down and his knees bent to support it.

There was something about the melancholy in his eyes, the way he would spend hours staring out into the water, feet paddling absentmindedly as he sat at the edge of the pier. He searched the horizon for something, a monster not unlike himself lurking in the waters, a siren singing from atop a rock. Heisenberg had asked him once, before his mind slowly began to descend into numbness and devotion, about the things he had seen and the creatures he had met.

Salvatore was much different then, head full of hair the color of night, mismatched eyes that spoke of a soul deep with dreams. One for the sea and another to keep him grounded, he would say, water to never lose his sea legs, earth to remind him of what he had left behind. He was quite the storyteller, as were most fishermen; gigantic fish and mirages of riches and solid land in the vastness of the ocean. Treasures buried never to be found again, temples swallowed whole by the waves, tales and peoples lost forever. Most of all he spoke of his love, of golden mane and fiery eyes, of freckles spread over their shoulders like a delicate necklace. The voice of an angel and wits of a demon, elegant fingers that used to run through his hair as they eased him into sleep, a lullaby he had long forgotten filling the room where they once declared their love forevermore.

And then he had forgotten, because he had lost it all. Ship, sea, riches. Crew mates, friends, family. Lover, love, self. He had drowned in the deepest, darkest of waters, only to be brought back to life a shell of man. He had lost it all and he had grabbed onto what he could find, a family that didn’t love him, a love that didn’t suit him, a ship that was bound to sink. Hopelessness, devotion, mother. Lab, experiment, parasite. Sickness, blood, monstrosity.

His notions twisted, his stories silenced. Whiling away the hours in search of nothing, perhaps the yearning for the smell of the shore, the freedom of the seas. Fashioning his golden riches out of the only things he had left. Death, bones, loneliness.

Heisenberg would never admit it, would never allow himself to say that he missed young, bright Moreau, the sailor of tantalizing smiles and dazzling stories. He was no longer that person, he would never again be that person. Moronic freak, that was all he was now, and it was better this way. Hating him made it easier, hating them all made it easier. Try as he might, hurt as it would, he could not pull Salvatore out from the depths of Charybdis’ mouth. Mourning the loss of his brother would mean letting himself sink alongside him. Moronic freak, his brother had died long ago.

His flashes of consciousness always tugged at his heartstrings. He would begin his spiels about being a good son to Miranda, only to hang onto a word for a little longer than necessary, dwell in it as if it had brought back memories that were taken from him. Heisenberg would hope then, hope that he would break out of the shell and into the world, finally raise his head above the water and take a deep breath. But he never would, because she had changed them, had changed him, turned him into a fraction of the man he once was. He missed the brother who was his counterweight and foil, the heart to contrast his rationality, the romantic against his cynicism.

He could never bring him back, though he wished to try and bring him some solace, a nostalgic piece of his old self. Moreau hadn’t been expecting his visit, much less the old box that he had brought along. His life as a fisherman had never afforded him any luxuries, his shack always lit by candlelight, his clothes always second-hand. He stared confused at the television as Heisenberg put it down, completely silent as Karl pulled cables and wiggled the antenna into place. A box that tells stories, he explained at last, that lets you peek out into the world even though they were confined to that miserable little village.

A screen, dials, buttons, Heisenberg pointed, encouraging Moreau to experiment of his own accord. The static had startled him, hands quickly covering his ears as the ungodly noise echoed through the room. Turn this to make it quieter, and that to find a new story to see. Like turning the pages of a book? Like turning the pages of a book, one that never ended, that changed its plot from one day to the other. Through it all he was attentive, devoting his full attention to learning all there was to learn, hoping to dive head first into that well of wonders.

Salvatore’s eyes widened at the sight of people behind the screen, fingers reaching to touch and rescue the characters trapped behind the glass. Not trapped, Heisenberg explained. Not real, but real enough to make us believe. They sat together through the first film, some old comedy that had long lost its luster, cartoonish characters hitting each other on the head and slipping on banana peels. He had never heard Moreau laugh so openly, so gleefully, hands slapping against his knees and tears coming out of his eyes. Heisenberg watched his brother lose himself in the film, for once forgetting all about the pain he had been through, their monster of an adopted mother, the atrocities she had them commit. For once he saw his young friend again, a moment he wished to keep forever in his heart.

He had made to rise and leave when a lone tear threatened to spill out unbidden, a sign that he had already let himself wallow too much. Salvatore awkwardly looped his arms around him before he could make it past the door, damp face against his trench coat as he giggled and thanked him. Heisenberg said nothing, refusing to acknowledge such affection; not unlike he did in the olden days, knuckles rubbing against the top of Moreau’s head in mock annoyance like they were children again.

The film was over when he left the reservoir, Salvatore’s laughter giving way to dramatic silence, grief and rage like a rock at the bottom of Heisenberg’s stomach.

[mimiwrites2000]

When I Was Human

a one shot

AO3 ~~

Pairings: Armin x Annie

Words count: 3751

* spoilers for chapter 131 and up

Summary:

The boat sailed in the middle of the ocean, trapped within blue from all directions.

On it sat two lost souls, that forgot what it was like to be human.

  Armin told Annie many tales when she was in the crystal, however, there was one story he never got to finish…

Annie asks about it, and Armin finds himself in a swirl of memories of how he was revived four years ago…

He was used to letting it out.

It was natural, as spontaneous as breathing; he would sit down and talk talk talk.

Maybe the first few minutes were awkward, but as soon as the knot in his tongue lessened, he unleashed the avalanche kept captivated in his chest. On and on he went, until all trembling thoughts were spent, his mind left with an unoccupied room, enough for a night with only a nightmare or two.

Back then, he gazed at a heap of a crystal-clear rock, a girl floating within it, trapped in a loop of stillness. In a cold basement he sat, torches fluttered and blazed, but their warmth a marginal drop in a bitterly cold ocean.

But now, he was side by side with that girl, the same one who was frozen for more than four years. Her warmth radiated off her now-lively skin, her hair teased by the ocean-salt breeze. Her eyes open, the blue in them as vibrant as he could remember.

The ship sailed into the vast blue, seagulls as their companion in this journey towards the unknown.

“Have you ever thought… that I was listening all these years?” she asked, side-eyeing him, as she embraced her knees to her chest, resting her chin on them.

“I…” he averted his eyes when they caught hers, as much as he desired to never look at anything but her ocean-blue eyes, his cheeks would betray him with a tint of red, he had no control on that, and he hated it when he loses controls, “I… I imagined things…”

“Like what?”

A shaky sigh left him, he wondered how he so easily talked to her for four years, “Sometimes… I thought it was possible that you were listening, but I didn’t let myself think too much about it.”

That was a lie; he did think a lot about it, before he slept, alone in his room, at night.

Her eyes lingered on him for a second, before she swiveled her head, watching the horizon stretching endlessly before them.

“It explains a lot…” she murmured.

Armin’s eyebrows furrowed the tiniest bit, “Explains what?”

“There were times when you stopped talking in the middle of a sentence… I used to think you lost your train of thought, or felt stupid for talking to me, but now… it explains it.”

“Oh…” 

Armin couldn't think of a retort… or maybe he did, he wanted to tell her that he himself couldn’t believe he spent hours talking to her, his own voice echoing back to one pair of ears, no response but the crackling of fire in the inflamed torches.

“I can’t believe you actually wasted hours talking to me,” she said, the corner of her lips up ticked.

Armin snorted, shaking his head.

“But… I can’t find an explanation for one thing,” Annie said, looking at Armin, “you never finished one story.”

“Oh…” He already knew what story she was talking about, “which one?”

“Bertholdt’s”

A rock dropped in Armin’s stomach, he looked away promptly. He tried to swallow, but it was as hard as swallowing his own tongue, which knotted on itself, pressing at the roof of his throat, shallowing his breathing.

“Yeah…” he choked out, giving up on settling his voice.

He didn’t blame Annie for spreading this topic on the table, out and in the open. After all, there was nothing untrue about what she said; he told her tales of when he was six, without jumping over any detail, except for this one tale, that he had a hard and a long time believing.

Armin tried many times to talk about it… but he never dared to finish it.

He tried to avoid this subject even with his closest friends; Mikasa tried countless times to make him open up, but he shut himself away, locking this one exact memory in a metal box at the far corner in his mind, it would crack open after midnights, when he would storm out his room for the closest bathroom, holding himself back from throwing up on the carpets or in the hallways.

The inevitable day of unlocking that box had come, it was no other than Annie Leonhart that had the key to its steel-hard lock.

Armin glanced at her; one look was enough to see the displeasure of bringing up this topic, but the determination of hearing out this tale until the very end.

He took in a deep, slow breath, closing his eyes, trying to decide from where to start.

“I could tell you… my own experience,” Annie said, fidgeting with the rim of her sleeve.

He watched her, and when their eyes met, he nodded once.

“In the Warrior Training Unit… after we were chosen, we are supposed to spend time with the past holders,” Armin furrowed his eyebrows, “it’s been discovered that the deeper the connection between the receiver and the giver, the more memories are transferred.”

Armin nodded, understanding, but then his eyes lit up with a question, “Wouldn’t that make it harder for you? I mean, to eat someone you know well…”

“They did that so we can use their memories to control our titans faster, would save a lot of time.”

“That’s inhumane.”

“When was anything humane? When was I ever a human? When were any of us human?” Annie clenched her fists over her knees.

“Annie-”

“I talked to her only once,” Annie interrupted, raising her hand. She shrugged her shoulders, “as expected, I didn’t see much of her memories, but I was lucky I took control over the Female Titan really quick.”

“I see…” 

“It didn’t make it easier though…”

Armin watched Annie; she didn’t meet his eyes.

Those ocean blue eyes that hid more than any soul’s endurance. An ocean with a far bottom, a limitless hole of mysteries and sorrows. He saw her tale in her eyes, a reflection to her words.

“One moment… I felt… fire…” Annie opened up her fists, mimicking the small, harmless flame of a candle, “last thing I thought was my lungs ruptured, then I woke up in my bed, with a ring on my finger. The next thing I knew, I was a warrior and I had a mission to complete.”

A beat of silence.

A shamed hand scratched Armin’s neck; he used to avoid thinking about how Annie had her powers…

He tried to stop himself from asking, but the question was out his mouth before he could stop it: “Did you gain your memories? The memories of that moment?”

He shouldn’t have asked it, he knew what it was like to have these thoughts stuck in your head, ricocheting against your skull, but you keep them all in, safe inside your shell.

“I did…” she answered, she didn’t seem bothered, or maybe she acted unbothered, “or more like… I saw her last moments… before I ate her…”

She looked at him, a question in her eyes.

“Unless you wanna talk about it,” he answered it.

Annie pressed her lips, she sighed: “I saw myself, my mindless titan form, right before I closed my mouth on her…”

Armin waited patiently for her to finish her sentence.

“It’s… I don’t know how to feel about…” Annie let out an exacerbated breath, annoyed at her feeble speech, “that was the last thing she saw before she died, and that horrific thing, that horrific pain… it was me, I was the reason behind it.”

Armin scooted closer to Annie.

“You would think it gets easier after all the killing I did, but it never did… maybe it’s because…”

“Because what?”

“Because it was the last thing I did when I was a human.”

Armin shivered, hugging himself, rubbing up and down his arms. His bones trembled, because-

“I know exactly what you mean,” he confessed, and it wasn't empathetic, it wasn’t the kind of empty words people exchange for comfort, it was true and honest.

The breeze caressing their skin softly, reminding them of their surroundings, anchoring them to the present, away from the haunting past.

Annie scooted closer to him, until their thighs touched.

“I know exactly what you mean,” he whispered, very close to her ear.

She glanced at his lips, then gazed in his eyes.

Their eyes a mirror of each other, reflecting their deepest fears. A bottomless lake that was pouring out into the other’s. After all, no one knows the depth of the ocean, its shiny, glimmering surface a mere artifice of the perils it conceals.

“I…” Armin started, Annie’s attentiveness motivating him, “Eren told me what happened, and how it happened, right after I woke up.”

Armin found words flowing out his mouth; any restraint from earlier flew with the wind, and the metal, locked box in his mind was shattered open, releasing cuffed thoughts and suffocating emotions, and Annie was there to embrace these haphazard thoughts, tame them, and accept them.

“I didn’t believe Eren, at first, I didn’t want to believe him.”

Annie’s fingers were an inch away from Armin’s.

“The first thing I thought about… was commander Erwin. He died, because of me.”

Armin noticed Annie’s jaw clench; she wanted to say something, but stopped herself.

“The first few weeks were… a blur, I was seeing new things, feeling new things… the only bright side was that… all the scars on my body were gone.”

Annie smiled, a small, fleeting smile, but a smile nonetheless, it faded as fast as it showed.

Armin found himself mirroring that smile, lingering for a few longer seconds, before it faded as well…

“Something was wrong with me, back then… I didn’t understand what it was,” Armin let out a quivering breath, “I started seeing more of Bertholdt’s memories, nothing to benefit the survey corps, but… enough for me to understand the world from his perspective…”

Annie’s fingers touched Armin’s; cold and warm, meeting in the middle.

Armin glanced at Annie’s hand, before he said: “but then… that day… I saw it.”

For a moment, it was only silence. 

Annie’s hand clasped over Armin’s.

“I got the memory of that day back, the day I ate him.”

Annie rested his palm on her own, her other hand rubbing circles on his skin.

“It was different from what Eren told me; we were fighting against him, and I came up with a plan.”

The grip on his hand tightened.

“I was midair, and he let off steam, and all I saw was scorching red and orange,” the heel of his shoes dug deeper into the wooden floor, his toes curling in them.

If he was in the basement, he would’ve stopped at this point, and let the rest of the story captivated within his mind, lingering inside his head all night long until dawn broke.

But this time was different.

Annie was there, right beside him, hair dancing with the wind, skin vibrant and alive, her breath mixing with his, their fingers intertwined.

“And I was burning,” He continued, his own voice unrecognizable, distant and far, as far as the memory felt, yet so close, hovering over his skin. “My skin was aflame,” he looked at his hands, “and I couldn’t breathe, it was impossible to breathe, I couldn’t breathe, I couldn’t.”

He closed his eyes, took in a shaky, labored inhale: “My skin… it was numb, I was numb, I didn’t know what was happening, but I knew I was dying, I thought of Eren, and the ocean, but I didn’t feel myself, I didn’t feel my body, I couldn’t feel my fingers-” he held out the hand Annie was caressing, swinging it, “I didn’t know- I was- I don’t think it was real- I-I don’t feel like it was real-”

“Armin-”

“But it was,” he hissed, his voice low and choked, back hunched, and his eyes wide open, boring into Annie’s.

Annie put their tangled hands on her lap, all the while holding Armin’s gaze.

“It’s real, it happened, I killed him.”

Bertholdt’s screams echoed inside his mind.

Armin searched in Annie’s eyes, waiting for hate and anger to ignite in them, waiting for her to get up and leave him where he was, hunched on a hopeless ship, on a hopeless mission.

But he saw nothing, only the pressure of her hand on his increasing.

His throat tightening as if an egg clogged it, he attempted to swallow: “An-and then Eren and Mikasa made c-captain” he choked, “captain Levi to use the serum on-on-on me! Annie they gave it to me!” 

Annie’s jaw clenched, she watched Armin’s eyes glistening.

“And I still don’t know how to feel about that,” he flailed his free hand around, shaking his head, “I don’t know if what I’m doing is right or wrong, but I don’t have a choice.”

Armin let out several breaths before he continued: “I can’t stop, I can’t let him down, I can’t let anyone down, but it’s not enough, it’s never enough, and I don’t know what to do.” his voice lowered and was only a whisper at the end.

He looked at their entangled hands; their knuckles white, that’s how tight they were holding each other.

Armin released his hand from Annie’s grip, put his head in his palms, and murmured: “Now I know what was wrong, I know what is wrong with me,” his hands rubbed his cheeks violently, then he froze, as if a thought just popped in his head. He swiveled his head towards Annie and muttered: “I was no longer human, I’m no longer human.”

Annie’s mouth opened and closed several times, words departed her mind, her throat dry, tongue in a knot.

Silence followed, fraught by a blend of wavering anger and long-kept-in sadness. Armin’s shoulders shaking, he gripped his knees, tightening his grasp on them, gritting his teeth together.

Annie’s hand rested on his back, slowly rubbing circles.

They were no longer humans.

Annie eyed Armin, his head tilted, eyes unfocused on an invisible spot on the ground.

They were no longer humans.

That thought didn’t occur to Annie before her mission, or perhaps it did, but she shoved it to the back of her mind, fighting and staying alive always occupying the front porch of her thoughts.

But then she was sent to the island, she met Paradis’s devils, and she questioned her life, since the day she was born.

She liked to think that she was over the ‘I’m no longer human’ dilemma, but the projection of her own life onto Armin’s, the cycle repeating itself, and these thoughts that she shoved away jostled their way in front of her eyes.

“I have two years left,” Annie found herself saying, Armin tensed, “three, if I was lucky.”

The breeze blew softly around them, Annie tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, closing her eyes, Armin watched the movement of her fingers.

“You were conscious… all this time,” Armin said.

“I was…” Annie confirmed, “It felt like a long dream…”

“Why didn’t you come out?”

Annie almost snorted, “Why would I?”

“I don’t know…”

“Yes you know, you want to say that I wasted these four years of my already short life don’t you?”

“I… no… I wanted to say that… maybe we could’ve worked it out,” Armin admitted, it was only half the truth.

“That’s you, not everyone else.”

“What do you mean?”

“No one is as forgiving as you…” She said, glancing at him from the corner of her eyes, “no one else knows what it feels like to be me, or to be you.”

“Maybe I would’ve convinced them…”

“And then what? Use me as a weapon? Fight on your side?” Annie asked, her tone harsher than she intended to.

But he only looked at her, a sad smile pulled at his lips, he chuckled: “I would’ve run away with you.”

Annie lips parted, she didn’t see that coming, and was out of words.

Armin took her hand, covered it securely with his palms, looking down at her small hand in his relatively bigger ones: “I would’ve ran away with you, we would live some place far away, live for our day.”

His fingers traced spontaneous shapes on the back of her hand, she watched him in silence.

“I wouldn’t think of tomorrow, or yesterday, there would be only today, and tonight…”

Annie looked away. That fairytale life was far from reach, she knew it, and he knew it, but was there harm in dreaming?

“Would that make us human?” he asked, looking in her eyes, leaning closer to her.

No

“Yes,” She answered.

Their foreheads rested against each other, their shuddering breaths mixing. Gazing into each other's eyes. All these words encapsulated for years poured out like an avalanche into the small space between them, all these unspoken thoughts, regrets, tracing around their blue pupils in dark hues, ensnaring them.

A part of them that would never leave them.

Adhering to them for whatever was left of their short lives.

His hand under her chin, lifting it up, his thumb brushing over her bottom lips,

She cupped his cheeks with trembling fingers and hesitant breaths, eyelids fluttering shut.

It was weird, foreign, the invisible strings that pulled her towards him, a magnetic force made her want to stay by his side for as long as she could.

He watched her face for a few moments, her cheeks, a tint of a pink hues blushing them, her closed eyelids. He shivered, and wanted her to open her eyes, he gazed at her for four years, with her eyes closed, frozen midair.

His lips were an inch away from hers.

Armin leaned in, lips touching in the middle, closed-tight, inexperienced lips placing peaks on each other, 

Warm.

Annie thought, his lips were warm, his touch soft, and warmth sheltered her body, from the tip of her toes until the tip of her ears.

He wanted this for so long, to feel her in his arms, her warmth. It would be a lie to say he didn’t dream about the feeling of her lips many times before, imagining what it would be like to press his lips over hers, over and over, soft and warm.

There she was, in his arms, her lips on his, hesitant moves, scared, indecisive.

Fire ignited right where their lips touched.

Armin pulled away, just enough to whisper: “I want to be human again.”

“Me too… me too…” She murmured against his lips, and he shivered.

Her lips, her skin, her scent, drastically different from his fantasies. Years ago, whenever she slithered into his mind, a crystal barrier engulfed his senses, cold with sharp edges, cutting through his skin.

Now, all he felt while moving his jaw against her was warmth warmth warmth.

That warmth intensified, no longer a comforting heat, but a scorching heat that awakened desires in Armin that he long put out. He shifted, not approving of his body’s reaction, uncertain of his rapid breathing, holding back his hands from trailing any further.

Annie wrapped both of her arms around his shoulders, holding him in place.

And he didn’t hold back any longer.

His hands going up and down her back, barely reaching her hips before they go up again. The kisses sloped and their lips barely touched because their movements morphed into frantic touches, striving to touch as much as they could from each other with clothes still a barrier between them.

That was when Annie pulled away, held Armin’s face in her hands, and whispered breathily: “I want to feel human,” her fingers brushed his bangs off his forehead, “just one time, I want to feel human one more time.”

Looking into her eyes, Armin’s thoughts banging in his skull, deafening his surroundings, but he knew what he wanted, he knew that for so long.

He got up, stretched his hand towards her.

With clutched hands, they sought a distance-safe cabin, private from eavesdropping ears and sneaky eyes.

With a click, the door locked, and their hands were all over each other once again, but this time with the comfort of a bed behind their bare backs, and the walls of the cabin to hide behind.

Moans and whispered words, sounds, looks and touches.

Oh how long Armin had waited to feel Annie against his own skin,, he pressed every inch of his skin into hers, sharing the warmth radiating of her body, obliterating the memory of her encapsulated in frozen crystal, in a cold basement.

She was there, beneath him, lively as a human can ever be, squirming with pleasure, letting out incoherent words, his name slipping out of her every now and then.

He wasn’t aware that he was as messy as her, her name like a mantra on his tongue, his limbs shaking and his breathing trembling.

His hands on her body delicate yet firm.

Her breath against his neck erratic yet warm.

And they were lost in time and space, only focused on each other. The walls, the bed, all fading into a blurry unremarkable fog,

They made each other human again.

And then their tears mixed, alongside silent sobs and bursts of pleasure. The heat in the room accumulating with every passing second.

Then they saw stars, their grip on each other tight tight tight as they slumped on each other, holding one another, holding onto that moment.

Breaths calming down, as Armin pulled a blanket over themselves, hiding their lack of modesty. The temperature in the room cooling down...

A distant voice in Annie’s mind whispered:

Human human human…

For the first time in years, she was alive, vulnerable under a blanket with this man who taught her what human meant and felt like…

Her thoughts drifted off, as her eyelids fluttered shut. The last thing she saw was a smile on Armin’s face, as he muttered something… she couldn’t decipher his words, but comfort washed over her body. She nuzzled her head in his chest, placing a kiss over his heartbeat, feeling her own heart pulsates warmth in her veins.

Armin watched Annie falling asleep in his arms, his own eyes fighting against closing. He found himself muttering three words he never imagined he would have the chance to say out loud to her…

 “I love you…”

 When her breaths calmed and quietened, he pulled her closer to him, kissed her head, and joined her in the still, silent sleep, a peaceful moment in their chaotic world, that was engraved in their minds for as long as they lived.

.

.

.

I hope you guys enjoyed this!!

this was a request from an anon on, and this is the first time I ever write a request uwu

I hope it was good enough!!

anyway, with manga ending... too many emotions...

but ANYWAYYYY

I'd love to write more requests, so if u have any, you can leave them in the comments or send me an ask uwu

Feedback is ALWAYS appreciated

thanks so much for reading!!

[oddaodd]

In The Depths Of Despair

· The reader refuses to let Tommy go into the tunnels alone ·

Warnings : DON´T READ THIS IF YOU HAVEN´T WATCHED SEASON 3. Also, angst ✨

Authors note : just thought I should mention that, while this is based on episode 6 of season 3, it is  not 100% accurate to what happened in the show.   

Y/N sat next to Tommy as he recklessly drove to the campsite where the digging for the tunnel for the robbery had been started. He was hysterical, who wouldn't be when Charlie was in danger. She had seen him at his worst, but never like this before. She looked at him and got briefly lost in her thoughts. Forlorn memories of a time when everything was easier, when he was happy danced across her mind, distracting her from where they were going. She had loved him since they were kids and before he went to France they were like two peas in a pod. Polly always said they would end up together and y/n believed it too, she just couldn’t imagine herself with anyone else, but then came Grace. (And then May and then Tatiana). But even despite it all she couldn’t bring herself to hate him. Sure she was mad at him, but she could never hate him, not for something that he couldn’t control like loving someone else. Pol comforted her as she wept countless nights after he told everyone he was going to marry Grace for she wished he was marrying her instead. She thought she was in the deepest depths of despair when she saw him happy with her but she was wrong, there was a deeper depth she became acquainted with when Grace died and a part of Tommy too, with her. She gave up on her flimsy wishes of him loving her back for he seemed incapable of loving anyone else after Grace, but she stayed by his side as the friend he needed. She would go to war for him because she still loved him no matter how hard she tied to stop, and when Tommy needed her, she was there even if he didn’t ask her to be. Like at that very moment.

The car came to an abrupt halt and he got out hastily, slamming the door shut and unbuttoning his shirt walking past Johnny dogs towards the tunnel entrance in the ground.

Y/n followed him closely and started unbuttoning her dress too. He turned for a moment to say something to Johnny but stopped when he saw what she was doing.

“What are you doing?”

“Im coming with you” she said as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

“No, your are not ” he said throwing his shirt aside

“Yes I am” she said, finally stepping out of her dress remaining only in her underdress.

“I don’t have time to argue with you! Its dangerous!” He yelled coming closer to her as if doing so would make her change her mind.

“Its dangerous for you too!”  She yelled back,  looking him dead in the eye. He was afraid and she could tell. She placed her hands on his face as if doing so would calm his nerves. “There´s no way in hell I’m letting you go down there alone” There was a small pause, his jaw tightened and his hands held her face too.

“We are loosing time Tommy”

“For fuck´s sake” he muttered in approval letting go go of her face and walking towards Johnny Dogs “They have my boy Johnny. Once we are down there, go look for Michael in case he needs anything”

Johnny Dogs just nodded in all seriousness and handed Tommy a bag of explosives.

Y/n was already standing next to the entrance on the tunnel, bracing herself for what was to come. She hadn’t been to war, but the contents of Tommy’s letters about being a clay kicker were enough to fuel y/n’s imagination of how utterly dreadful it would be and yet she knew what they were about to do couldn’t compared to what he had lived through in France.

Tommy walked towards her and handed her piece of what used to be his shirt “Here, cover your mouth and nose”

Once she did he inspected her making sure she had tied it alright and placed his hands on either side other face one more time to make her look at him “I need you to listen to me. When we are down there I need you to do exactly as I said exactly when I say it. Do you understand?” He said in urgency.

She placed a shaky hand atop of his trying to calm him (and herself) down “I understand”

He nodded and looked at her in an almost warning way wishing she could change her mind and when she didn’t falter he let go of her face “I’m going first, I’ll help you down” he said before climbing down the hole. She could see the terror disguised as courage in his eyes and silently sighed in despair.

She handed him the lamp and turned to look at Johnny dogs, he nodded at her with uncertainty. She took a big breath trying to swallow down the fear she was feeling and when she exhaled she too went into the hole. She put her legs in first and held herself above the ground with her elbows as her feel couldn’t reach the bottom of the hole. Soon she felt Tommy holding her thighs and she let go of the ground, letting him put her down. He gave her a quick look, trying to make sure she was alright “Just follow me”

He crawled  with the lamp through another hole and y/n followed him. It was awful, the dug out walls were crumbling, the mud and clay around them was thick and heavy making every single movement laborious. She felt as if everything was closing around her but she wouldn't let it get to her, and if she did she couldn't let it show. She knew for sure that whatever she was feeling he was feeling  too ten times worse. She remembered when he came back from the war, she remembered how bad his nightmares were and the many sleepless nights she spent with him keeping him company as they crawled for what felt like forever until they reached the end of the tunnel. Tommy dug a bit more until he hit the wall of the Russian´s safe room and when he did, he placed the explosives. He lit them and motioned y/n to go back so they wouldn’t be affected by the explosion. They retreated and a few moments later they heard it go off. Tommy went into the vault and got the jewels. They crawled back through where they came and when they reached the end Tommy gave her the jewels and helped her up so she could pull herself out. Once she did, she helped him out too.

They both laid panting and covered in dirt and mud on the ground for a second. Both a bit bewildered at what they had accomplished. Tommy looked lost at the sky and she placed her hand on his. Knowing how difficult going down there must have been for him. He held it for a moment and looked at her before standing up and helping her to her feet. He put on his coat and she her dress before making their way to the car. They drove to a phone box and after Tommy went to make a call and went back into to the car he exhaled in relief.

“Charlie’s fine, Michael got him”  

Y/n exhaled in relief as well and Tommy held her hand looking at her intently, like he did before the war. He didn’t know what to say. He knew she knew what going in that tunnel meant for him and he knew that was why she went with him, not because it was dangerous. She looked at him when she felt his skin on hers and she felt butterflies in her stomach. It hurt. It hurt because she missed him and he hadn’t looked at her way since Grace. For the first time ever she felt vulnerable under his gaze. She was afraid he would see her pain.

“Thank you”

“You don’t have to thank me Tom” she reminded him looking away.

“But I do, nobody else would have done that for me ” he said keeping his eyes on her, knowing that she would turn to look at him again. She always did.

She indeed gave in and turned her gaze back to him, not caring if he could read her vulnerability or not.

“I’d do it again without a second thought”

“I know” he said.

[prizecxrner]

@fczbecrspizzc​ ​​Anonymous said: Marianne is handed an old piece of paper—or, well, a picture. It's old, it's worn, but the sight inside the square would most likely be familiar. Messy brown-blonde hair and large blue eyes of a young boy in the arms of a black bear, laughing with such joy.

World on his shoulders; how long would it be until he broke? Until the gaping emotional wound closes? He misses you.

Give my muse an object. | Accepting!

It’s been so dark.

It’s been dark for such a long time—or perhaps it had only been a few days. Time seemed to stand still, down in the depths of the mega pizza plex; down beneath the pristine, shining surface, in the deepest recesses of a restaurant long forgotten, sits a place abandoned by the public.

And in vents where flames once licked the walls, where screams were heard(of joy, of rage, of terror when beasts of metal and agony once ran amok) before the end came crashing down around them all, those monsters left in their maze of corridors—one such creature sits, alone, just outside a long-collapsed vent.

It could have been black, at one point, but the animatronic has long been stained gray with dust and decay. Somehow, the shiny golden star on its chest plate retains its sheen, but only barely; such a thick coat of dust and bits of degraded plaster cover it in its entirety, dulling the luster ever further.

One red eyelid—the left one—hangs open; though there is no eye behind it to see, simply a dust-filled black socket where gold should look out upon the world. Still, something within the bot stirs as a picture, old and fragile from time’s decay, flutters down from above—though where it came from is such a strange question to answer. 

Nobody comes here anymore, after all.

Laughter no longer echoes through a large dining room filled with tables, where she had once possessed her own stage to facilitate her only wish: to make the children smile—give joy, give gifts, give life—and giggle with glee. 

Not that she herself knew it; the ghost that lurked deep within the animatronic bear—its shell dubbed Lefty by children and adults alike—struggles to remember even her own name, nowadays. All the child has come to know is the broken tune a music box plays, echoing like a broken record on repeat; skipping and stuttering out of an old golden microphone that had long since fallen from the animatronic’s hand. 

It has been a constant, throughout the years. 

Just like the crushing weight of the rubble that had fallen atop it over a decade ago, keeping Lefty pinned in place. Just like the darkness and soul-shattering loneliness that permeates this abandoned space—this grave that holds no name; not anymore.

To her credit, the shade from decades passed sees this dilapidated photograph and knows—she knows, that this is her. This was the bear, crushed beneath decaying ceiling tiles and rotting insulation, the bear once called Lefty who sang on a stage for children so many years ago. And she held a child in her arms(just as she had lifted so many others into her embrace, done her best to help them move on toward whatever came next and before that, keep them happy), a little boy who looks so joyous.

But she does not know this face. Not anymore. 

All she knows is the isolation, the weight and the music box.

Time froze here in this long-forgotten tomb so many years ago, now, and even memories etched in stone eventually erode away into nothing. There’s a saying, that the mind forgets but the heart will always remember—and yet, the dead have no heart left to beat but still a mind all their own.

The image falls from Lefty’s view, landing beside the still-stammering microphone. And it is gone from the little ghost’s memory just as quickly as it appeared in this bleak little corner of the world, the song she had heard on repeat for over a decade now beginning again as she hummed along.

“ Ninety years without slumbering, tick tock, tick tock... ”

This is how it’s always been.

And perhaps, this is how it always will be.

[quillandink333]

Sunrise

BotW Link X Zelda

Rating: M

Word Count: 4.5k

WARNINGS: suggestive themes, implied sex

Summary: Ten long years after her return to the land of the living, the queen of Hyrule takes her first steps out of her comfort zone with her groom’s hand in hers.

Masterlist

“Tighter.”

I suffered through my struggle to breathe as my lady’s maid tightened my corset to its limits. This was for an occasion that would occur once and never again. If ever had there been a time when I’d needed to look my absolute best, it was now.

My eyes constantly kept returning to the clock on the wall. There was only one hour left before the ceremony was scheduled to commence. I wasn’t even at the Temple of Time, and yet I already felt close to fainting. I looked in the mirror, and I still had the waist width of an obese hynox. “Honestly, can’t you make it any tighter?” I snapped.

“Your Majesty, please try to remain calm,” pleaded one of my maids. I nodded; she was right. I was really letting my stress get the best of me. “My deepest apologies if I’m speaking out of line, but, ehm...I feel it necessary to mention something that your lover spoke to us about.”

When had Link possibly found the time to seek out my own group of personal attendants to tell them something? “Not at all. Go on.”

“Yes. He told us to put your comfort at the highest priority rather than your appearance. He said, quote, ‘Today means more to us than any other day of our lives up until now, so it’s imperative that her memory of it is not plagued by discomfort.’ He was quite insistent about it, I tell you.”

My heart fluttered. It was just like him to go out of his way like that for my sake. I swallowed my pride. “Very well.”

“Would you like me to loosen your corset then?”

“Yes, please,” I heaved. “Thank you.”

I’d recently been blessed with the rare opportunity to be freed from my royal responsibilities for a few days. This was something that only happened for me once or perhaps twice a year. Luckier still, Link had managed to secure a week-long leave from his duties as general of the Calamity Defence Brigade in conjunction with my time off. Since it had been ages since we’d had the chance, we decided to go on a proper adventure like we’d used to in the days when our kingdom had still been in its early stages of restoration. I suggested we spend our few days of freedom in Kakariko Village to pay a long overdue visit to our old friends who lived there, and he proposed that we set out on a hiking trip as well just to make things more exciting and to get outside for a change.

However, I‘d neglected to discern that ‘hiking trip,’ in Linkish, translated to ‘long and arduous climb up a near vertical mountain range.’ It was now an hour or so past midnight, and the two of us were making our way up the side of the cliff just south of Lanayru Road. As one might expect from someone who’s spent roughly the last half decade cooped up in the castle and filling out scroll after scroll of political documents, I was remarkably out of shape. My partner, however, was just as full of energy as he’d been in those olden days, scrambling up the rocky hills with ease. Even by the time we’d reached a level where he was able to stand and walk, I was still trudging along on all fours, barely able to carry my own weight. The gracious gentleman he was, he offered to carry me on his back for a ways when he saw what a sad state I was in.

Not long after I’d recovered strength enough to walk on my own, I started to feel a chill in the air. It was already quite cold to begin with on account of the high altitude, but now my snowquill tunic was beginning to fail me. I stiffened, watching my breath come out in billowing puffs of fog. With Link just a few steps ahead, he looked over his shoulder and came to a stop, nearly causing me to walk straight into him. He smiled mysteriously.

I turned in the direction he faced and spotted the cause of the sudden drop in temperature. In the distance, but steadily drawing nearer, was none other than the spirit Naydra. My eyes probably looked like they were ready to pop out of my skull in that moment.

Before I could fully grasp the situation, he’d already begun retrieving his paraglider from his bag, which he’d propped up against one of the monumental stone pillars dotting the hillside. “Hold onto me.” He held his hand out, holding both handles of the glider in the other. The dragon of ice and snow continued her rapid approach. “Zelda, quickly!” I rushed to his side. He hooked his arm around my waist, and I clung to him tightly by his shoulders.

“Link, are you sure this—ahh!”

A biting gust of wind came our way, and then the feeling of solid earth beneath my feet vanished.

I cried out in terror as he and I were swept upward. I’d used a paraglider before—I even had one of my own—but I’d never considered the thought of sharing one with another. And yet, to my surprise, we were still alive. I summoned the courage to open my eyes, and the moment I did, I was mesmerized.

Naydra was gliding around the two of us, encapsulating us in a vortex created by her flowing, river-like body that shined in a brilliant array of colours the likes of which I’d never beheld up close before. Silently, I gazed up at Link, whose cheeks were coral-coloured from the cold and whose locks danced about his face in the breeze. He wore the serene expression of one who’d had many a chance to experience this sort of thing, but was still just as awestruck as he’d been the first time. Despite the arctic winds nipping at me constantly through my clothes, feeling his arm around my waist holding me fast to his familiar frame filled me to the brim with a tangible sense of warmth and safety.

Naydra guided us with her winds to the top of the stone pillar, and I relaxed at the feeling of the ground beneath me, which was covered in iridescent blue flowers of all different kinds. The spirit of wisdom looked at us with respect in her ancient eyes. Link’s arm stroked up and down my back passively, still wrapped around my waist. Her icy breath touched my face gently and gracefully before she turned and disappeared into the sky.

“Zelda...?”

I turned around in his hold and bumped noses with him on accident, making us both crack a smile. I hadn’t quite finished laughing when he cupped my face and touched his lips to mine. Our embrace lasted an age. A symphony of strings had burst into song deep within my heart. It almost felt like we’d left the ground again as the sound of the wind caressing the flora flew into my ears.

When we parted, he touched his forehead softly to my own. I mirrored his blissful smile, whispering an, “I love you,” and laying my palm over his hand which rested against my cheek.

“I love you,” he echoed. Behind him, the sky was awash with tears of the Goddesses. Down below, the lights of the village shined just as brilliantly. I no longer felt any hint of the cold.

Link let go of me and knelt down on one knee. He then reached into his pouch and pulled out a small box, which he opened to reveal a ring. My hand flew up to my parted lips.

“Will you be my wife?”

My eyes became damp with tears. Of course, there was only one answer.

“Yes.”

Six tireless months of preparation had passed, and the ceremony was now underway. My whole body was more tense than the string of a bow. After an eternity of holding my breath as I waited outside in my carriage, watching the parade of participants walk one by one through the temple doors, my moment had arrived. I made my way up to the looming Doors of Time, and I peered in to see a grand sanctuary decked from one end to the other with stunning floral decor courtesy of Magda, a lovely lady Link had introduced me to with a passion for gardening and flower arrangement. At the far end on either side of the Goddess statue were our bridesmaids and groomsmen all standing in a row. At Her feet stood the priest and, in front of him, my soon-to-be husband whose jaw had dropped to the floor at the sight of me in my full regalia.

I tried my best to keep breathing normally whilst I took in the vast number of attendees filling up the main floor and the gallery through my peripheral vision. They were all trusted friends of ours, of course. However, my level of acquaintanceship with them did not change the fact that most were important figures of society who had high expectations of me, the queen of Hyrule. It was with this in mind that I held my head high, staying vehemently focused on my posture and the way I put each foot in front of the other as I walked down the carpeted aisle.

I held my bouquet in one hand and lifted the skirt of my dress with the other as I ascended the stairs leading to the altar, my train trailing gracefully behind me. I took my place beside Link and turned to face him, allowing him to remove my veil. It was subtle, but I’d without a doubt caught his lips forming the word, “Breathtaking.” I wanted to comment on how he looked equally as stunning in his regal, ivory attire accented by the various bits of gold decorating him from head to toe, but I’d save that for later.

At this time, the priest opened with the customary “Dearly Beloved” speech. I spotted the blur of court painter Pikango’s brush out of the corner of my eye. Although photographs were commonplace nowadays, I’d requested that he do a small-scale portrait of the ceremony with the reason being simply that Link and I were fond of his paintings.

Once the priest’s heartwarming introduction had reached its end, he looked to us and requested that we declare our vows to one and other. We’d worked out ahead of time that Link would go first. Yet if I could have predicted the true depth and authenticity of the words that were about to pass his lips, I would have taken the lead, for his vows would set the standard for my own far, far above what I could possibly meet.

“My dear Zelda,” he began in earnest,

“I still often find myself looking back on the days when I knew nothing but the sweet sound of your voice. In those days that I spent scouring the land for little scraps of my life from one hundred and ten years ago, the thought of seeing your face with my own eyes and hearing your voice with my own ears was what gave me comfort during sleepless nights. I may never regain most of my memories of our past relationship, but that no longer bothers me, because since then, I have made countless precious memories with you that I will cherish for the rest of my life. Like the time we spent living in our little house in Hateno Village, where every morning I would make us breakfast while you’d try and think up new ways to use me as a test subject for your research.”

This earned a collective chuckle from the audience and put a crooked smile on my face as I tried not to laugh.

“Although I said, ‘Yes,’ when you first asked if I still loved you despite everything, I didn’t realize just how many things about you that I would later discover and fall in love with one by one: your brilliant mind, your kind and affectionate heart, and the true depth of your inextinguishable passion, just to name a few. These past years that I’ve spent by your side are what have shaped me into the man standing before you now. My hope for the future, as well as my promise to you, is that we will continue to set out on new adventures and forge new memories together for the rest of our days as husband and wife.”

To say his words had hit me straight in the heart would be an arrant understatement. It was all I could do to hold myself back from prematurely tossing my bouquet over my shoulder and kissing him to death right then and there. Instead, however, I retained my composure and proceeded to recite what I had prepared.

“Link,

“As you may have noticed, we are surrounded by silent princess flowers, a once rare breed that hadn’t yet found a place to thrive amongst civilization a century ago, but has now flourished into a prospering species that can be seen from every window in this beautiful kingdom of ours. Now, since I know you’re already renowned for your role as the hero of Hyrule, I’ll talk about something a little more personal between you and me. And that something is that you’re not just a hero to Hyrule, but even more so to me. For as long as I’ve known you, you’ve never once left my side willfully and I’ve always been able to rely on you in times of need. It’s thanks solely to your undying support over the years that my dream of taking a fallen nation and rebuilding it into something greater than ever before has since blossomed into reality.”

It was around then when I looked up to see tears forming in his eyes. He nodded curtly, urging me to continue.

“I promise to be there for you whenever you’re being too hard on yourself, and to turn to you for guidance when I do the same. I promise to remind you, when you lose sight of who you are, that you are perfect in every way no matter how many doubts you may have. I promise to always make time to spend with you, and to respect your need to be alone at times. And above all, I promise to you absolute love and trust, for although today marks the start to the rest of our lives together, I know it will not be enough time to spend with you.”

Link’s face was fixed in a sentimental smile that mirrored my own. He’d managed to hold back his tears, but it was clear to see how moved he was. Glancing around the room, I realized he and I weren’t the only ones who had gotten emotional.

With that, the time came for us to exchange rings and join hands.

“Link, please place Zelda’s ring on her fourth finger.” I raised my hand out, and he held it with the utmost care while he slipped the ring onto my extended finger. “Do you, Link, take Zelda to be your lawfully wedded wife, to have and to hold, in sickness and in health, in the good times and the bad, treating her as your equal for as long as you both shall live?”

He never took his eyes off me as he gave his answer. “I do.”

“Zelda, please place Link’s ring on his fourth finger.” I did as instructed, glad to hear the priest drop the honourifics for the occasion like I’d asked. Link’s ring fit perfectly on his slim, calloused finger as I put it on for him. “Do you, Zelda, take Link to be your lawfully wedded husband, to have and to hold, in sickness and in health, in the good times and the bad, treating him as your equal for as long as you both shall live?”

“I do.”

“Very good.” The priest closed his tome and placed it under his arm. “With that, by the power vested in me by the Goddess Hylia, I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may seal your vows with a kiss.”

Of course, we couldn’t just stay in our current positions and have a light, chaste kiss—absolutely not.

Link just had to set fire to all established formalities by sweeping me off my feet and dipping me almost to the point where I was parallel with the floor. Only then did he dive in for the kiss. Roaring applause ensued. Flower petals showered down from above. In the midst of all the excitement, I could’ve sworn I heard a stifled chuckle before someone mumbled the word, “‘Seal,’” under their breath.

During the procession following the ceremony, my subjects—soon to be our subjects—were all lined up along the route to the castle, waiting to get a glimpse of the newlywed royal couple in their specially fashioned horse-drawn carriage. Upon arriving at our destination, the butterflies in my stomach began fluttering up a storm when I noticed the throngs of people that had gathered. For years, I’d hesitated announcing our relationship to the public for fear of their disapproval. But seeing their smiling faces and hearing their joyous cheers from the balcony filled me with hope. On top of that, the proud smile worn by my husband as he waved to the crowd from beside me was infectious.

The reception was spectacular, which only made it all the more terrifying. For the whole of the afternoon, the castle grounds were open to the lucky winners of a raffle that people from all over the world had been given the opportunity to participate in. To kick it off, Link and I each gave a brief speech encouraging guests to make merry and celebrate to their hearts’ content. From then on, the great hall was alive with music coupled by the din of friendly conversation, and every so often, the names and titles of new arrivals would be announced from the main entrance.

My aversion to large social gatherings like this was no secret to Link. If not for royal traditions, we both would’ve preferred to have a nice, simple wedding in the countryside and to keep our invitations limited to a select few of our closest friends. Even so, he would not accept my perfectly appropriate inclination to simply preside over the festivities from my throne. Instead, when people were beginning to partner up in the middle of the ballroom, he dragged me down one of the soaring flights of stairs by force straight into the heart of the crowd. Everything came to an abrupt halt. My stomach sank. Link, clearly pleased as punch to be the centre of attention, bowed and offered me his hand as if to say, “May I have this dance?”

Given that all eyes were now glued to us, I was left with no choice but to digress and take his hand. The moment he drew me closer and placed his other hand on my waist, the orchestra raised their instruments and began playing, which prompted the dancers to begin dancing. The tumult of twirling and sidestepping and switching of partners that then ensued had my head spinning.

At some point when Link and I were back in each other’s arms amidst the whirlpool of dancers, we’d gravitated toward the rim of the ballroom floor where a few steps led up to an expanse of tables and chairs beyond which stood a doorway leading outside. My partner was looking around the room with intent. I glanced over my shoulder to see whatever he had seen, but I was swept off to the side as soon as my head was turned.

Half of me was filled with relief to be away from prying eyes as I followed him to Hylia knew where. The other half was filled with doubt that our absence would go unnoticed for long. And the second half was prevailing over the first. He didn’t answer any of my continuous demands to know just where he was taking me. All he did was continue along on his happy-go-lucky way. Perhaps even he didn’t know where he was going.

We hadn’t gotten far when we’d reached a small pavilion overlooking the castle gardens. He turned to face me with a worrying glint in his eye. “Wait, what are you doing?” He gripped my shoulders. “Link—”

Before I could get another word out, he backed me up into the banister and began slowly ravishing my mouth. I gave into him, my fingers weaving themselves into his modestly groomed locks out of habit. He drew away sooner than I’d anticipated, and my eyes fluttered open.

“Kissing my wife,” he finally answered, flashing that charming smile of his. My shoulders shook a little in laughter as I pulled him in for another kiss. He crooned happily, taking me by the waist. His hands roamed across the bodice of my gown, feeling every little intricacy embroidered onto its surface. “I must say,” he muttered, “I couldn’t have imagined something that‘d make you look so gorgeous.”

“Well, you really have the tailors to thank for all this,” I blushed, playing with the pleats of my elegant skirt. “I’m quite pleased with their work myself.”

“While it looks magnificent on you, darling,” he began, running a finger under where it scooped up and cupped my breasts, “I am looking forward to seeing you take it off later this evening.”

I pushed him away gently. “Stop it. Someone could hear—ah!” He grabbed my behind through my dress, without warning.

“Sorry,” he lied, snickering. “I just can’t help myself around you.” He gave me a quick kiss to the temple. I glowered at him, praying he’d get the message that this wasn’t funny to me anymore, but he paid no mind as he bent down and started hiking my skirt up my leg. My face burned as hot as the touch of his fingertips trailing up the skin of my thigh. I looked around frantically for anyone we might’ve been in plain sight of.

“Link,” I whined, “for the love of the Goddesses—”

“Hey, does anyone see the newlyweds about?” He and I both froze at Prince Sidon’s jolly and boisterous tones booming all the way from the great hall. “I figure it’s about time to roll out some old Hyrulian traditions!”

The next thing I knew, I was sat on a big throne that had been set up in the dead centre of the ballroom, and my groom was kneeling at my feet with an utterly victorious smirk on his face. Kass and the other musicians had stopped playing. All of the guests—every single one as well as some staff members—had gathered in front of us. I cursed Sidon under my breath, making Link’s grin grow wider. Everyone was cheering and whistling like they were watching the semiannual shield surfing tournament. I laughed halfheartedly, feeling humiliation sinking in.

With no hesitation, Link raised my right leg over his shoulder and ducked his head under my dress. I didn’t have time to react before I felt him nip gently at my inner thigh. I jumped, biting back a yelp. The audience hollered out in excitement. The ten seconds or so that it then took him to take my garter between his teeth and inch it along the length of my leg seemed like a century. When he emerged, he looked up at me with a sultry gaze that made my blood boil.

With the garter still in his mouth, he stood up and tossed it over his shoulder like a dog with a stick. This did me in. I erupted into uncontrollable bouts of laughter, and Link and the rest of the audience followed suit. Regrettably I was too hysterical to notice who had caught it.

The rest of the reception went on without a hitch. Immediately following Link’s grandiose display of shamelessness, I performed the long-awaited throwing of the bouquet. This time I remembered to take note of the catcher; it was none other than Impa’s granddaughter, Paya, whose complexion had taken on a shade similar to that of her Sheikah facial markings. After that, there were one or two more traditions that needed to be taken care of, such as the cutting of the cake. Link and I had to be given a ladder to stand on in order for us to be able to reach the top tier. Even so, the amount of effort needed was befitting of the delectable prize waiting for me at the end. My lovely husband even offered to feed me the fruits and berries off of his slice, and who would I have been to decline his generosity?

A short while later, I was out on the dance floor again. Compared to before, I was feeling a great deal more relaxed as I mingled with the the many, many partygoers.

Then I heard the thunderous crack of an explosion.

I looked out through the great hall’s lofty windows and witnessed the shimmering hues of fireworks painting the night sky. My plans for them had completely slipped my mind. By the time they’d begun, many people had already made their way outside. I scanned the room for Link and, upon spotting him, asked my current dance partner to excuse me and made my way over to him. Then he followed me to the balcony where we’d enjoy the show for as long as it would last, until the clock struck midnight and the celebration was drawn to a close.

The night had already progressed into the small hours of morning when my husband and I had made it back to our shared quarters. Our lavish ensembles were folded neatly away inside a box in our wardrobe, probably never to be worn again. I’d never revelled so much in the sensation of lying down on my bed and feeling all the tension in my body melt away. What a day it had been.

“I love you.” Link’s voice was low and warm as his fingertips combed delicately through the roots of my hair.

“I love you too,” I smiled, idly tracing each of the scars littering his chest one by one. “Be honest. How long did it take you to write those vows?”

He donned a prideful grin, saying, “Made them up on the spot.”

“I said, ‘Be honest,’” I giggled, giving him a light shove.

“I am! It’s the truth!” And yet his ear-to-ear grin did little to back up his claim.

“Really?” I gave him an incredulous look, which he challenged with a raise of his brow. “Well, I, for one, wrote out draft after draft and spent hours of my precious time memorizing and rehearsing them.”

“I figured as much,” he chided into my neck. A chill raced through my blanketed body followed by another bubbly laugh.

I rolled my eyes. “If you are telling the truth and you really did improvise that whole thing, then...I admit, I’m impressed.”

“Am I not brilliant?”

“Oh, yes,” I smiled, craning my neck to kiss his jawline. Then with a slight yawn as I laid my head back down on his shoulder, “Absolutely.”