#now i have the void eating me up when i realize how hollow i am

[chiara-klara-claire]

7 years ago i made this blog... had graduated from high school that summer and was about to start uni, had German and French as 'main' languages while being a beginner at Dutch and Swedish... Became fluent in the meantime... and Japanese, which I gave up on again and again. Now focusing on it and maybe for good this time..

New Langblr !

HEJ tout le monde! I’m Chiara, I’ve just made this langblr and I’d love to follow new blogs!

please reblog/like if you post any language content and I’ll definitely check your blog out!

[bevswashere]

Koi No Yokan

Chapter 13: Tether

February 2006 One month later.

Satoru stayed with me that night, and the next. Then he whined that his bed is bigger and nicer. We've been staying in his room ever since.

I've found functionality again. The ability to get up in the morning, bathe myself, change clothes. I can eat a full meal without throwing it up, and hold a conversation without bursting into tears. Most of all, I sleep through each night with ease, a warm pair of arms wrapped around me.

But when he lets go, I'm still clearly so lost. I catch myself staring at the walls, walking into rooms unconscious of why or how I got there. I drift off into a void of darkness, overwhelmed by so many thoughts that my mind goes blank. The longest I'd experienced this was three hours, sitting on the floor of the lounge, eyes distantly fixed on the cracked white paint. Shoko was the one who found me. It happens most often when I'm alone, and at times in a crowded space. In the shower, or mid-conversation. During meals, and training, and journeys on the train.

It's happening all the time.

"Kaede-chan?"

"Huh?"

Even now.

"I said, 'Are you sure you're ready for this?'."

I stuff my hands deep into my pockets; the uniform it feels so wrong to be wearing. "Do I need to be?"

"If you're not ready to be in the field again, we should request for a substitute. Mariko and Haibara are more than willing—"

"Nanami-kun, I'm a special grade now. I highly doubt it matters whether I'm 'ready' or not."

"I don't want you to get hurt."

I laugh, but it's hollow. "Worry about yourself."

I lead the way into a dimly-lit tunnel, Nanami close behind. The yellowing walls are covered in a layer of overgrown weeds. Hues of brown and red stains peek out from beneath. When I observe more closely, I realize everything is rotting.

"What exactly is your technique anyway?" I try to fill the silence. "I should have a better idea before we face this thing."

This is the first time I've been assigned with anyone other than Satoru or Suguru. Why? Maybe I'm here as a safety net for Nanami—someone who could help him delve into higher stakes missions. Or maybe he's here as some sort of support for me—someone to keep me sane. Maybe both?

"Ratio Technique. I can make weak points when I hit the curse with this." He holds up the blunt blade, wrapped in some kind of spotted fabric.

"I see." The lights flickering overhead don't go unnoticed. Neither does the air that's gone still, making our footsteps echo the slightest bit louder. "So, you'd need to get in close."

Nanami had to have noticed the shift too, but his voice remains pleasingly steady, "Ideally."

"I can work with that," I say casually. The ground is thrumming with a new kind of vibration, tingling into the soles of my shoes. "Did Yaga Sensei tell you about this place?"

"Some kind of haunted sight for students to run through," he recounts. "All the kids who tried end up disappearing before they can make it to the other end."

"Right." I halt, and Nanami does the same behind. "So, why am I almost at the end of this tunnel then?"

We had been chatting the entire way down, blatantly leaving ourselves open to lure the curse out. Yet, we now stand less than a couple yards from the tunnel's end. I turn on my heel towards the other opening, scanning the ceiling as well. "Don't tell me it's letting us off the hook."

"I doubt we'd be so lucky."

"What gives?" I kick a pebble, listening to it clatter down the gravel. "Come on! I don't have all night!"

"Should you really be provoking it like that?'

The tunnel lights begin to flicker at a more rapid pace. A breeze sweeps through our hair and clothes. The stench of cursed energy becomes more pungent.

It flashes in my mind: the unamusing entrance of a sizable curse. Before it can drop from the ceiling, my hand is up, and four slimy fragments topple onto each other on the floor. "Alright," I dust my hands against each other, "Let's go..." The curse is in pieces, yet the domain over the tunnel remains intact. If anything, the stench of a cursed spirit only grows stronger. Nanami and I both feel it ripple through the tunnel in massive waves. "...Home."

"Nanami, run!" I see it, but not in time. The ends of the tunnel disappear. The open air is now the same rotting cement as everything else.

The next time we turn, we are unable to move. Nanami stares at me, feet glued to the floor as I try to shift my own. The curse appears between us, and the source of the surging energy becomes clear.

"Move," I tell myself. "Move. Move. Move!" I barely find the sense to overcome it, tackling Nanami to the ground.

Strangely, the curse doesn't use jujutsu to attack. It throws a swelling wave of pure cursed energy that splinters the floor.

I plant myself in front of Nanami, putting up a barrier large enough to cover us both. When the glow fades out, my attention is captured by the curse at the end of the tunnel laughing at me.

"Nanami-kun?"

"Yeah?"

"Stay there."

I step forward, careful to remember that a barrier must stay on Nanami at all times. It'll fragment my focus and dull my technique output, but I can't take the risk of him not surviving this with me. I can't lose anyone else.

The barriers roll out of my grasp, cursed energy compacting time into solid pieces, dicing through the air to end that infuriating laughter. It's quick enough to dodge, giggling as it runs, disgusting me further. A curse's nature is to kill, but to toy with me? The subdued anger embedded in my gut begins to boil. The many ways I was trained to keep a level head—the practicality of jujutsu that my family worked so hard to emphasize—disappears. All I can understand is the nature of these abominations to take everything, how furious that makes me.

Unlike most sorcerers, however, I'm powerful enough to win in this headspace. The lack of inhibition sharpens my senses, gives me a vicious edge that wasn't there before.

I can't bother with a domain expansion, not without the risk of pulling Nanami in. Instead I rely on the advantage of the Forward Sight, the visions that foretold where the curse would go and when. Combined with my speed, even a curse like this could not match. I move as I pleased, more than willing to play the game this curse appears desperate for.

The curse darts forward, but before it can reach me, I time jump past its back. My fist swings largely, hammering the full force of my cursed energy into its back. Black flash. The corners of my lips upturn at the sight of purple liquid spewing from the curse's mouth.

"You're pretty tough," I taunt, time jumping again before it can grab me. "What are you?"

There it is again. The laughter. I hate it. I hate any thought of a curse somehow enjoying itself, taking pleasure in the destruction it causes. I hate it so much.

"Kaede-chan...."

Ragged breaths are pumping in and out of my lungs. Every shift of my shoes sloshes in the purple pool beneath me. Each half of the curse's head is grasped in my hands, fingers buried deep into the flesh. Looking down, I realize the curse is in several uneven fragments.

I look over my shoulder to Nanami. "Are you okay?"

He nods, eyes wide.

The curse withers to ash with its domain. All the rot and weeds dissolve and the exits reappear. However, something gets left behind: a graying finger at my feet. "What's this?" I murmur, picking the finger up without much thought. The contact sends an unsettling jolt through my body. "Nanami-kun, come here."

He's still sitting where I'd left him, a sickly pale. I never took him to be the easily shaken type. Had the magnitude of the curse been that intense for him? Then, for a moment, I see he is hesitating to get closer—to the finger or to me?

"Nanami," I repeat. "Come here."

He finally listens, and I hold the dismembered finger to his face. "You're always reading about stuff. Do you have an idea what this is?"

All he responds: "We should bring it back to the school at once."

∞

"I hope you weren't waiting for a long time."

"I was closer than usual today. Kei-chan and I were assigned to a second grade in Ginza."

"Kei-chan?"

"My classmate. The one with the strings."

I think back to the girl with the golden hair and wide, hazel eyes. The one who flashed the satisfied grin at my pain. Nowadays, I find the sentiment far more understandable.

"So that's her name." There's a noticeable gap between Shigeri-san and I on the common room couch. His hands are neatly in his lap, interlaced above the nearly spotless blue fabric of his robes, but his knee bobs intermittently. Every so often his head turns to me sharply, observing my dull expression. Unlike before, it's hard to maintain a continuous conversation.

"I heard you got promoted," he brings up. "The second special grade in the world."

"Mm..."

Silence settles in again.

"Kaede-chan," he gives in, voice already filled with woe. "I swear, I wanted to see you so much sooner than this. They wouldn't approve a vacation period."

"It's okay."

"It's not okay. I can't imagine how you felt—how you must still feel. If my sister..." he trails off at the difficult thought.

"There's nothing you could have done, Shigeri."

"I could have been here. I should have—I should have left and dealt with the consequences."

"I wouldn't ask you to do that."

"It's not about what you ask of me." He redirects his entire body towards me, emerald eyes glazed with sorrow. "Kaede-chan, I want to experience so many good things with you, but I also want to be there for the bad. To be a shoulder to cry on."

He puts his hand on top of mine. It's warm, but not quite the right temperature. In fact, his overwhelming compassion doesn't feel right at all. "Sorry, but could you not touch me?"

Like a current has shocked him, he retracts his hand immediately. There's disappointment on his face, or is it shame? Hurt? Nothing of which I want to make him feel.

"I'm sorry. It's not you, and I'm not disinterested in what you have to say either. I love talking to you," I say earnestly. "It's just hard. Everything's been hard."

"I understand, but know that I'm not going to make the same mistake twice. I'm here for you."

"Even if I say something bad?"

His usual, charming smile doesn't falter. "Especially if you say something bad."

My voice lowers to a whisper, fear I typically hide seeping through my tone, "I think something is wrong with me."

"Why do you think that?"

"The curse I exorcised earlier," I say, "I can't remember what it looked like."

"So?"

"Every mission I take note of what the curse looks like, but I can't remember this one. I can't remember how I killed it either. I've been trying for hours."

"If you were moving so fast."

"No. There was time."

"Okay, but that hardly means something is wrong with you. Who needs to remember a curse's ugly face anyway?"

"I was so angry. I felt hate when it laughed and smiled when it was in pain. I blinked and suddenly it was in pieces!"

I purposely leave out Nanami from the story, how he could barely stand to look at me.

Ever the optimist, Shigeri assures, "It's just your strength, Kaede-chan. Cursed techniques can do that to you sometimes, get you in 'the zone'."

"I doubt being in 'the zone' is the same as blacking out from rage."

"You may have gotten a little vicious, but isn't the most important part that you did your job? The curse is gone."

"But I shouldn't get 'vicious'," I shake my head. "It's not how I was raised."

"Is that what this is about? You're afraid your family would be disappointed?"

"You know what my family's always been afraid of."

Shigeri's lips part, the dots slowly connecting in his mind. "I see."

"You can't tell anyone."

"Everything stays between us."

"I look in the mirror to see my old self, but I can't find her." I'm visibly healthy again. My skin is no longer a sickly pale, wrapped around protruding bones. The deep darkness beneath my eyes has faded. But a mirror doesn't display the new pieces of myself: cynical, angry ones. I have this rage in the pit of my stomach, bubbling like a stew. It comes out whenever I'm agitated, whether by a curse or my friends. I snap and whine without warning, as if any of them are to blame for my misfortune. Then, when I'm not angry, I stare off into space. "I think she died with Momo and everyone else, and I'm terrified of what's left."

Shigeri's expression softens. I can tell he wants to reach out again, but there's hardly a chance.

"One of Ryomen Sukuna's fingers!" The gap between Shigeri and I seems to widen when Satoru kicks the lounge door open. "What a heroic comeback, Kaede-chan."

The reminder of the finger's chilling energy was the last thing I wanted to occupy my mind. "I guess so."

"And I thought Suguru and I's mission today was cool." He plants himself inside the room, opaque glasses trained towards us. He waits a few moments before saying, "Am I interrupting something?"

His timing couldn't have been worse. Deep-rooted fears had finally been verbalized and I care a great deal to hear what Shigeri has to say. But I lie, "No. Not really."

None of us say anything for a moment.

"It's good to see you again, Gojo-san."

"Sure."

Silence fills the room again as he unceasingly watches us. Thirty seconds, possibly even a minute that feels like eternity, passes before Satoru finally speaks again, "It's late. You ready to go to bed, Kaede-chan?"

"We were actually in the middle of something," Shigeri says innocently. "I can walk her if you'd like."

"Really?" Satoru hums. "Alright. Kaede-chan knows the way to my room."

Satoru walks out, and the moment the door shuts behind him, I turn to Shigeri, "It's not how it sounds."

But he doesn't address it in the slightest, "I think you should look into some hobbies or mental exercises that will help ground you. At the least, it'll give you something to do so you can't dwell on these thoughts."

I seek out some kind of concern or betrayal in his expression, but it's unwaveringly sincere. "And if it's not enough?"

Shigeri merely sighs because he doesn't have an answer. "What you're going through right now will take a huge toll on your mind, but that doesn't necessarily mean you're losing it. Hold tight to anything or anyone that makes you feel sane. But Kaede-chan," I look at him, the genuine smile adorning his emerald eyes and pure heart. "You'll be okay."

With his final reassurance, Shigeri says goodbye, but doesn't walk me. Satoru makes that blatantly clear when he opens his door, looking left and right down the hallway. "Kamo went home?"

I drag myself into his room, humming a "yes" in response.

"The conversation seemed serious. What was it about?"

"If it seemed serious then why did you interrupt? You knew we were both in there well before you entered the room." His Six Eyes would make sure of that.

"Excuse me if I interrupted a private moment in the communal lounge," he scoffs. "And you didn't answer my question."

I remove my shoes and sit in his bed, feigning, "It was nothing."

"I got it," he dismisses me with the wave of his hand. "Relationship talk. You don't have to be all secretive about it."

"I really hate when you say that stuff."

"I hate it too," he shoots back. "I'm more than a personal heater, you know. You could at least try to trust me with whatever it is you're so inclined to tell Kamo."

"It's not about trust."

The bed rattles quietly when he sits next to me. "Then what is it?"

It's the shame of admitting I'm afraid to someone who understands my strength the way he solely does. "I didn't want you to think differently of me." To not want to share a bed with someone so weak.

"For what?"

"I feel lost," I say in the most impassive way possible. "I've been having a hard time recognizing myself these days."

"I recognize you."

The sentiment is nice, but hardly encouraging. We're both well aware of all I've lost, how much that's changed me. When do we draw the line that I'm too far gone? "I'm being serious."

"You think I'm not?" he pouts. "I promise, I still see everything that I've always seen in you."

"What do you see?"

Satoru's grin spreads slowly, but it's striking once fully formed. "I still see how you put everyone else's needs before your own. You still care about being polite to elders, even though it doesn't matter, and hold your shoulders too far back."

Instinctively, I pull them forward.

"Stealing all of my cherry flavored candy, and making that funny concentrated look with your eyebrows when you write. Only taking the green clothes from my closet, refusing to sleep on your right side, rubbing the 'Suguru' scar on your wrist. Even the piece of hair on the back of your head that's never straight."

My hand immediately smooths the back of my hair.

"You still let everyone have their turn to talk even though you know exactly what they'll say."

"Well," I suddenly grew timid, "I didn't know you would say all of that."

"And you're still the second strongest jujutsu in the world." I laugh, something that seemed impossible for so long. Then he tells me, "If you can't see all of it the way I do then I'll keep repeating myself. Once you're sick of it, I'll repeat it again."

Hold tight to anything or anyone that makes you feel sane.

The words leave my mouth before I can understand their weight, "Tether with me."

But he understands it far less than I do. "Huh?"

"It's a ritual my family does—did."

"What for?"

"Some said it could induce Forward Sight visions that warn you if your tether was in danger or making a life-altering decision. I'm not really sure how true that is, but regardless, it ties you to someone you care about, connects your souls."

"You want to connect your soul to mine?"

Suddenly, I'm embarrassed by the suggestion. "Forget it, I don't know why I said that."

He ignores my request. "You only get one of these?"

"Yes."

"And it can't be switched or broken?"

"No."

"I don't need your protection, though," he says thoughtfully, "Shouldn't you give it to someone who needs it more, like Tomiji or Mariko?"

"I didn't think you 'needed' it."

"Then, why did you offer?" To be next to me when I sleep. To experience the painful moments with me, but also the joyful ones. To keep safe my sanity planted deep within his soul. "I need you."

An agonizing moment of silent deliberation follows, but without warning he flings himself onto me. I topple from his sudden weight, falling back into the mattress in his embrace. "I'd love to be your tether, Kaede-chan! You're about to be connected to the coolest soul to ever exist!"

His touch warms my skin to the perfect temperature. I find myself holding him tightly, never wanting to let go. "I don't think souls can be cool."

"You haven't seen mine then." He lifts himself to look at me. "There's none like it."

The opaque glasses are slipping off, locking our eyes as the pads of my fingers trace the outline of his arms. "I believe you."

The moment slowly builds up into something far more intimate than I presumed. Holding himself above me like this, feeling the strength of his arms in my grasp, causes a knot to form in the pit of my stomach. One that tightens all the way down to between my legs. I find myself stuttering at first, "Sh-should we do it? The tether."

"Yeah." He gets up, sitting at a distance I find too far.

The want for lack of space isn't unusual, but every other tingling sensation in my body is. Gojo Satoru has triggered something indescribable in me that requires an absurd amount of effort to ignore.

When he removes his glasses, I nearly ask him to put them back on. Something about the deep crystal ocean in his eyes makes me feel more exposed. "What do we need to do?"

I take a pair of scissors from his desk and pick a random strand of his tousled hair. He whines as it shears off, "You better not make my hair look weird."

"You're a sixteen year old boy with white hair. I don't think that would be my fault." Pulling one of the deeper strands of my own hair, I tie it around the ivory lock. "Okay, now give me your hand."

Our hands are placed together, the knot of white and olive between our palms.

"You're okay with this?"

"You already cut my hair," he says, "No turning back now."

There's nothing quite complicated about performing a tether. All it takes is the right amount of cursed energy to meld two fragments together like a fire. But when it radiates from my hand into his, it's surprisingly gentle to the touch, gleaming in sparks that resemble fireflies in the dark.

Our hands come apart, and the entire strand of my hair has turned Satoru's distinctive white. "All done."

"Hey, my hair color looks good on you. Maybe we should color the rest of it to match."

"I think this piece is enough," I say. "Do you feel any different?"

"I feel.. Totally the same."

"Me too."

"I guess I'll need to be in grave danger to find out if it works." Satoru falls back into the mattress again, pulling me to do the same. I land in the crook of his arm, eyes trained on all the pointed features of his face.

"I never want to find out."

But in our lifestyle, that can never be guaranteed.

When I begin to drift off at the morbid thought, the hum of Satoru's voice brings me back to life. "Kaede-chan."

"Hm?"

"I like having my soul tied to yours."

"I like it too."

"Of course you do. You're the one who has the honor of being tethered to me."

"Shut up. You're ruining it."

[barzyyy]

I’m hella in my feels. Break my heart.

one too many.

a/n: prepare yourselves for this one. TW: includes mention of death, alcohol/heavy drinking and self-depricating thoughts. it is heavy. please read at your own discretion. my dm’s are open if anyone needs to talk!

italics = flashback.

read this first, if you haven’t already.

————————————

mat could feel the alcohol meeting his stomach. when did he become this way? he knew that he was not in a condition to be drinking as much as he was. he hadn’t eaten in at least a day. somehow the simplest tasks have become the most difficult.

it didn’t help that it was the offseason. all of his teammates were off on vacation. the jealousy quickly turned into resentment. he deleted all of his social media apps because he couldn’t bear to see anyone else happy. he locked himself inside your once shared house, alone. what used to feel like home now felt unsafe. with every corner he turned, there was something that reminded him of you. lipstick on the counter, your shoes kicked off next to the couch, he left them all in the same spot, praying that this was all a dream and that you would come walking through the door again.

he couldn’t get himself to come to terms with reality.

he drunkely stumbled to the couch, mindlessly turning on the tv and surfing through the channels. he landed on a random channel because his thoughts were overtaking him once again.

mat dreamed of being a dad. you both used to talk about starting a family of your own. would your kids have mat’s hair and your eyes? which one of your personalities would they adopt? he wanted so badly to look through the glass at a game and see you standing on the other side with your baby. he wanted to raise a son and teach him all he knew about how to play. he wanted a little girl to put makeup on him and make him sing the songs of all of her favorite disney princesses.

now, he didn’t want a family at all. you were going perfect mother. no one could ever compete with you. and now that you’re gone, he promised himself that no one would ever take your place. sure, he could have kids with someone else, but they would never be the kids he would have had with you. he didn’t want it.

it was easier to put up a wall and block out the feelings. his grief of losing you was too much for him to handle. he would rather just push everything out, experiencing nothing rather than experiencing everything all at once. every time he thought of you, another part of him was taken away. he was a shell of who he once was.

things would have been different if he had went home to you. had he not gone out to the bar with his teammates after the game, you would have never been in the accident. there would have been no reason for you to go over to your friend’s house. now, instead of remembering the celebratory reason why he went out, his memory was plagued by the phone call he received as he got the worst news of his life.

mat could feel the alcohol meeting his stomach. who was he to turn down free alcohol? getting the game winning goal in game 7 made him feel like he was on top of the world. fans in the bar were covering mat’s tab, and he was partying with all of his teammates. out of the corner of his eye, he saw his phone light up with your caller i.d. and his favorite picture of the two of you. he picked it up and started walking through the mass of people to find a quieter place as he answered the call.

“babe, you won’t believe how many people are here! everyone is buying me drinks and-“

“hello?”

the manly voice was unrecognizable. mat stopped in his tracks.

“who is this?” he questioned.

“this is tom haltford, i’m a paramedic with the long island fire department. do you have a relationship with (y/n) barzal?” he asked.

he immediately sobered up. “she’s my wife, what is going on?” his heart was beating out of his chest.

“sir, i regret to inform you that your wife was in an accident. she was in a head-on collision with an impaired driver. she is currently being transported to nassau university medical center. do you have a safe way of getting there? i can send a police officer to pick you up.”

mat could only muster one sentence.

“is she alive?”

silence.

“i am sending an officer to your location. i am so sorry.”

what brought him out of his trance was the feeling of tears hitting his hand. he had not realized that he was crying, but did nothing to stop the onset of emotions that were to come. he buried his head in his hands, taking in the weight of the fact that you would have still been here had he not decided to go out. his shoulders heaved, but he stayed silent. he sobbed for a half an hour straight.

silence was something mat was becoming all too familiar with. he could no longer listen to the radio because every song he heard remided him of you. he didn’t dare go outside, because he couldn’t stop the jealousy that arose when he saw a couple out together. the best he could do was stay at home. his interaction was limited. when he did eat, all he did was get it delivered. even then, his options were scarce because he didn’t want to eat anything that felt significant to your relationship. he no longer ordered take out from your shared favorite thai restaurant down the street. he avoided anything that remided himself of you.

he would have teammates, family and friends text him every now and again to check in. he made it a point at your funeral to promise that he would reach out if he needed help. deep down, he knew from the beginning that those promises were as hollow as the newly-formed void in his heart.

maybe the irony of it all was that what killed you was the same thing he was using to self medicate. over time, one beer turned into to three, then six. he felt as if it was his only escape - alcohol only solidifed the numbness that he had been feeling. but tonight, he knew that he had gone overboard. there were freshly-chugged beer bottles on the table, and the only thing stopping him from taking some of your sleeping pills was his hope that you would come back for them. in addition to the beer, he was down a glass and a half of wine when his body finally began to reject the liquid. he tried to run to the bathroom, but the closest place he could make it was the kitchen sink. his stomach uncontrollably emptied itself, and he was left gasping in between his heaves. when he was done, he ran his hands under the sink and put water on his face. pulling the kitchen towel from the oven to wipe off his face, he looked up and his eyes were met with the picture on your counter from the wedding.

he was in immediate tears as he saw you walking down the aisle. your dress perfectly hugged your curves and your smile had been the biggest he’d ever seen. he felt a soft nudge from behind him.

”stay strong man, stay strong.” beau whispered, trying to help mat preserve any ounce that was left of his ego.

“bro, i can’t.” he whispered back, tears running down his face. at that point, you began to cry, and then the whole room was crying.

you both struggled through the tears to read eachother your vows. you were so impressed with how heartfelt his were.

“you helped me learn who i was outside of hockey, and i still fall in love with you every single day. ...and you’re a smokin’ 10, too. so that’s a plus.”

the after party was absolutely insane. you danced and drank the night away with your closest family and friends. you were talking to your best friend when mat came stumbling over to you, hugged you and said “can you believe we’re fucking MARRIED BABE?”

that was it. he couldn’t give up on life anymore. who he was becoming was scaring him. he knew that this is not what you would want. with a shaking hand and a breaking heart, he haphazardly picked up his phone and dialed the first number he could think of. there was an answer halfway through the first ring.

“hey man, you all good?”

inbetween sobs, his words slurred together. “beau, i need you.”

——————————————————

[systlinsideblog]

Part 4

I still lived. 

I was, I thought, greatly in the minority. The woman Systlin had judged warrior after warrior, and warrior after warrior had met his end at a quiva's blade. 

A great many of the sentences were carried out by the hands of the freed slave girls of the warriors. The number of these astounded me, as did the ferocity with which many of the girls fell upon their masters. 

It is a Gorean saying that a woman cannot be free until she has been a slave. It is said that a woman wishes to be conquered, that she cannot respect any man save for the man who can reduce her to nothing. 

The girls fell upon their masters with a fury I have rarely seen, and blood flowed until the grass was slick and red with it. 

A few girls did not take up the quiva. These men, once sentence of death was passed, the she-sleen on the Ubar's robe killed herself. Her face was untroubled by this, unworried, and there was even a hint of vicious pleasure in those cold eyes as she swung the sword to remove their heads.

Those warriors who had taken Free Companions and who had children, the she-sleen ordered all material goods be split equally between the  Free Companions, the children, and the freed slave girls. There were many sour faces among the Tuchuk women at that, but to my shock many more who accepted it without question. 

When night neared, scarce three dozen warriors of the Tuchuk still lived, myself included. It was us and only us who had not admitted to owning slaves, and who had no slaves to call out our names. 

A very few men..two or three, in all...had been spared by the request of their slave girls. These men were whipped, and the she-sleen commanded ash be rubbed into the whip wounds. 

"I would have them remember." She had said, eyes cold and face passionless, even as the warriors held back cries of pain. "I want them to remember their crimes, and to remember me." 

Those of us who had survived the slaughter had been unchained and taken to wagons, and allowed to eat and rest. 

"So." Kamchak had survived the culling, and his face was set and cold. "We are free, then?"

"You are not slaves." Systlin had smiled a little, a cold smile that did not reach her eyes. "But if you seek to flee, or to move against me...well." 

Behind her, I could see women chaining hunting sleen outside the wagons. Each was given clothing to smell; I noticed with a start a discarded tunic of my own among the items. The sleen began to pull and hiss, eyes bright. 

"Say, rather, that you are prisoners for the time." Systlin continued. "I've much to do, and I've no time to be worrying about one of you burying a knife in my back in my sleep." Another humorless smile. "I'm not fool enough to think that all...or any...of you are paragons of virtue. I'll get the truth in time."

Kamchak spat. "You," he informed her, "Are the most disagreeable and wrenched wench I've ever had the misfortune to meet. There will come a day, where you meet a man to bring you to heel." A smile. "I wish to be there to see it."

I felt my heart sink; they were unwise words, but then Kamchak was Tuchuk. 

To my surprise, the woman Systlin threw back her head and laughed, as if at a wonderful joke. 

"Ahhh!" She wiped tears from her eyes at last, as I stared, stunned. "When I find my way home, I will tell Foicatch that." Another laugh. "A woman isn't brought to heel. We can choose to be a partner, or to bide our time and pretend until the time is right, but brought to heel? HA! You saw that, I think, today." Another terrible grin. "I saw your faces, when the women turned on your warriors. You did not expect that, did you?"

"Foicatch?" Kamchak, ever keen, inquired. 

"My husband." Systlin said this lightly, easily. "Father of my daughter."

"Good god, you are married?" The words were out of me before I could think better of them. I tried to imagine what bedding such a woman would be like, and thought to myself that it would be much like the risk taken by the male of the praying mantis of Earth; what sort of man would marry such a creature?

"Yes. Goodnight." She shut the wagon behind her. 

There was a moment of silence. Then, Kamchak spoke. 

"It is probably a bad time, Tarl Cabot," he said. "To mention that Kutaituchuk was not the Ubar of the Tuchuks." 

"What?"

 It was surprising, Systlin thought, how many of the Tuchuk women had been willing...eager, even...to take up weapons and stand guard at her wagon. 

Not to her. No. On Ellinon, the children of the Lady would have found the ideas of the men of this 'Gor' incomprehensible, unlawful, hearsay, and downright suicidal. But to many of the women of Gor themselves, Systlin thought, the sheer thrill that came when picking up a blade or spear was new. 

She tried to picture what would have happened had Stellead found herself in this shithole of a world. Death, absolutely; her aunt had little talent in any form of Power, but she had won her place as Arms Master of Stellas Keep and as a Commander of the Bloodguard through sweat and skill. 

Even now, Systlin could only best her aunt blade to blade perhaps two matches out of three. 

If anyone...man, woman, even the gods themselves...had tried to bring Stellead to heel, she'd spit in their eye and disembowel them. 

Systlin smiled to herself. It was a stubbornness and force of will that she herself shared, and that her aunt, mother, and father had always fostered. 

The women did not know quite how to hold a spear, of course. Systlin had tried to gently insist that she didn't need an armed guard, more because she knew full well that they'd not yet be up to a fight than because she believed that. But they had insisted, and in the end she had simply advised them to stick to knives for the time being. 

The rugs and cushions and furs in the wagon were quite comfortable, and she was quite tired, but sleep was elusive. 

All of this...the rugs and furs, the sound of animals outside, the sound of low voices from the camp, the smell of dried dung fires...it was too similar to her time with the Rabi, with Sura, before Sura had become Queen of the Sands, when she'd simply been the leader of her clan. 

Sura's laugh, bright as a bell, and the taste of pomegranate wine. The light of the brazier catching glints of copper and red off of Sura's black hair, which gleamed almost blue in sunlight. 

The rugs beside her were cold, and she suddenly felt very alone. 

Her throne would be empty. She'd held the North together through sheer grit, guile, charisma, and the edge of a sword, and beaten it back into working shape after the War of the Crown had nearly destroyed it. 

Her daughter was only a girl. Foicatch, dear Foicatch, would do his best, she knew, but he was at heart a soldier, not a monarch. 

Her sister would step in, at least. 'Sina was capable. But she didn't have the fear and respect of the lords of the realm and the love of the common folk the way Systlin did. 

"Why am I here?" She whispered this in the dark, at the roof of the wagon. 

No one answered. 

"I have my own place. People who will miss me." She scowled at the dark, and anger rose hot and furious. "Responsibilities! I've not got time for...this!" She waved a hand randomly, indicating everything about this strange place. 

No one answered. But Systlin had met gods in her time, and she knew that if they cared to, they could hear. 

"Send me back!" She hissed this at the darkness, not sure who she was angry with. "Have I not done enough? Send me home! I do not want this!"

Nothing. 

Exhaustion, at last, won out, and she slept. 

She was, in her dreams, not surprised at her visitor. 

The Lady's face could never be seen. The most that could be gathered was an impression of poise, of stately calm. It was impossible even to place what color Her hair was, or her skin, though the hair floated around her like a cloud and she was nude. 

"You?" In her dream Systlin could still feel her anger, though it was a hollow ghost of what she'd felt while awake. 

Me. It wasn't a spoken word; it was felt. 

"I should have known at once." Systlin growled. "Have I not done enough? Can I have no peace?"

A laugh, chiming and musical, but which shook the very bones. You were never made for peace. 

And that was true. Systlin knew it, felt the truth of it in her soul. It was impossible to deny it, not before the Lady. 

She felt an answering whisper in her soul, as the slumbering power of what had once been the Lord of Night and Void, the God of Endings, the Fallen One, God of Conflict, Lord of Justice and retribution, stirred within her. 

Sister. The word was pointed, and almost mocking. Who denies still that you are. 

"I saved my world. It needs me; you know that damned well. I don't want to be a god."

Want. This word was definitely mocking. There is no want, sister. There is 'must'. My brother failed his duty, and corrupted it. You hold it now. In time, you will realize. Goddess of War, Goddess of Justice, Goddess of Protection, Goddess of Night, Goddess of Death, Goddess of Endings and rebirth. I do your duties for now, sister...but not forever. 

Systlin clenched her fists, and pointedly ignored this. "My people need me, damn you."

They are safe. 

Systlin closed her eyes. "You'll not send me back until I finish here." It wasn't a question. 

You could send yourself back whenever you wished, if you accepted your new place.

Systlin glared.

Another smile. So stubborn. No, I will not. Good luck, sister.

She woke. 

Within her, the power of the god she'd killed stirred again, and was once more silent. 

It was morning. She could see the sunlight under the door, and could hear the cheerful bustle of camp outside. 

"Gods damn it all to the pits." She muttered.

 The hardest thing about training the women of the Tuchuk in combat, Systlin soon found, was ingrained survival habits. 

Her aunt, in the long-ago days when Systlin had been a lanky youth still growing into her arms and legs and new to a training sword, had always said that the hardest thing about training older students was fixing ingrained and detrimental habits. 

Stellead had been referring to habits picked up from lesser arms masters...letting your shield drop, footwork that was less than flawless. Systlin wondered how her aunt would have dealt with this, as she interrupted a woman to correct her form and the former slave cringed and dropped at her feet, begging forgiveness. 

"I am sorry!" The woman was almost tearful. Systlin had been angry since she came to this cursed place, and she felt that knot of red rage flare. "I am sorry, I forgot..."

"It's all right." Systlin squatted, propping her elbows on her thighs. "Hush. It's all right. Here now." She offered her hand, and the girl hesitantly took it. Systlin stood, drawing the girl back to her feet, and then bent, picked up the dropped wooden sword, and offered it back hilt first. The girl took it. 

"Do you know," Systlin said, keeping her voice light and conversational, "how long it took me to become good with a sword?"

The woman blinked. "I...no, Ubara." 

"I started training at thirteen." Systlin smiled fondly in memory. "I first killed a wraithen at nineteen. I first killed men in battle at twenty five. that was two and a half decades and three wars ago." She tossed her own wooden sword in the air; it spun precisely one turn before she caught it again by the hilt. "Training takes time, and practice. You will make mistakes. I will never fault you for them; you simply correct them and keep training." 

The girl nodded slowly. Systlin had given the same speech to many girls over the last three weeks, but the habits learned to survive the men of this Pit of a planet went deep. It would be slow going yet; she knew that. 

"Fifty?" The question was unexpected. 

"Hm?"

"You are fifty?"

"Close enough, yes."

"Your world then has brews of youth as well?" The girl seemed curious. 

Systlin blinked. "I...no. But we're descended from the Lady, the goddess and mother of all. We live long." She considered the woman before her; she appeared to be perhaps in her late twenties. "How old are you?" 

"Oh. Sixty, I think? My masters have given me the brews of youth three times." 

The yawning pit of cold fury in Systlin's soul howled. 

"How many years of that," Systlin kept her voice carefully level. "Were you kept as property?"

"Since I was...oh, sixteen?"

The world went abruptly white before her eyes. The yawning spectre of the power she'd pulled from the soul of a slain god roared; goddess of justice, goddess of protection....

Fury, she was furious, and for a moment she knew, knew that it would be so, so easy, to rise on the wind and come down on the people who had done this. To become a storm, a furious reckoning, to scour this world clean in a night...

...No. No no NO. I will not. I have to teach them. They must take it themselves, for all I might lead them. Or it will all be for nothing...

By the time she fought it down and came back to herself she was on her knees, clutching the trampled grass with white knuckles. Sweat was soaking her, as it never did even if she fought all day. Her breath was coming short and sharp. 

"Ubara!" The voices were panicked, and she realized dimly that there were at least a dozen women around her, patting at her cheeks, offering water. 

She looked up, and saw worry, and fear, and as the god-soul inside her stirred, she saw more. She saw desperation, and so, so much pain, oceans of pain, seas of injustice, rivers of innocent blood spilled. 

And as the women of the Tuchuk looked at her, worried, she saw deep in their eyes hope. 

"Ubara?" It was  Sabra , the brave girl, who'd taken quite well to a spear. "Ubara?"

"I'm all right." She wasn't, not quite; her voice sounded rough to her own ears. "I'm all right. Keep practicing."

The hovered until she got to her feet, but once it was determined that the Ubara was not about to die, they slowly went back to their drills. 

Systlin moved a bit away, absently climbed the nearest wagon, and sat cross legged, looking out over the makeshift training grounds without really seeing. 

She'd always been a protector. Since they'd been children, and her sister's dreams had driven little 'Sina to cry and scream in her sleep. Since her father had nurtured that, and taught her that a Queen's people were her children, that her sacred duty was to protect and serve them. 

Since she'd torn the North back from the hands of the greedy and the corrupt, who'd sought to carve it apart for power and profit. 

Since she'd faced a god, putting her own body and soul between her people and the Fallen Lord himself. 

Since she'd faced a second goddess, and demanded the Lady return her daughter from beyond death. 

It was who she was, in the end. She knew it in her bones, even as she looked down at these strange people in this strange world, and felt it, that what she must do. 

"Pitting hells." She muttered this softly, and somewhere felt the Lady smile. 

 For some weeks now, the routine had been much the same; Kamchak and I, and the other men, were kept chained and carefully watched. Some men, after a measure of time should they demonstrate a contrite enough demeanor, had their chains removed and were allowed to move about the camp; they did so, casting their eyes aside from those of us who were still chained. 

I watched one man brush a bosk one evening, and oil its hooves. A slave girl should do such work, and he was clumsy at it. A girl was watching, wearing the leather trousers that had become fashionable among the women. Her hair, which was very long, was braided up and pinned in a coil on the top of her head; it was unflattering, I thought. She corrected him, and showed him how it was done properly, and he meekly listened. She smiled at him, and I thought that in silks and with hair loose she must have been quite a beauty. He smiled back, a bit tentatively. 

I snorted in disdain. There are always men that are so, those that are more akin to women than true men. 

She heard, and turned on me. There was a fierceness in her eyes. 

"See." She pointed at me, mocking. "He thinks himself better than you, Sarthak. He thinks himself too good for work about the camp, thinks it should be done only by women in chains." She laughed, and spit in my direction. "And yet he is still a prisoner in chains, while you are a free man. So who, then, is the better man?"

Sarthak grinned at me. He wore no scars, and scant weeks ago he had likely been unregarded utterly by the Tuchuk. 

"You speak true words, Lena." He agreed, and turned his back on me. She gave another laugh, and she turned back to their task. I realized with some surprise that the looks Lena was favoring the unscarred young man with were warm. 

"Disgraceful." Kamchak was chained to the other axle of the wagon, and he too was regarding the young man with distaste. "Have they made a slave of you already, boy?"

"He's a free man." Lena didn't look around. "All free men and women of able body must do their share of work. You shall too, should you ever be trusted and set free." 

Kamchak spat again, and leaned his head back against the wagon wheel. 

"It was a sad day," said the Ubar of the Tuchuk, "That that she-sleen came to the Tuchuk, Tarl Cabot." 

"Yes." I agreed. I wondered still how many she had slain in that night, through sorcery. The pyres had burned for two days and nights. 

We watched the girl teach the young man to grease the axles of the wagon. We had little else to do. 

As the evening meal was brought, we were finally given some surprise to rouse us from the deadly tedium that had marked the weeks. 

The she-sleen had a cloak now, made of red larl-hide. She wore it pinned at a jaunty angle, thrown back over one shoulder. She was wearing a leather vest over her strange scale armor today. She regarded us for a moment, her hand resting on the hilt of her sword. I'd examined that weapon many times now, and I still could not place the make of it; it was no Gorean style I knew of, and the silver-blue of the blade was unlike any alloy I knew on Earth. It was somewhat shorter than most blades I had seen, perhaps thirty-six inches in all in total length. A great polished amethyst was set into the pommel, the most darkly violet stone I'd ever seen. 

It was viciously sharp. I knew this. 

"You." She said to me. The word was said in Gorean; she was learning quickly, it seemed, for all her strange magic did seem to translate for her. "You'll come with me." She nodded at the girl following her...I recognized her, I realized, it was the girl Dina I had seen around camp before, the slave reputed to be the best at the running game...and Dina brought out a ring of keys. 

Dina's hair was braided, as was Systlin's. Dina wore leather trousers, as did Systlin. Dina wore a quiva, as  Systlin wore her long dagger, and had stood and rested her hand on the hilt of the quiva in conscious imitation of the strange woman. 

It seemed to be a fashion, I noted, that many of the freed slave girls and even many of the Tuchuk women had taken up. 

I said nothing.  It had not been a request, of course, and I had little choice. My leg was healing, but I was far from my top form.

My chains were let loose. I stood, with some difficulty, and Dina's help. She was, I noticed with some surprise, quite strong. There were muscles through her shoulders that I'd never before seen so developed on any Gorean woman, and her hands were tough. 

I knew that well; my own hands were callused thus from the hilt of sword and the haft of lance. It was surprising that a slave girl had developed such in such a short time. 

I was led to the great wagon that Systlin had claimed as her own; the wagon that I knew, now, was not the true wagon of the Ubar of the Tuchuks. 

Inside, a meal of roast bosk had been laid ready for us. Systlin sat cross legged on the cushions; the maleness of the gesture still grated at my sensibilities. Seeing it preformed by one who might look quite well kneeling in silks was wrong, quite wrong. Dina helped me, somewhat ungracefully and with some pain, to sit. 

Systlin did not touch the food at once. She was watching me, and the gaze was keen and direct. I said nothing, but examined her in return. 

I am an observant man. It is one of my strengths. But I could gather little from her, save that which I had already deduced; she was strongly built, for a woman, all solid wiry muscle. Her hands were tough, those of a swordsman. Her gaze was intelligent, and I could not place her origin; the bone structure and shape of her eyes was subtly foreign, but not of any place I knew. She could have been beautiful, perhaps, were she arrayed instead in silk. She never, I noted, let her weapons stray far from her hand. 

She was used, I thought, to fighting. Used even to being attacked in the most secure of surroundings. She had said before that many men had tried to kill her; what sort of creature was this that sat before me?

"You're wondering why I brought you here." She broke the silence. Her tone was crisp, and it was not a question.

I said nothing. 

"The answer is because you are not of these people. I know that the Wagon Peoples usually slay outsiders. That means you are unusual, and I'm wagering it means you're quite skilled at arms." She examined me again, much as I'd examined her, and I saw her noting the callus of my hands. "Your accent is not like that of these people, as well. They say you are Koroban, wherever the fuck that is. I've heard that you have, apparently, traveled."

I said nothing. 

"That makes you potentially useful." She informed me of this without a hint of emotion. "I know very little of this world, and while I'm learning, I suspect that you know more than most."

I had heard her say such things before. I am quite well acquainted with such matters, of course, being once of Earth. "Of this world?" I said at last. 

"Of this world." A horrible humorless smile. "You know full well I'm not from here. This whole place is a nightmare and a travesty. You're lucky my aunt Stellead is not here; she’s less merciful than I. She'd have castrated the lot of your slavers and rapists, slow roasted the genitals, and fed them back to you a bite at a time. And to be honest, I did consider that." 

I could not help but cringe at the thought. 

"From what I have gathered," she continued, "No part of this world is not at the mercy of monsters who hold humans as livestock and use them as they please. It's that, I think, that I've been brought here to end. And you, Tarl Cabot, are going to give me information as I do it." 

The shock of her words was immediate. "Sent? The priest-kings...."

The wave of a hand, dismissive. "I've heard of them. No. Gods, no. I don't care a whit for them. If they interfere I'll deal with them. No, it's a power higher than them that's sent me." 

I blinked at her in shock. The priest-kings are feared and worshiped as gods on Gor, with reason. They are advanced beyond any human designs, and are exceptionally powerful. Yet I saw not a trace of fear in her. 

"They are very powerful," I said. "And your powers may bring their wrath yet." I hoped it, of course. They can burn a man to ashes on a whim.

A laugh. Another cold, humorless laugh. "Maybe." She said. "But I've slain gods before. What are a few more? No. You are going to give me information, Tarl Cabot, on this world. And then I am going to conquer it. Every last damned corner of it."

I stared at her in horror, and she simply smiled in return.

[cudan2]

We’re Only Human

Spring Break Shadowing Part 4

Carlisle Cullen x Reader

Word Count: 2,040

Summary: It’s the last day of shadowing with Dr. Cullen, but you’ve come to realize a little more about how you feel towards him. Cue crushes and a little bit of chaos along the way.

A/N: I finished the semester and can actually dedicate time to writing this again because instead of being on spring break, I’m now on winter break. I also chopped this part in half because it was probably going to be over 6,000 words otherwise and that’s just a lot compared to the previous ones. Bear with me, guys. Another note - I’m thinking about posting this on Ao3 but will rewrite it because I don’t know what I was thinking when I wrote this in present tense lol. 

Anyways, this is #8 on my headcanon list.

Masterlist

XXX

You don’t know how it happened, but time is on your side and you’re running early this morning. The sun has just risen and casts a warm glow across the hospital as you make you way to the Starbucks, determined to be the one to buy Doctor Cullen his drink for once.

Meeting him here every morning has become a tradition, a tradition that involves him getting you breakfast every day you’ve shadowed him this week. The two of you would chat about various topics while walking to where ever he had to be next. Sometimes you would prod his brain with more medical-related questions, occasionally he would tell stories from his past, but regardless, his every word had you captivated.

Alright, perhaps it wouldn’t hurt to finally admit that you may or may not have developed a tiny crush on Doctor Cullen. To be fair though, this is your last day shadowing him and it’s not like you’re ever going to see him again anyways. You feel a pang of disappointment at the thought, but it soon disappears when Emily greets you at the counter.  

“Hi, Y/N! Where’s the doctor today?”

“I was running early today, so I figured I’d grab both of our drinks.” You place your order and ask the barista what Doctor Cullen’s “usual” was.

“Oh that?” she laughs. “He gets boiling water. It’s a little weird, but I just assumed he makes tea with it.”

Boiling... water? You think back to the last several days and try to remember what Doctor Cullen even did with his drink. He definitely never made tea with it. In fact, you don’t think he’s ever taken a sip out of the cup before throwing it away.

“Then I’ll be adding a grande boiled water to my order,” you tell Emily and thank her before she moves on to the next person in line.

You wait to the side for your food and see Jaime standing there too. He’s wearing a backpack and a faded college sweatshirt thrown over his scrubs, and you’re reminded of how many years left of school you have before you can even call yourself a doctor. You wave to him, and he pulls an earbud out from his ear with a sleepy smile.

“Hey, what’s up?” he greets you.

“Nothing much, just grabbing something to eat before the day starts. I’m surprised to see you here though. What happened to morning rounds?”

Jaime lets out what you can only discern as a mix between a hollowed laugh and a groan and tells you about forgetting his coffee at home. “Don’t even get me started on this morning. My car died on me, so I had to get an Uber. Lo and behold, there weren’t any Ubers around either, so ya boy eventually took not just a taxi, but a taxi and the train. By the time I got here, I realized my coffee was still on the counter at home, and so now I’m here.”

Damn, and you thought mornings were rough for you.

“Sorry to hear that! Did you get in trouble for being late?”

“I called Doctor Cullen myself and told him what was happening. He was so understanding, god bless, so I’m in the clear for now.

At the mention of the doctor, your thoughts instantly go back to blond tresses and a brilliant smile you already know you’ll miss when you leave the hospital for the last time today.

“Yeah, he’s pretty great, isn’t he?” you say a little too dreamily. Jaime gives you a knowing look and you rein it back in, hoping you haven’t exposed yourself already.

“You know, I think he’s going to miss you the most when you leave.” You don’t even get the chance to react when Jaime continues on, “Don’t get me wrong, Lily and I will definitely miss having you around, but the man really took a liking to you a lot faster than he did with us.”

“What do you mean?”

“He always kept us at an arm’s length before you came around. All of that personal stuff you get out of him would have taken him weeks to tell us before, and that’s if we’re lucky. He just seems more comfortable around you,” Jaime shrugs. His coffee is then called out, cutting off anything he wanted to say next. “That’s my cue. I’ll see you later!”

You take a moment to mull over what Jaime said. From your perspective, Doctor Cullen has treated you exactly the same way he does with everyone else. You don’t dare to over think what Jaime could be saying – over thinking never leads to anything good. And yet, the damage is done. The seed has been planted and now you can’t help but wonder about what made you stand out to the doctor.

Your own order is called, and you’re pulled from your thoughts with the smell of warm food.

Now armed with two beverages and a pastry bag sandwiched between your fingers, you make your way to a nearby table to wait for Doctor Cullen. Your wait is soon cut short though, as you see him walking towards you out of your peripheral vision. The clouds shift and the sun shines through the windows again. Its golden rays pass over the doctor, and for a second, you swear you could see him shimmering in the sunlight.

You squint strangely and blink a few times. Get it together, you tell yourself. Over thinking is clearly playing some weird psychological tricks on your eyes, and you still needed to be on your A-game.

“Hey you,” he flashes that familiar smile once more when reaching the table you are settled at. “You’re early today.”

“I am. It even gave me the chance to get you your water.” You hand him the cup with a smirk, having made sure to put a sleeve on it earlier because unlike Doctor Cullen, you actually have hands that hold the risk of being burnt.

“Ah, I see Emily has divulged one of my secrets with you. Thank you, Y/N, you really didn’t have to.”

“It’s nothing,” you insist. Seriously, water is free at Starbucks. “Think of it as a small thank you present. It’s the least I could do for the amazing surgeon that let me follow him around for the week.”

“Hmm, I think you may have meant the amazing, extremely kind, highly skilled, and not to mention, quite dashing–”

“Okay! No need to flatter yourself,” you laugh, trying your best to refrain from rolling your eyes. In all honesty, you can’t describe him any better. Add in attractive, intelligent, compassionate, way too humble sometimes, and it would be the perfect recipe to recreate another Doctor Cullen.

From there on, your daily routine at the hospital continues without a hitch. It’s a morning filled with back to back surgeries and question after question thrown at you from the doctor. There is no doubt that he is keeping you on your toes – literally and figuratively. You have to admit though, you are pretty proud of yourself for being able to answer the majority of his questions.

Your feet swing aimlessly while you spin around in a padded chair in Doctor Cullen’s office. Your laptop is open on his desk, displaying a blank document that’s meant to be your personal statement. It has been a little over an hour since he left you here to attend a mandatory meeting and you are starting to get antsy.

Aside from several stacks of files and other various papers, the desk lacks the small trinkets you would expect to see. As a matter of fact, the office itself is surprisingly void of anything personal. There aren’t any pictures of family, friends, pets, not even of a possible wife. There are no decorations on the wall either, and if it weren’t for the leather briefcase leaning against the side of the desk, you’d never believe this office belonged to him. No wonder he spends as much time as possible outside of this dismal room.

As you continue spinning in the chair, you bring up a paper fortune teller made earlier from a sticky note. You choose a color, two subsequent numbers, and flip open the flap to reveal the fortune.

Brunch date with Dr. Cullen.

The things you do to kill time. Your friends would never let you live this down if they could see you now.

Just as you’re about to go another round with the fortune teller, the door opens and Doctor Cullen walks in. The fortune teller goes flying out of your hands and onto the floor next to you as you jump in surprise and halt the spinning.

“Sorry about the wait, Y/N. I’m afraid the meeting took longer than expected,” he says, his words laced with a hint of bitterness. Luckily, he didn’t seem to notice you nearly jumping out of your skin. Not wanting to draw attention to the fortune teller on the floor, you leave it there for now and start packing up your stuff.

“I presume you found a way to entertain yourself?”

“Kind of? I tried starting my personal statement again. It’s really not coming together,” you laugh dryly. Too preoccupied with turning off your laptop and putting it away, you don’t notice that Doctor Cullen walking around to the head of the desk where you are until it’s too late.

Oh crap, the fortune teller. Of course, he just has to notice it too and picks it up with a curious expression. You look up, and he’s standing there with it in his hand.

“Did you make this?”

You leap up from the chair and snatch it out of his hand before he can examine it any closer. There is no way in hell you’re letting him open it.

“Uh, yeah... It’s just something we used to make in elementary school – nothing special!” You try to play it off as cool as possible and slip the fortune teller into the small trash can underneath his desk. “So what’s next on the schedule?”

He takes a moment before answering you. You see his eyes study the way your fingers nervously fidgets with a loose thread on your shirt. He seemingly brushes off the interaction that occurred and responds, “Pre-op. I believe this one will be much different than the others you’ve observed this week.”

“What’s different about it?” you ask. Doctor Cullen starts to leave and holds the door open for you.

“You’ll see.” You don’t have to look at him to know he’s smirking.

He shuts the door and you start walking towards to the surgical department when a hand abruptly pulls you back just a little too hard. You trip over your own feet in the process and in some miraculous, but also really unlucky, sadistic, cruel-of-the-universe sort of way, land in Doctor Cullen’s arms. Goosebumps form up your arms where he’s holding you, and you can’t tell whether it’s from the temperature difference or the fact that your face is only an inch away from his chest.

You are absolutely mortified to say the least. Heat begins crawling up your cheeks and if there was a witness, they would have seen you quite literally jump out of the doctor’s arms.  

“I’m so sorry, Doctor Cullen! I didn’t mean to trip and fall and–”

“No, no, please, Y/N. It was of no fault of yours. I admit, I wholly underestimated the extent of my strength in that moment.” You stare at him, still dismayed at what happened, but it seems you aren’t the only one feeling like a deer in the headlights. “Can you find it in yourself to forgive me?” he asks, smiling meekly.

“It’s fine, these things happen. We’re only human after all, right?”

“...Right.” There’s a moment of silence that goes on for longer than you prefer, and you can’t help but feel like you’re the punchline of some inside joke. You don’t dwell on it though. There’s really only so much social embarrassment you can handle in one day. “Now, if there aren’t any more near-accidents,” he points in the opposite direction and says, “we’re headed to the children’s hospital.”

Oh.

[hasereshdoneanythingwrong]

Innkeeper AU (Part 9)

Stars peppered the cloudy skies as Faye walked up the Inn’s door. The old wooden handle both an invitation and a challenge as she weighed the options in her head. She had rehearsed her words for the past week with the help of Mash and now it was time to put her practice to the test. Slowly and carefully, Faye opened the wooden door, its hinges creaking as the familiar interior was revealed to Faye.

Candles dotted the various tables, their flames flickering against the impinging dark from outside. At the bar stood Ishtar, her brows flicking up in surprise as Faye took her first steps in. Faye took her sword and cloak off, setting them on a table before approaching the owner of the Heaven’s Bull.

Ishtar: Welcome back, Faye. I trust your trip was a success.

Faye: It was, in no small part thanks to you. Is Eresh-?

Ishtar nodded, pointing to the back kitchen area where the sounds of cooking could be heard. The clattering of spoons, bowls, and knives leading Faye to suspect that someone was hard at work.

Ishtar: Want me to get her for you?

Faye: Yes, please. But before that-

Faye leaned in to whisper in Ishtar’s ear, the owner nodding and giving her a thumbs-up before leaving to go into the back. Faye sat at the bar counter for what felt like an eternity. Each moment building upon her sense of dread from the coming confrontation. Her heart twisted and turned on itself, that sense of hollowness eating away at her.

Eresh: Hello, Faye.

Faye’s head snapped to the side as she stood. Her back stiff as she tried to maintain her nerve. Before her stood Eresh, her eyes more tired than she remembered. Not a single hair was out of place as always, but something was off, like she had not been sleeping.

Faye: Eresh! H-h-how have you been?

Eresh shook her head.

Eresh: A little worse for wear, I suppose. Things have been......difficult lately.

Shaking her head once more, Eresh made eye contact with Faye.

Eresh: Ishtar said you needed to speak to me. What is it?

Faye: Actually, I was hoping that I could speak to you outside, under the oak tree.

Eresh looked at Faye for a moment. Confusion and then realization dawned on her. She nodded, following Faye as the adventurer held the door open for her on their way out. They walked wordlessly to the oak tree, the clouds now covering the stars that had one lit the skies moments before. Eresh sat first and rested against the familiar bark of the tree. Faye followed suit, her shoulders remaining tense.

Eresh: So? What was it you needed to talk to me about?

Faye: I wanted to apologize.

Eresh: Apologize for what exactly?

Faye stood, keeping her face forward towards the rolling hills further away.

Faye: For everything. For my actions, for leaving, for not confessing my true feeling to you. For not accepting yours and running, using my mission as an excuse.

Eresh: Faye.

Faye turned and faced the innkeeper, her eyes filled with tears as she sunk to her knees, the two of them face to face, looking deep into the other’s eyes.

Faye: I am so sorry, Eresh. I was scared. So scared of losing this wonderful, beautiful person who had come into my life, who had saved my life That I ran. I ran the second it was an option and left you behind. I told you I could not stay and used my mission as an excuse to run away and leave you behind, to try and cover up my own feeling. But I was wrong. I was wrong to run, I was wrong to let such a good thing in my life, a beacon of true happiness that I have never experienced before, pass me by.

Eresh looked upon the weeping form of Faye. Faye, who had defended her at a moment’s notice without hesitation, now could not even look her in the eyes. Faye’s head was hung low, her shoulders sagged as she struggled to get her words out.

Faye: And I was too stupid to even realize what I had missed. I was too shortsighted in my attempts to move on that I did not even think about how my actions could affect others. I am sorry, Eresh. I am sorry with every fiber of my being. I am so sorry. I never want to leave here again. I want to stay and be with you, living here with Jack and Ishtar. I want us to grow old together and retire to a small house in the countryside one day. I want you to give me a second chance even though I know I do not deserve it. Please, Eresh. Will you give me another shot to make you happy?

The innkeeper looked upon the girl in front of her. Her desperation was clear, her words were true, and most of all, she was pleading with everything she had. Eresh knew though, that it was her choice. She could tell that one word from her, and Faye would leave, no questions asked. One word determined her fate, and she was ready to receive a pardon or a penance, whichever one Eresh deemed necessary. The thought weighed heavily on her mind as she thought it through.

Eresh: Okay.

Faye’s head snapped up; her eyes once filled with tears now brimming with hope as she processed the sentence.

Faye: You’ll- You’ll give me another chance?

Eresh: You can have another chance. To be honest with, you, I was undecided. Every day since you had left things have been hard. I struggled to do so much as getting out of bed in the morning. It felt like my heart, my soul, had lost a piece of itself. Like I’d been shattered into a million tiny pieces.

The clouds began to thin as Eresh continued, moonlight filling the air.

Eresh: It wasn’t until one night I sat here by myself, pleading with the moon to let you know how I felt, that I finally came to terms with everything. I finally processed why you had left and stopped beating myself up over it, blaming myself for driving you away. For trying to keep you even though you had something you had to do. Finally, I looked at the moon and said, “It’s okay, Faye.”

Faye: I heard you!

Eresh, quizzically: What?

Faye: I heard you that night! Your voice carried on the wind while I was in the Capitol. It’s what drove me so hard to come back! I heard you saying it would be okay and knew what I needed to do. The myths from my village were true!

Eresh: You mean the one you were telling me? The one about your true love?

Faye, nodded. Her expression filled with hope and validation as she brought herself close and closer to Eresh. Tears framed her face as the two pressed their foreheads together and a moment of intimacy. An intimacy only found by soulmates reunited with one another.

Faye: Eresh, I love you.

Eresh: I love you too, Faye.

Eresh cupped Faye’s face and kissed her. A deep, longing kiss that parted the skies above them, letting the moon, in all its divinity, shine down on them. Faye and Eresh kissed once, twice, three times, just savoring the other’s presence and the feeling of finally being complete once more. That empty feeling that kept gnawing at their hearts now dissipated as the void inside them was filled. Finally, the broke apart, sitting next to each other under the oak tree, looking onwards at the world in front of them, now more vibrant, more alive than it had been just moments before.

Eresh: You still must leave to go home, right? I mean what good does that medicine do if it never makes it home?

Faye: Actually, I have a plan for that. You met Mash not too long ago, right?

Eresh: Yeah, she said she was a friend of yours and left to find you.

Faye: Well, she found me alright. When she did, we came up with a plan that solved both of our problems. I would stay here with you, and she’d take the medicine back to her father and Mister Teach using Maanna. I asked Ishtar about it right before we met up again.

Eresh: Faye that’s wonderful! You can stay!

Faye: I can stay. I told you, I am never leaving again, not without you.

The two shared one more kiss under that old oak tree, moonlight shining through its leaves and branches. The two lovers, once lost, have found themselves once more. And together their lives would continue, hand in hand, side by side, for the rest of their days. And those days would be spectacular.

A/N: My thanks to everyone that supported me with this AU. This is actually the first story I’ve ever really written an ending to. Some special thanks are in order for a particular individual.

The person who made these all look decent and put up with my bs throughout @hasishtardoneanythingwrong , my editor.

As well as general tags for those who’ve shown interest.

@hasquetzdoneanythingwrong 

@havetheavengersdoneanythingwrong

@haspaulbunyandoneanythingwrong 

@hasabbydoneanythingwrong 

@hasjalterdoneanythingwrong

[pollenat]

“In cold flesh” | kyh.

➛ DAY6′s Young K. Angst. Vampire!au. All the pretentious talk is meant to be pretentious - they’re artists from the past. I’m too tired to put this in specific time period, sorry friends.

➛ Word count: 1763.

Melancholy, the feeling of emptiness because you miss something so much, your spirit is hollow. Nothing, other than the past, seems able to fill the void. But the past, as wonderful and overtaking as it is, has to be left to its devices. So you’re here – on a gondola, making your way down dark canals – to say the goodbye.

“So… You’re here for a lover?”

Lover is a distant word. One that makes you want to lean forward and ponder upon its meaning. But years of looking for answers are long behind you. The now is shaped like waves of salty water.

“I suppose – you could say so.”

The gondolier cannot take his eyes off of you. Enchanted, he stares at a profile that death made perfect. But he doesn’t know that.

“You’re a strange one.”

“Wouldn’t be first time I’ve heard something similar.”

Someone looks out a window. It’s a woman with hooded gaze, staring at your gondola in clear interest. The gondolier salutes in her direction. There’s no response. He stops the boat shortly after.

“And so we’re here. Shall I-“ The young man doesn’t finish his question, maybe realizing how desperate he sounds. But you’re not the adventure he’s looking for.

“There’s no need. Goodnight.” It’s a not-so-rare sight of someone who wants more than just the payment.

Thankfully, he doesn’t argue. Just takes a moment to stare at your back before pushing the gondola forward. The staring woman is gone, but will certainly be back soon.

You look around, searching for a number someone has given you, and the red door with mold – a characteristic to simplify your task. It helps. Your eyes take in the piece of wood that’s  almost useless. A rat must’ve bitten through what mold has weakened. There’s a hole at the very bottom of the door.

“Coming, coming!” Muffled voice calls after your second knock. It’s hesitant.

Footsteps resonate. Light peaks through the hole. Mechanism creaks. The red door opens.

Were you unaware of the time, you’d have said you made a mistake. But you’re not. After all, a ghost of the past is what you are. And neither the few starker wrinkles, nor the greying hair are a surprise. The shock factor is Younghyun himself – an image hidden under Father Time’s sands. Have you smoothened the skin on his forehead, everything would come in place.

“You’re dead.” Is a fact, in more ways than one.

Moonlight reflects in his widened eyes. Fear? He cannot be afraid of your picture, rather the meaning – perhaps that he has gone mad. But that’s just an assumption.

“I can’t be seeing a ghost!” Door is pushed to close. You stop it with a foot. The meeting hurts. Not enough to force you into retreat, but enough to fill you with relief – you aren’t dreaming.

The wood doesn’t press. Younghyun lets go of it to take a few steps back. You walk inside. When the door closes, you offer him a doubtful gaze. The man doesn’t look convinced by it. But the emotions on your face are surely real. The little of what you have inside twists and tightens. So much you are afraid of.

“I was there when they buried you.”

A sunny day you remember well. Light comes from a room to your right. You need a better look at what the present is made of. Apparently, Younghyun’s life is a product of metals. Cogs, screws and other things you cannot name lie in a disorder on desks and shelves. Some are packed into boxes, but the chaos inside causes you to turn around. Younghyun follows you inside. On the wall behind him, a number of clocks hangs. They all tell different time.

“In an empty coffin?”

“It wasn’t empty…” But the seed of doubt is already sown. “I saw it. I saw your body. I must have.”

“You’ve always been a little bit old-fashioned. According to the standards, of course.” One of the clocks is shaped like a boat. Younghyun retreats as soon as you step closer to have a better look at his other creations. “You’re a clockmaker now? Not the life of a party among elites? Not even a poet appreciating the blooming flower of old age?”

He sighs in disbelief. Now, in this specific moment when his chest rises and falls, he looks exactly like you remember him, signs of age excluded.

“Those were… dreams of a child. I’ve got what I need here – a job, home and… something to keep my mind occupied.” Younghyun wants to say more, but his meaningful gaze at your features speaks instead.

“I’ve noticed pages filled with words. You’re still writing. You haven’t completely given up on the child’s dreams.” Your words cause him to look behind you, at his desk. Shame crosses anxious features. A part of his life he’d rather hide, even from you. Perhaps especially from you.

“It’s a way to help me figure thoughts out.”

Younghyun limps towards the desk. He isn’t quick in collecting the notes, though he seems like he wants to be. Dark eyes get lost in their words, scanning paragraphs, putting them together. After a second or two, he forgets he was meant to hide the words from you. Footsteps have no effect on him. Breath on his neck does.

“Through the hardships, he prevailed. And wondered, and missed. And lived, and died-“ The card is turned around, so you cannot finish, but the other side shows more words.

Now he’s desperate to escape the art he created. A drawer opens and closes, barely containing stacks of carelessly abandoned papers.

“As I said – figure thoughts out. Doesn’t mean they have to make sense.”

You’re standing in place, barely apart. His hands rest on the desk’s counter, scarred and thin. He used to play. Wrote quite a lot for his mother’s piano, but there’s no instrument in the work space.

“The world could benefit from your writing.”

A scoff. “Are you some ghost of regret? Here to trouble me, because I’ve promised it to the face you stole?”

So he does think you a mare. Truth be told, were you in his place, you’d have thought so too.

“If anything, I’m the one fighting regret.” You step away, to breathe in scents that aren’t just him. Younghyun turns around to follow your departure.

“Why?”

“I abandoned you, didn’t I?” He says nothing to that. “When I woke up, you were gone. And so was my life. Nobody to turn to, nobody to ask. I watched my family go on. So much has changed. My reappearance – was too scared to show a corpse’s face. And so I left.” Eyes abandon your gaze. “But I suppose you can never escape the past. Ended up looking for you. To say goodbye – had you gone on, to see for myself – had you decided to stay.”

He pushes the paper-filled drawer to make sure it stays there. Fingers drum against wood nervously.

“Looks like neither of us escaped, though you’re just my mind’s creation.”

Again. He speaks to assure himself. You cannot be a thought – you’re the one thinking.

“Insufferable. I’m standing right in front of you – in cold flesh. Undead, thinking, being, and you cannot just agree with it.” The man shakes hid head. “If it’s that difficult, then just act like I’m real for the duration of my short stay here.”

“Then what do you want?” Though the words are just words, the phrasing feels back-stabbing. You miss his poetry and all-telling essays. “Why are you here?”

“To make amends. Say goodbye and see you one last time.”

“And where are you going next?”

“I’m not sure. Since the moment I died, this” You motion between your pair. “has been my ultimate goal. I wanted to say goodbye and apologize.”

“You have nothing to apologize for. I’m the one who-“

“-who needed me and was abandoned.” He goes silent.

One of the clocks announces midnight. You cannot be sure it’s precise. The one next to it shows afternoon. Another mechanism says the midnight will happen in a matter of minutes. It’s infuriating.

“How do you live with this chaos?”

A look back at the clocks causes him a smile. The first one you’ve seen so clearly since… A distant point in the past.

“Weirdly, it helps me.” At your confused gaze, he continues. “I’m not contained by time. Day and night – that’s all I know. Work happens when it happens. Sleep overtakes me when I’m tired. I eat when I’m hungry.”

The only thing in Younghyun contained by time is his body, because the soul you’ve fallen in love with long ago is still the same. You take a glance at the limping leg.

“So much time has passed, and yet – you didn’t change a bit.”

“Same could be- should be said about you.” Conflicted, the man walks up to you. “Am I really not dreaming? I’m dead, is that right? There’s no other explanation.”

“You’re not dead, Younghyun.”

He sighs at your cold touch on his hand. Neither of you break the physical contact, though you’re afraid the ice may hurt him. It’s sad – hating the thought of parting and being aware that prolonging the contact will inflict nothing but more pain.

“This is impossible. It’s like you froze in time.” Now, he’s eager to explore more.

The other hand skims your face, ignorant to the cold, persistent to every valley and hill. As if he was a creator, drawing your face to his design. Warmth travels up and down, left and right, stronger and weaker. His eyes follow where the fingertips lead. You want him to go on, do this forever, but Younghyun stops. Fingers close on your chin to angle it properly.

“You know, I’m so happy I stopped caring for the truth.” His eyes search your for the sparkle of life behind glossy surface. “Even if you’re some demon, here to gamble my soul, I can give it to you – for a moment longer in your presence.”

“Keep your soul. I just wanted to make sure you still had it.” Now, his smile is what you’ve wanted it to be – meant for you, caused by you and real.

Younghyun cannot shake the grin off, though he tries. In his attempts, the man lets go of your limbs to embrace you instead. He doesn’t comment the cold. Palms spread on your back, nose hides in your skin, lips breathe warmth. You can even feel the fluttering of his eyelashes.

“Then let’s not say goodbye again.”

Another clock announces midnight.

➛ pollenat’s list of headcanons

➛ pollenat’s list of shorts

➛ pollenat’s list of scenarios

[delicrieux]

Hello! May I have a one-shot with Kylo being injured and reader, who is part of the resistance, finds him and takes care of him? Thanks!

idk how this turned out to be 5k words but WHEW i mean if ppl want me to continue it im down so send in sum request of wat u think should happen!! xoxo gossip girl

requests are open! | masterlist | part 2.

Fear. The kind that makes it hard to breathe as if you are kept underwater; the kind that makes your muscles clench and freeze as all senses flow out one by one. Today had been almost too typical — you woke up, you trained, you talked to your comrades and learned battle strategy — and you were certain your evening walk would be just as uneventful. The breeze in your hair was playful; the setting sun provided warm light and set your surroundings in a pleasant, rosy glow. You like the fresh air; you like exploring; you like the freedom that comes with being alone in wilderness. And in turn, it serves as a reminder for why you are fighting in the first place. To preserve this peace, this freedom, that now has been tarnished when you stumble upon a body.

For a heartbeat you think he’s dead — his expression is lifeless and his face, pale as first snow, is bruised, covered in soot and dried blood. Willing your legs to move, you approach cautiously, not breathing, afraid to break the shrill, sudden silence — no birdsong, no wails of wind passing through trees… nothing. Life had, at that moment, stilled completely. But as you draw closer, grass crunching under your feet softly, you intake a breath of both relief and surprise. Dark locks of hair spray on his forehead and obscure the minuscule knit of his brows, his trembling lashes. He’s alive. The thought consumes you and you fall to your knees, skidding beside him, pushing his hair from his face and landing your palm on his forehead.

It’s awfully cold. Chilling. Almost biting at your sensitive flesh, urging you to pull away. It rolls in waves, this sudden cold, sudden sickness, as if it is a virus that spreads and you have caught it with this minimal contact. But you don’t pull away, despite the near overwhelming urge to do so, despite the fear returning with a new blow. Instead you glide your fingers down his jaw and press on his neck, breaking into a small, crooked smile once you feel a slow drum against them. He is alive, but barely. You glance about him, looking around the area. Nothing out the ordinary, no branches broken, no bushes disturbed and no trails left on the grass. How he got here is a mystery that will have to be solved a different time.

You hope he will tell you once he wakes up, if he even wakes up at all.

That, and, his name, too.

Your base is small and tugged away in a dense jungle, the tall trees and heat warding from unwanted visitors — the First Order. The compartments are small; there are barely above a few dozen people here; it serves more as a safe haven for lost wanderers looking for a cause or shelter, or a backup base in case others were destroyed and the rebels had nowhere to go. It is far away enough from war. Everyone here is, to some extent, safe.

You had never been on the front lines. You had never faced a Storm Trooper, had never seen the Force at work — if there even is such a thing, speculations speculations, nothing consistent, merely gossip — and you had never seen a dead body. Perhaps that is why you froze up so terribly at the sight of him. Perhaps that’s why you felt as if a void opened within you, swallowing up the last shred of light, of life, and leaving you hollow.

You should get used to the sight, though. There will be many dead in battle.

He’s the only one occupying a bed in the Medical Wing and he hasn’t woken up for two days now. His vitals are stable — no internal bleeding, no disease detected, nothing out of place as it seemed. But he is lost in deep sleep, constantly dreaming about something that made him tremble and muss and toss and turn, but never wake. It is entirely bizarre how his state is simply there, caused by no injury, no blow, nothing. And the more you take care of him… the more questions you get.

You eat in the cafeteria, a vast enough, pale walled space occupied by few people during lunch time. Next to you sits a blue eyed, blonde haired cherubic woman – she serves as the doctor, the only doctor here. She smiles lightly at you when you catch her gaze. You had always wondered why her name is Vendetta. 

The amount of denizens is small here, so small in fact that the only ones serving under this branch is a rag tag team of scavengers, travelers, nobodies that had abandoned their old lives to fight in this war. Rebels, quite literally, with a cause. Many have taken new names. Vendetta, too, had a name before this, a life, a different purpose. Though her odd choice leads you to believe that what ever had happened to drive her here was painful and severe, deserving justice. In front of you sits a tall, bony, brown haired, brow eyed mechanic with a scar running down half of their face – Q. And beside them, July – you had never seen him smiling, had never heard his voice hold a tender note in it. He is always displeased. Always with a frown.

“Seven.” Vendetta calls you, noting your blank stare, the untouched food in your plate. Seven. You chose this because you were the seventh child in your family, and, subsequently, the seventh person to join the Resistance when this base first opened.

“She’s probably thinking about the stranger.” Q mutters, taking a sip, “His origins are…” They glance about, leaning in slightly, “ A hot topic, after all.”

“We get injured wanderers all the time.” Vendetta waves them off, “As if he’s any different.”

“I don’t think we should be so quick to dismiss him, V.” July grumbles, his voice low, the sound of crunching gravel. He sits with his arms crossed over his chest, observing the three of you with something akin to hostility, “You never know who may be working for the Order.”

“You can’t just assume that.” You pipe up, “He might just be another gambler dropped by the Floating Casino because he couldn’t pay his debts.”

“Or he might be a spy.” July stresses, glaring.

“No one knows there is a base here.” You continue, unrelenting, “Half the Resistance doesn’t know it exists, how can someone from the Order?”

“Still, I advice we exercise caution.” Q says calmly, a pleasant smile on their face — if anyone can defuse an argument before it starts, it’s them, “You never know what people are hiding, Seven.”

“Okay,” Vendetta chimes, “I will certainly not disclose this vital information when the man awakes from his comatose state. I shall make sure to confuse and frighten him further by chaining him to his bed.”

“Good.” July says.

“That is not what I had in mind, and you know it.” Q mutters, a tad disappointed, “I was thinking more along the lines of… An interview.”

“Too civil.” July mumbles, “I say we go with Vendetta’s idea.”

“That was not an idea,” She hisses, “it was sarcasm.”

“Fine, interview.” You submit, “Either way, I doubt anyone from the Order would not say they are from there. They are feared. Probably would think he has the upper hand, or something. Plus, our disguise is impeccable. We look like a research facility. Better yet, a shelter if no one wanders up to the main rooms.”

“I also sincerely doubt anyone, Order or not, is so good at lying first thing when they wake up.” Vendetta agrees.

July narrows his eyes at her, “That is an awfully naive observation to make.”

“Really now? It is a known fact that people half-asleep always tell the truth.”

Another hour of this and you feel drained and sore and with a mild headache. As much as their company has helped you, they can be a bit too eager to prove one another wrong. On most occasions you’d enjoy the chatter. Today, however, you feel too distracted to focus on anything. Q makes some good points, July argues, Vendetta and her biting comments pick at your skin. Always the blazing look in her eyes, always a certain gleam of anger hiding within her mellow, sweet tone. You excuse yourself when you finish your meal and they do not keep you from leaving. Perhaps they noticed you being out of it. Perhaps they were too caught up in their new topic – Lo and Chester’s sudden break up. 

It does not take you long to come to the Medical Wing. The door shuts with a silent sweep and your heart drops – the bed is empty. Before you can do much else strong arms wrap around you from behind. With a yelp you feel a hand squeeze your throat and your breath leaves you with a helpless whine, sparks flying in your vision. Your reflexes kick in before you can control them. In a panic, you elbow your attacker in the chest and the grip loosens a bit, enough to allow you to escape and put some distance. Inhaling mouthfuls of air, you turn to the man that had been sleeping since you found him in the wilderness.

You never quite realized how tall he is, or how angry he could be. He’s confused and you see fire in his eyes, a sneer on his face, and he stands unmoving, waiting for you to try something, anything, so that he could grab you and try to kill you again.

You raise your hands, palms up —a fragile, harmless motion to indicate you mean no harm. His guard is still up. He’s heaving and his shoulders are tense, his gaze not once leaving your form, “…Hi,” You wheeze, almost voiceless, “I’m not here to hurt you.” You indicate softly. Cold, again, as if thrown into a bottomless ocean; body heavy, like a stone. You gulp. “Are you alright?” You question gently, afraid to provoke him again. “You must be tired. You’ve been out for a while.”

“Where am I?” His voice is deep and scratchy and it seems to set him off. He trembles from anger, you can almost feel the steady build up of rage in his chest, ”Who are you?”

“I’m Seven.” You introduce, “I found you outside our base. Do you know how you got here?”

He takes a threatening step forward and your arms shoot higher, “I’m not your enemy.” You insist, “You are not a prisoner here. You were dying and I wanted to help you.”

He regards you for a silent moment as if unsure whether to believe you or not. However, you sense that he will not try to hurt you, for now at least. You give him a shaky smile, trying to ease him — you cannot imagine how frightening it is to awake in some room among strangers and not knowing where you are or what had happened. “Do you…know your name?” You continue your questions, your arms slowly falling by your sides. After another pause, he nods curtly, “Good. That’s good.” you step away from his bed, “Please, lie down. You’re still recovering. No shady business, I promise.”

You are a bit surprised that he listens, but you don’t show it. He’s cautious, regarding you as if you were some dangerous animal cornering him, and his walk is sluggish. You can tell it’s hard for him to move, but don’t say anything. You doubt it would do any good. He finally sits down and just stares at you. You try to smile again, “Do you know how you got here? It’s okay if you don’t.”

“How long have I been here for?” He asks instead.

“Two full days in the base.” You say calmly, “But out there?” You vaguely motion with your head to the outside world, “I don’t know.”

Your answer unnerves him. For the first time his frown falls and he stares at you with big eyes and a trembling lip, as if a lost child not knowing what to do. That expression warps suddenly and he looks away, his hands gripping the side of the bed so tightly his knuckles turn white. 

“Well, if there is…anything you need…” You start mildly, “You can call upon me. Or Vendetta. She’s the doctor here, so if you feel any pain or sickness, you should tell her. She’s sweet.” You smile, “And she will help. But right now, just try to rest…I’ll…leave you to it.”

You bolt past him to the door but– “You don’t know who I am, do you?”

You turn back to him, shaking your head lightly, “No. But it doesn’t matter. A lot of adventures come through here, lost and injured. You aren’t the first one. Now rest, please.”

He’s volatile, is what you learn upon the first days of his resurrection. His mood can change in a flip of a coin and he goes from placid to enraged in a blink of an eye. Tantrums, yelling — all signatures of a spoiled child not knowing what he has but simply wanting to break it. He’s nobility, or so your peers gossip. You hear snippets of all sorts of things, each more outrageous than the one before. The one that he is a prince kicked out of home for adultery seems to be the most popular one.

And he’s egotistical. He had not been, besides the attempted murder, that hostile and untamed towards you — the choking you told no one about as you concluded he simply felt threatened and scared. Though his other tantrums you are not so quick to chalk up as self-defense. Vendetta, exasperated, one evening told you that she somehow offended him — ”All I said is stop pouting because you need my help!” — and he, with a bruised ego, so high and mighty promptly jumped out of bed. Whatever he was trying to do backfired — perhaps he was trying to leave, or trying to grab something and to hit her with — but he slipped and fell and hit his head into the sharp corner of table. “And I said to him, oh I said: look what you’ve done now! Off to bed, quickly!” Vendetta finished bitterly, stabbing her fork idly into her food, possibly imagining his face there. His nose, much to V’s displeasure, was not broken, but an ugly gash and a dark bruise split his skin in half and he laid in bed sulking for at least a day.

As the week passed, he seemed to favor your company the most. It is not that he smiled and joked and laughed in your presence, and you were not exchanging secrets or hugging or even calling each other friends. He simply seemed to be more mellow around you, possibly because you oddly knew what to say and what to keep silent. It is as if you sensed the subtle shift of his moods; could read his expressions in a way no one could, perhaps no one tried. And you would come and visit him as often as you could when relieved of your duties — you felt responsible for him in a way, and you wondered if you would still feel this weight on your shoulders when he eventually left this place. After all it was you that had found him lying in the grass; it was you that had insisted to help him; and now, it is you that brings him food and tries to provide some comfort in a form of conversation. You don’t pry into his past, don’t even ask for his name, because you know he does not want to give it, and you won’t risk questioning in fear of another explosion of his temper. You talk about inconsequential things: what’s happening around the base, what sort of plants grow around here, what bugs could kill him before he took two steps. He especially enjoys hearing the rumors about him, even if he is too prideful to admit that they amuse him greatly.

“And what if I am?” He questions one evening, something akin to a small smile pulling at the corners of his lips. His eyes, a kind hazel color that could be beautiful if not for the persistent angry spark within them that is now, seemingly, vacant, watch you closely.

You frown softly, “Are what?” You question, “A prince?” He nods. You snort, “Well then, your majesty, I shall make sure to inform the others. What will be your first decree?” 

He pretends to think, “No more slacking around.” He says sternly, “This is supposed to be a military base, isn’t it?” He ends on a cheeky note. You gulp. Ah, yes, you might have let it slip that he’s in one of the Resistance’s safe houses, though you did not disclose the coordinates.

“On a mission to make fun illegal, are you?” You ask with a raised brow. 

He frowns, “Am not.”

“Are too.”

“Am not.”

“Are too!”

Childish, really, though you suppose it is better than arguing with July.

You feel it before you hear it— rain and thunder. The merciless patter on the roof and on your window. In night the sound is almost deafening — a loud roar of an engine, followed by cracks of lightning and flashes in the dark sky. You would have slept through it if not for the pins and needles washing your skin behind the warm sheets thrown on your body. You stir. Thunder roars and a flash of bright white light illuminates your room and seeps through the cracks of your lashes. Cold, again, as if standing in the middle of a storm.

You finally sit up, rubbing your face and then looking around to see if your friends are playing some sort of joke on you. You were almost certain they had dragged you outside and left you to get drenched. But you are alone in your room and you frown and shiver from the biting cold. Groggily you throw the sheets away and leave your bed, not entirely certain where you are going but there is a pull in your gut and half-asleep you follow it. You think you might still be dreaming —the rain on your dry skin feels real, though all dreams feel real until you awake. You leave the dormitories and take the elevator to the first floor. The base is silent, save for the shrill of machinery. Finally, still in your pajamas and almost fully awake, you step past the main entrance and stop.

It’s pouring, a curtain of rain obscuring the confusing contours of trees and leaves and bushes. The darkness does not help. A bleak light pulses to life once you pass the sensor and your surroundings illuminate. Thunder, lighting, more rain. You stand safe and dry under the roof, and he stands at the very edge of it, half soaking, his face kissed and washed by the rain.

You are not sure what to think. He seems lonely standing there surrounded by darkness and water. It’s whispers, or something akin to that, that urge and beseech that he does not want to be alone. You hear them somewhere in the back of your mind. If he noticed you, and he should have with the light suddenly on, he does not show it. You approach him slowly, your footsteps concealed over the heavy drum of rain.

“Not used to it, are you?” You ask, your voice followed by a bolt of thunder. He stirs, head tilting in your direction. Your heart skips a beat when your eyes meet — there is no hostility in them, no anger, just a distant sadness. You give him a soft smile, “I can tell you don’t see it often. I didn’t, either, at first. I grew up surrounded by deserts and I had not seen a drop of rain for at least eighteen years. But, here… Well, there’s no shortage of it. We have storms at least once a week. You’ll grow sick of it before you leave, trust me.”

He says nothing, still looking at you. The light sniffs out. Both of you stand unmoving.

“Why are you here?” He asks, a note of genuine confusion slipping past his calm tone.

“I… don’t know.” You admit. A frown pulls on your brows and you bite your lower lip, staring into the heavy curtain of rain, “I…I really don’t know.” You turn to him, “Why are you here?”

He doesn’t answer for a moment, savoring the silence. Then, “I got bored laying in bed.” Somehow you feel that anxiety has more to do with his sudden nightly venture, rather than actual boredom. Though, you suppose it is quite tedious doing nothing all day. You imagine he is active, judging by his built. He has a strong character and he knows what he wants (most of the time), or rather has a distinct sense of what he doesn’t want. You imagine he’d be a good commander, or leader, with his deep voice and unrelenting stare, if only he wasn’t so sensitive. He’s too unpredictable. Too uncontrollable. His emotions get the better of him too quickly for him to be unbiased. For that reason alone you deem him unfit to be a spy, or a soldier, or a figure of military power. He’d burn all he would build if that were the case. No, him being of noble birth and being stranded here as some sort of twisted punishment sounds believable enough.

“What are you thinking?” He questions, drawing you out of your thoughts. You hum, ponder whether you should be honest with him or not. “Don’t lie to me.” He says suddenly and you jolt, heart drumming painfully in your chest. For a frightening moment you figured he could read your mind. Then again, you have been spending a lot of time together. He must have noticed how gentle you are with him, how carefully you pick your words. His signature frown is back, you see it for a second when lightning strikes.

“I was thinking about your life.” You admit, “Your work. Whether you really are a royal as most of my crew mates seem to think.”

Flash. You see half a smile blooming on his lips.

“But I know you won’t tell me. Don’t worry, I get it. Ladies love a mystery.”

“What?”

It’s your turn to grin, “Oh, please, it’s almost all I hear about. Seven brought a brooding stranger with a secret past into the base. Lo…Michel… Two of your rapid admirers. I already told you that your arrival has sparked many speculations.”

“I…I haven’t…” He sounds uncertain, flustered almost, as if embarrassed, but there is no way he is, you refuse to believe it. He stumbles upon his words and lastly says nothing. You snicker silently. Another flash of lightning and you see the same confused, puppy-like look on his face you have had the pleasure of seeing once or twice. He does not shield it this time, this moment of vulnerability. He probably doesn’t see the point because darkness obscures everything again.

You extend your hand to him as a silent offering. How many things have you offered him now? Life, health, your company. He regards it, ponders a bit, lastly gently clasps his hand over yours. You jerk. Electricity courses through you and your eyes go wide, tingles rushing all over your body. Lightning strikes. You see wonder on his face, a mimic of your own surprised expression.

“Come on,” You stutter, tugging him, “you’ll catch a cold.” He follows after you. The light blinks on. You don’t know what is happening. Couldn’t have been the thunder, the feeling is not as intense. It felt more like a build up of energy; like you accidentally touched a circuit and it zapped you.

Impossible, you hear something alike his voice but not quite — it’s quiet, distant, muddy.

“Hm?”

“What?”

Once inside, the door sweeps shut behind you, “What did you say?”

“I didn’t say anything.” He sounds a bit ticked now, and you decide to drop it.

“Oh,” You mutter, “must’ve imagined it, then.”

His hand is cold in yours and you squeeze it just a bit, hoping he won’t notice and hoping that you will warm it. When you reach the Medical Wing, you tilt your head and say, “Wait here. I’ll get you dry clothes from the storage.”

But as you turn to leave he doesn’t let go, though doesn’t say anything either. He’s choked up — either he doesn’t know how to say it or doesn’t want to say it at all. He doesn’t want to be alone. Those whispers come again, ringing in your ears so quietly you aren’t sure they’re even there. You give him a soft smile, catching his gaze, “Okay, we can go together. You’ll probably stay here for at least another week, so, it’s best you know where the storage is anyway.” There’s no rush in your words, no annoyance, just simple acceptance. It eases him, relieves him of saying and admitting things he’s not willing to bring to light.

The walk is quiet and you still hold hands. His is much bigger than yours, rough, though not unpleasant. They are hands of a man that uses them often — for better, or for worse — and a twinge in your heart, a sudden thud of uncertainty, informs you that your previous speculations might have not been correct at all. His hand doesn’t feel like that of a prince (not that you would know what that would feel like), no, it feels like a hand of a soldier. But that inching of something amiss is swept away by warmth, silent happiness, a certain deliriousness that starts blooming within you and spreading all around. You feel him, somehow; feel a connection. You can’t put it into words exactly, you doubt you could ever explain it to anyone. It’s fragile. And beautiful. And maddening that such a devout emotion is sprung by something as innocent as holding hands

You wonder if he feels it. You somehow know he does.

The storage room is not big. Your hand slips from his as he chooses to stand by the doorway and you rummage to get his things. You feel braver. Perhaps it’s the tiredness that leaves you so open and bold, but searching you can’t help but ask, “So tell me…” You start, handing him some towels, “What were you actually doing? Besides being melodramatic.” You add, your lips quirking upwards.

He regards you with lively eyes and you see a grin lift his cheeks. He’s smiling, actually smiling, and you know this action is precious and rare and you can’t help but beam at him in return, “You think I was being melodramatic?” He questions.

You laugh a little, a breathless bell-like “Yes” falling from your lips as you fetch him dry clothes from the upper shelf, “All you needed was a cape to swing around.”

His expression abruptly falls and the temperature drops with it.

“Right, no cape.” You mumble, a tad disappointed, handing him his clothes.

As you make your way back, you can’t help but saying, “I just thought it would suit you, is all.”

“What else do you think would suit me?”

You raise a brow, trying to keep up with his drastic shift in moods: again, hes smiling, then he’s pensive, now he seems lighthearted, genuinely curious. “You like to ask a lot of questions.” You conclude.

He shrugs, “I’m just trying to figure out what you think of me.”

“And why are you curious?”

“Now you are the one asking a lot of questions.” He points out. You snort.

“You started it.”

“Did not.”

“Did too!”

This again, followed by quiet chuckles. You don’t turn to the Medical Wing now, instead stopping by the elevator and pressing the red button. The doors slide open. You glance at him.

“So…” You mumble, “This is not how I imagined my night going, but…” You aren’t quite sure how to finish, how to vocalize the strange swirl of emotions in your chest, “Well, goodnight.”

You step into the elevator, going to push the button—“Ben.” He says suddenly, making you flinch and turn to him. He’s not looking at you, instead staring at the floor, “My name. It’s Ben.”

Again, that same energy, that same shock you felt when you first touched his hand ignites your body with something closely akin to happiness. Trust. Bond. He trusts you. The connection you felt was not an exaggeration. He would not have given you his name otherwise.

“Goodnight, Ben.” You say softly, fighting a smile that’s trying to rise on your face, “Sweet dreams.”

“…Goodnight, Seven.”

As the elevator doors shut, you think you hear him say “Thank you”, but that might have just been your imagination.

.

hope you liked it! xxx

.

[perseusjackson-jasongrace]

His Blood Runs Gold I

Percy is a God: Part I

Masterlist for the next part and more of my stuff

Y’all already know what this is!!!!!!!! But if you don’t then click this to find out. And i hope you enjoy Percy as a god cause i definitely do ;) *shivers*

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We were warm and shivering,

and young and ancient,

and alive.

-We Were Liars, E. Lockhart

Time is non-existent anymore. Percy should be twenty this year but now that he has ichor flowing through his veins, he can be 102 or 5. He has done things Homer would write epic poems about. If he were around at the dawn of time Ovid would have happily dedicated the Metamorphoses to him. But today Percy Jackson has been a god for three years and he has never felt more mortal in his life.

“Percy my boy, what are you doing here?”

“Hello Father, Camp Half-Blood is throwing a campfire in my honour and I thought it’d be rude not to show my face.”

“Very noble of you son. I remember back in my day the Greeks–“

Percy zoned out, tired of hearing how people bowed down to all these stuffy Olympians. The camp threw a celebration every year on the day he got immortalized and in return he reinforced the borders and blessed every demigod before they leave at the end of summer. He doesn’t know if he’s doing a good job, he doesn’t even know if what he does is making a difference, but he doesn’t know how else to give back to the camp and the people that saved his life again and again; who loved him and fought next to him and oh gods followed him into battle.

He’s never had the chance to talk to Chiron, who’s always busy with this demi-god and that satyr, and this nymph. He barely gets the chance to talk to all his old friends– between the new campers wanting to hear his stories and the general chaos of end of summer camp-life. He thanked the powers that be–what a jarring thought that he was one of those powers now– that he managed to find days in-between to see Annabeth and Grover.

He smiled to himself as he remembered the last time he saw Annabeth. She had been moving into her own apartment to start her third year at the University of New Rome. To his unsurprised delight she had chosen archaeology as her major but somehow slipped Latin and Ancient Histories into her schedule. He had helped carry bags and bags filled with books up to her room and they spent the day setting her up and making sure everything was in its place before she started the year.

Their relationship had progressed so softly, so slowly, Percy sometimes felt like he had imagined the year they had as a romantic couple. After he became a god they managed to go on a few dates, some interrupted by hothead immortals and revengeful monsters, and some blissfully alone. But once Annabeth started university and Percy was called again and again to help with this problem and that, it became a hassle to set up dates and figure out when to meet. They didn’t grow apart, so much as grow between. And although he missed the softness of Annabeth, he had gained a friend who knew him more deeply than any being alive– he was eternally grateful for that, and he couldn’t hate what they lost out on.

“Son, are you listening?” Poseidon pulled him from his thoughts.

“Yes father, it really was a great time for you. I have to go now, but Iris message if you need me.” And without waiting for a reply Percy strode out of Olympus and into the streets below.

He considered snagging a car but decided against it, since you couldn’t very well drive into Camp Half-Blood. Instead he walked into the ocean and let the current take him all the way to Long-Island, till he could smell the strawberries on the ocean wind and hear the echoes of camp games and reedpipes.

He stepped onto the beach, loving the soft sinking impressions he made in the sand. After his blood turned gold he realized he could walk on the sand and make no footprints whatsoever. The idea scared him so much he sunk under water and cried for three hours. How could he leave nothing behind? How could he have no imprint? It was Tyson, riding on his rainbow hippocampi who found him and showed him how to balance his weight; showed him how to step into the sand and not on it. When his footprints reappeared once more, he hugged his brother so hard if Tyson weren’t a cyclops his ribs might have cracked.

So Percy walked up the beach and through the strawberry fields, taking the time to breathe in the forest air, the fruit breezes, and ah the smell of chaos.

“JACKSON!” Connor Stoll yelled.

And with that single announcement Percy was home.

The day was spent in good spirits: racing with various campers up the wall and avoiding every deadly thing it spat at you– even if he couldn’t really die; then eating in the dining hall and getting to travel between tables without getting glares from various houses or Chiron; laughing as all the food turned blue just for him.

When it was time Percy walked with some of his friends; Clarisse who grew to be a steady, if raging fire, by his side, and Connor Stoll who is now the oldest of the Hermes kids since Travis left for college, and of course Will who above everyone reserves the right to make sure his friends were protected.

In a moment of vulnerability, he broke down on Percy’s immortal shoulder and wept. I don’t want to bury anymore of my friends Percy. I don’t want to be tending to them as they die in my infirmary. I can’t do it anymore. For him, Percy double, sometimes in moments of obsessiveness, triple checked his border defenses.

Now the little group walks around the perimeter of the camp and talks softly and contentedly as Percy knocks against the shimmering force, leaking power into the hollow spots.

“How is everyone at camp?” He asked.

“Fine, nothing has changed much. Ever since the Giant War it feels as if everything has calmed down to a lull. I’m wary it’s the eye before the storm but gods-dammit we deserve a break.” Connor answered.

Percy hid the rage of that truth but let the ache of those words settle in his bones. He simply nodded at Connor and turned to Clarisse.

“Are there any new campers who need to be protected?”

“Only a few, a lot have moved to New Rome over the last years.” There was a bitter edge to her words, caused by the sting of loss.

“You cannot blame them for wanting a life that is not concentrated to three months of safety.”

“I know,” Her nostrils flared, she kicked the rock in front of her. “I know. It just sucks that there’s so few of us now.”

“Maybe we can see about hosting annual games at each camp over the summer?” He suggested, careful to not step where the cracks spidered underneath him– even if the labyrinth had collapsed there was still the chance something tunneled beneath.

“I think that’s a great idea.” Will piped up, “Maybe then I can convince Nico to stay for more than one week.” He rolled his eyes, but the glimmer of happiness in them gave away his annoyed pretense.

“I will talk to the Praetors over there and let you know.”

“Thank you, Percy.”

They turned to face him.

He stared at them for a moment, studying their faces. Even now, all these years later it was jarring to see the signs of growth in their make-ups. He couldn’t say aging, they were barely hitting their twenties, gods Will was still a teenager, albeit not for much longer; but it was weird to watch as they grew up, watch as time changed their features, changed them.

Clarisse, who used to be a spitfire of rage and fierce protectiveness was now, more a well-kept hearth. She was still full of flame, but it was contained, and her fierce was warm instead of scorching.

And Connor, who had been attached to his brother at the hip, was all grown up. Travis was three years into a degree and Connor, although a prospective honours student, had forfeited college until he could figure out what he wanted to do. He was the sole head of the Hermes cabin, but somehow, he kept up the mischief as if the two were still together. The shenanigans are some of Percy’s favourites to hear around the campfire.

And Will, who is dating Nico di Angelo. The two were often running between the camps, though Nico more than the child of Apollo. It was Will, Percy thought, who brought the camp together, more than anyone. And Will, who in the process had lost the most. For him, Percy would continue to be here every year, would continue to help if they called when they were in trouble. Because he too was tired of seeing his friends die. Tired of seeing his friends mourn.

“It’s almost time for me to go but I wanted to say,” He fought to choke back the rising wave of emotions, “I wanted to say thank you. For keeping my home safe. And thank you for being my friends.”

Their hug lasted many moments, ribbons of friendship passing between them. And when Percy walked back into the sea, he was glad no-one could tell the difference between tears and ocean.

Friends, the word echoed in his head. So few and far between since he became a God. It was not that people feared him, they just became… wary. They fell into that space in-between, where one wrong move could plunge them into fear. When he first turned divine, he counted on his fingers how many friends he had, and if he didn’t have enough digits, he deemed it a good day. Now he can count with aching clarity all the people who loved him, and still have fingers to spare.

Annabeth asked him once if he regretted taking up Zeus’ offer, if he regretted turning his red blood gold.

He hadn’t answered her till three weeks later, over a three am phone call.

I don’t regret it, he had said, because I know I can help this way. I know I can protect my family and friends better this way. And when the phone had gone dark, he had whispered into the void of his room– an alcove of coral far, far, far underwater– I don’t regret it, but I’m so lonely. The tears at that admission did not stop flowing for many hours.

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Tags (If you want to be added to the tag list just let me know, all my channels of communication are open):

@thepersonyourparentswishyouwere

@lesbian-peanuts

How are you feeling?? Cause i got 6K words for this fic and i don’t see myself stopping any time soon. Give me your thoughts young ones!!!!

[spudbink]

Angry

When can I be angry?

I’ve never been allotted the luxury of feeling my anger, by that I mean to analyze it and process it without being told that I was the antagonist by expressing it at all.

I’m a bad person if I’m angry, and I’m weak if I’m sad.

It’s shameful to give those things air--so they are buried, buried as deep down as they can go in a single unmarked grave.

I’m told that’s that if I’m feeling it, I need to destroy it as soon as possible--but I’m feeling kind of ruined myself.

I’ve never been allowed to grieve my lack of security.

The pain and frustration of not being able to trust or feel has labeled all of my negative feelings as selfish and wrong.

Being afraid to trust is my fault.

Being insecure in my validity is my fault.

It is my fault for not getting over the past, and it is my fault for not being strong enough not to take your actions and words to heart.

My fault to not trust in words you tell me have no value because you only said them in anger.

When can I be angry?

I can be angry when I’m alone, when it’s only me, myself and I, to fight and struggle with each other, Each cut I make into my skin I make thinking of how upset I am at myself and not at you.

I’m hurt now and It’s my fault, not yours--because that’s the truth; The truth feels better than I lie. I’ll try to hide it too because my struggle is upsetting to see. It makes you sad or disgusted I’m sure; I feel that way too.

I don’t know who I am and it is my fault.

As I cut and bury each little bit of me, I disown it. That was never me, I am happy and bright and over-emotional, but I’m creative so you’ll give me a pass as long as I only focus on creativity But also it would be great if I could make money off of it because I’m not allowed to admit my disability because it is in my brain and not in my back that’s broken. But I’m happy.

After all, If I try hard enough I can make my illnesses go away--because everyone is sick and if You feel like you’re fine, then I’m just not trying hard enough.

I’m a lame horse pretending I can run because after all, that’s what horses do--so why wouldn’t I be able to keep up.

My reality is broken and it’s my fault.

When can I be angry?

I’m angry when I’m sorry--I feel disgusted for it because it makes me sad.

It reminds me of all the empty apologies and promises that I trusted were real, even though every part of me screamed not to.

I’m angry and it’s my fault for not letting things go.

“Jesus wouldn’t hold a grudge, he would turn the other cheek and forgive instead.”

I hate to break the news to you but Jesus is dead.

He died so you could forgive the people who killed him; how convenient.

But history is written by the victors; so be lenient.

I’m angry because I would rather die than forgive again.

I’m vindictive and bitter and It’s my fault for being insensitive to the plight of others.

I don’t give them the charity of my worries and I’m a hateful bastard.

I’m not broken, so it must be by choice. I should be able to decide I want to trust again, I should be able to smile and forgive those that hurt me.

I should forsake the parts of me that beg me to protect them--they don’t want to be cut away but they are cancer to you.

What the hell am I? I’m a chimeric abomination--made up of the ugliest remnants of me and all your good intention.

I’m the part of you, you are willing to cut away, for the sake of your darlings.

When can I be angry?

When I want to kill your darlings--It eats away at me. But I have to turn it inside out.

I want to kill myself--It eats away at me. But I have to think of what it would do to you.

I’m full of so much rage, I am so tired of inflicting on myself.

I’m a pacifist external, I did that for you.

The day you grabbed me by the throat and I reeled my fist back to punch you in the nose; and worried that I might break you.

I know I would have, and I’m glad I didn’t.

I love you so much more than I love myself--There is nothing left to love in me.

I am a facade of a person. A hollow shell masquerading as an individual.

I’m looking so hard now for things to fill the void and each time I pick up a discarded piece of me I feel ashamed for wanting it back.

When can I be angry?

When I want to be a whole person again.

When I realize I can’t remember who I am.

When I don’t know what was so wrong with me in the first place.

When I am supposed to stand my ground and I’m told to surrender for the sake of someone else’s darlings because they get to be whole people when I am sacrificing my interpreted existence so they can placate your sense of duty.

When can I be angry?

Please tell me, because I can’t know.

[janekfan]

Dispossessed

https://archiveofourown.org/works/26292337

Curled up in his chair and safely ensconced in his office, Jon shivered intermittently with cold after his confrontation with Elias following his narrow escape, release? from the Circus, numb and empty. Thank god he’d had a change of clothes in here because after all his last set had seen they were better off burned, and he’d changed into them after scrubbing his skin raw with the hottest water he could stand out of the tap. Standing there. Staring at his reflection in the glass.

They hung from his frame, easily two sizes large, and He’d practically run from the restroom to hide, ashamed and embarrassed and overwhelmed.

His stomach hurt and he wrapped his arms around the gnawing void behind his ribs, begging the pressure for relief. The last time he’d eaten...well he couldn’t remember the last time, days blurred together there, the passing of time marked in his useless struggles against the hands, hands everywhere and touching, touching, touching him.

He’d lost his flat, his things, his wallet, parts of himself. All lost. All taken.

Like he had been taken.

And no one noticed.

No one had cared and he wasn’t surprised because he knew how they felt about him, he knew, he did, he just didn’t expect it to cut so deeply.

Leaving this small bit of sanctuary was out of the question and Jon was too exhausted to do anything else today, so he did what he did in his captivity when things became too much and forced himself to sleep.

When he woke up there was a cup of tea cooling on his desk and a jumper draped over him.

He’d gone through his desk twice, the first time for a protein bar he knew was in there and ate in small, controlled bites, and the second because he hoped for another. He couldn’t live like this. Not without cash or a way to eat and he wasn’t crawling back to Elias to ask for any favors. But just a few more days and he’d have a replacement ID and a few more after that he could access his bank account .

Until then he’d have to make do.

In the evenings he ventured outside with his knapsack, almost daring the Circus to grab him again, wondering if this time, Micheal would just kill him and be done with it. He just walked. Mostly aimless, placing what spare bottles he found in his bag so he could return them for their deposit. With his secrets close and kept, Jon tried not to think of the new lows he’d sunk to as he dipped chocolate digestives from the vending machine into Martin’s tea and lost himself in statement after statement, the static in the background like a laundry line where he hung the rest of fears and insecurities and let himself go.

But Jon didn’t feel well. Shaky and tired, counting the seconds until he had access to his funds again and feeling more and more like he wouldn’t be able to make it off a quid’s worth of biscuits and tea. He scrubbed a trembling palm down his face, massaging his temples and willing the persistent headache to stop its pounding. He dug his fingers into his hollow stomach, twisting up the fabric there and holding it so tight they ached with the strain.

It affected his judgement. Not that many would say he had much of that to begin with.

He was being pulled too thin.

And suddenly it was all he could think about. A box in one of the cupboards, shoved towards the back. He remembered seeing them before he was taken. Long before. So maybe they didn’t belong to anyone. Just some old cream crackers. Just anything to avoid begging Martin because that’s where his mind went next. He’d been so cruel to him, he couldn’t take advantage like that. He wouldn’t. He slipped out of his chair, grabbing the edge of the desk almost desperately when his vision swam and the office tipped violently to the side. Clammy, his hand flew to his forehead as though he could press the equilibrium back in.

On silent feet he crept to the dark break room, thankfully avoiding anybody and making it there without much trouble. Leaning up on his tiptoes he just managed to coax his prize off the shelf with the tips of his fingers, catching it against his chest when it fell. There was dust on the box. And yet he was riddled with shame and guilt as he pulled out a half package.

Just as the lights flicked on.

And Tim and Melanie caught him.

“Boss.” Like a curse and Jon winced, clutching the package, shrinking under his flinty stare. “Haven’t seen you in days.”

“What are you skulking around in the dark for?” She laughed and it was a mean thing that twisted around his heart like barbed wire. “What are you doing?”

“N’nothing.” He tilted his chin up, willing his flight response to quit it because he was safe here even if they didn’t like him.

“Looks like you’re stealing, boss.” Tim tore the package from his grip.

“No! I wouldn’t, th’they--”

“They’re what? Out of words now?” Tim crushed them, threw them at the floor. “Boss?”

“I can expla--” When he shoved him, Jon’s mind blanked, transported very suddenly back to Nikola’s jeering, cheerful, awful voice and wandering hands and--

“Not enough you got Sasha killed?”

“S’stop.” Barely a breath, he didn’t have anything else.

“Not enough you trapped us here?”

“Stop.”

“Not enough to snare Melanie?”

“P’p’please.”

“You have to steal? And take? More??” Each increasingly loud demand for answers accompanied with another push until he was pinned by his shoulders and still Jon couldn’t speak louder than a whisper when he asked, "how long before you take the rest of us?"

“Stop.”

“I won’t.” His face was inches from his own, and so angry. “Not until you tell us the truth.”

Stop stop stop

“Tell us, Jon.”

“Stop, stop, please, stop, stop touching me, please, please…” He wasn’t upright under his own power, the hands on him had him trapped against the wall and he couldn’t breathe with them on him, couldn’t think, couldn’t answer their questions because he didn’t have answers and didn’t understand the words because he was in the tunnels again and the echo made it impossible to hear and they kept touching--

“Tim!” It was like a gunshot and Jon recoiled like he’d been the one to fire it, sliding down the wall when the hands released him as if burned, all sharp angles and days old clothes and suddenly it was Tim’s face above him again, horrified, before it disappeared and the room fell quiet.

“Jon?”

Martin.

“S’sorry.” The weight of his pathetic incompetence pressed down on him like a stone, crushing the air out of his body and there was none left in the room for him to take. “Sorry, m’sorry, m'sorry.” The pulse hammering through his blood hurt like a bruise bone deep, left him dizzy, and he couldn’t, there was no air here.

“I know, I know you are.” Martin. Martin. Martin should hate him along with the rest. Why, why. Why was he here? Why was he so, so, so very kind? “You need to breathe, Jon, or you’re going to pass out.” Didn’t he understand? There wasn’t anything left to breathe? All gone, nothing left but crumbling paper and fading ink and the dust would cover everything, including him until he didn’t need to breathe.

“Martin.” Gasping, breathless, choking on dust, dust, dust, the damp on his face trickling through it carving paths like desert rain.

“I’m here.” Jon realized he’d been looking up where Tim’s face had been this whole time, finally dropped his gaze to see Martin, brows knit with worry. Worry. He didn’t deserve that. Not after the ruin he caused. The people he’d killed. “I’m not going anywhere.” Narrow chest heaving in shallow, short attempts, Jon let his head fall into the corner between wall and cupboard, curling there, small and safe on all sides, because Martin was here and Martin was staying even though he shouldn’t.

“Martin.” At some point his eyes closed while listening to him ramble about inconsequential things and the different dogs he saw around his flat though he didn’t know their names and wanted to.

“I’m still here.” At least one of them was. Jon felt disconnected, loose, and forced his lashes apart like he was moving mountains. Now that he was no longer panicking the ache in his stomach was back. “Jon?”

“Mm.” Martin was sitting against the cupboards too. Wasting his time here with him. Keeping a measured distance between them as if he knew the kind of tentative control Jon was managing.

“Why don’t you go home?”

“Don’ have one.” Jon hugged himself closer, unmoored without a place to return to.

“Why were you in here?” In here stealing.

“Jus’ hungry.” And the pangs were very real and he was so lightheaded.

“Oh, Jon.”

“M’sorry.” He ducked his face, hiding behind folded arms. “Didn’t. I d’didn’t realize. Thought.” He shuddered, hot with embarrassment and shame. “Didn’t mean to steal.”

“Is that what Tim was yelling about?” Miserable, Jon shook his head, the tears dripping into his oversized jumper.

“No, he's. Angry.” Martin sighed, heavy and tired, and Jon’s throat closed up around his sorrow. “I understand.”

“Well. Jon, you weren’t stealing.” Why was he kind after everything he’d done to him? After how poorly he’d treated him? “They were probably very stale considering they’ve been there since. I think since before I started.” Caught off guard, Jon laughed a bit, face still in his knees, until it turned to crying. Loud and ugly and foolish and shameful, and oh if only his grandmother could see him now when her presumptions and predictions came true as he failed every person who'd dared allow him close. But Martin let him sob himself dry, until he was left with an aching head and the kind of tired that only happens after a cry like that. “I’m inviting you to dinner.” His head snapped up so fast he dashed it on the wall.

“No, n’no, I.”

“Am coming with me.” His tone brooked no argument. "Would be rude to refuse my invitation, you know."

“Martin--”

“We can give those clothes a wash.” He went on, ignoring Jon’s stammering. “I’ve got other things too, you can have, while you’re living here.” Again, the tears welled up, spilling over, and this time Martin held out his arms. And this time, Jon was ready.

I was really inspired by @voiceless-terror fic A Place for the Night! 

(I can totally take it down if I’ve overstepped!)

[auroraaa555]

“Domain expansion. Infinite void”

My current #1 Anime is Jujutsu Kaisen and I absolutely LOVE the idea of domain expansion. Particularly Gojo "Daddy" Satoru's Infinite Void. As I was watching episode 7 I found myself wanting to know what it would be like to experience Infinite Void so I decided to write a short scrip of what might be going on in Jogo's (aka. Mt. Fuji) mind at that moment. I hope you enjoy.

Uhh spoilers I guess.

It's my first time posting on here so take it easy on me and it's a rough draft so don't be too harsh :3

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

“Domain expansion. Infinite void”

Those were the last words I heard. Not even a second had passed since.

I tried to bring the Jujutsu sorcerer down, I was sure my attack had hit him and Sukuna’s vessel, but somehow not only had he stopped it but he had also laid his own domain in less than a blink of an eye. How!? What was the meaning of this!? How is his curse energy and mine on so different levels!? I HAVE TO KNOW

“Infinite void”. Those words resonate with me on a different level. I know what the six eye cursed technique was and how the limitless curse worked, this man had been blessed with both of them. I knew that since he was born yet I was naive enough to think I could take him down. I had told Geto that it would be nothing but easy work for me, after all, humans have no innate control over cursed energy as we do

“You can try, but you’ll die, Jogo” he had said. I know he is watching from some distance, Hanami is with him too, I have to make sure I stop Gojo right here, right now.

I glance up, frantically trying to make sense of what is happening, I can see how my domain is shrinking, it's getting overtaken by Gojo Satoru’s domain. He even has Sukunas vessel under his right arm, it's almost as if this is a charade for him.

Light around me flickers and turns into lines of multiple colors, I'm frozen in place, not just because of his technique but also because of the atmosphere around us, it's so dense, so powerful and so insanely destructive. light turns into darkness, the lines get longer and longer until it turns into a massive white screen of... nothing… I have been quietly watching innumerable horizons over what felt like years, it had been years right? could it be perhaps that it had only been a minute? or a second? This absolute whiteness has no direction, no up or down, no sun, no moon or clouds, no air or even a breeze, no way of telling the passing of time, just hollowness.

After a while I realized that I'm just standing on the edge of infinity. I could feel the cursed energy all around me. The whiteness is never ending, there are no colors beside this... Had the sorcerer blinded me? I tried to raise my hand, afraid of realizing that indeed I had lost my sight. To my horror I couldn't move. I knew as much since the beginning, not only that but also my legs didn't respond, I couldn't feel my heartbeat either, or even blink, my body just not … was i dead? just what the hell had happened? What kind of cursed technique had he used on me? Was his domain really that refined?

My mind is not understanding anything that's around me, there is no input of information, it's only my thoughts, and they are running wild, the prospect of being trapped in this place made me want to tear my flesh, eat my own fingers, gauge my eye, ANYTHING if it means breaking free, though, that doesn't really mean anything if i cant move.

After a while I start noticing something, there is movement! there's sound! I'm not blind! i… i … a whisper, a glimpse of color, basically undetectable but its there, somewhere. Then it hits me, i get absolutely overwhelmed by the amount of information that is just thrusted into my brain, there is just too much of everything, it doesn't stop it keeps pushing through it's like

trying to fit the whole ocean into a cup but when it resists the information just keep pushing down, there is no breaking the cup, it just keeps widening, i want to scream for it to stop, but i can't, nothing happens, just the onslaught of information.

Numbers and words simply cant convey just how much of everything there is, oh how many lives I had seen, just how many sunrises and eclipses were happening at the same time everywhere. i'm sure they were all real, even though I am still frozen in the same spot as i was, this infinite void as the sorcerer had called it is not so voidless anymore, there is so much happening, and even though to my there is no forward or backwards everything keeps moving at the speed of light

Every second is agony, the cup that is my mind has tried to explode millions of time but it keeps getting bigger and bigger, not one process is ever completed it just starts, it gives me time to understand what is happening and then it stops, just to start again, again and again. My mind is shattering. No, it has shatter many times already. No experience had prepared me for this sensation, every animal breathing, jumping, flying eating and being devoured, every human smiling, all of their suffering or success are inside my mind. I can feel millions of bites, billions of smiles, tears, eyes opening, closing, mouths saying an uncountable amount of words in all the languages that exist

“This is the inner world of limitless”

I hear the sorcerer say, even though the information was still coming, his voice was on top of everything. He put a cold hand on top of my head and smiled, i cant see him but i can somehow tell what he is doing, he is not blindfolded anymore and he is moving within this domain he seems free.

“Perception, communication, every action involved in living is forcibly carried out an infinite number of times.

He pauses for a second, that smirk of his gets bigger, i know he is looking down on me, his tone of voice is soft, like someone who is talking to a dying pet just before they pull the trigger. I don't know how, but I'm going to bring down Gojo Satoru even if it kills me!

“It's ironic isn't it? when granted everything you can't do anything but just die peacefully… but i have questions i want to ask you, so i'm letting you off the hook with this…”

The sorcerer starts grabbing my head with such force that it slowly crushes my head, unable to move, i'm trying to scream, the pressure behind my eyes is too much im totally helpless as this monster just pulls up, it feels as if the world is just spinning on this one point, it's just us, the sorcerer pulling my head, my body resisting and everything just... everything just…

A cracking noise where my spine is separating makes me get back to the ugly reality, I feel like thunder surges through my body as the sorcerer finally is able to sever my head with his hand, my body doesn't resist the pull, it just gives up and he tores not only my head but my whole column, my blood spills in every direction, but it doesn't reach him, that infinity of him stops it once again. i have been trying to understand how this works, how can he touch me

but i cant my mind is going blank … the last horrific second i can see that that the infinite void is shattering into a million pieces of glass under his feet, Sukuna’s vessel is still under Gojo’s arm, unaware of the unspeakable terror i had just been through. i start to wonder what exactly would take for someone like me to defeat this monster, Prison realm is probably not enough anymore, i … gotta… find a way…

Light starts fading …

I can spot Hanami in the distance, she has a flower in its hand. I wonder why... please just… Silence...

[cotillion-the-rope]

Not Hollow Chapter Four: Search

“We’re going to kill the Radiance,” Hornet said as she strode into the living room where Hollow had seemingly decided to wait.

Hollow looked up at her from where they sat on the couch. It was impossible to even guess how they felt about her declaration or about Grimmchild still hanging limp and unconscious in her arms. The lack of response made her entrance not quite as dramatic as she would’ve liked… oh well.

“I don’t know how yet, nor do I care,” those were things to figure out later, “but we’re killing her.” Because fuck any other plan to deal with her, the only way to make sure she was dealt with permanently was for her to die. “Or at least I am.” It’d be unfair to ask or expect them to face the source of their suffering. Especially since even though she helped them train with their nail fairly frequently, they weren’t anywhere near as strong as they once were. There was a good chance if she brought them into battle with her that they’d end up being more of a hindrance than an asset. … Could she kill the Radiance by herself though? … That was another issue she’d figure out later. “You don’t have to help with the killing her part if you’d rather not face her.”

Hollow nodded as they seemed to relax a little. Good, they approved.

“As soon as Grimmchild recovers, I’ll head out to start searching for a way I can access the Dream Realm.” She needed to make sure Grimmchild would be okay and all three of them needed to eat some anyway. Rushing things unnecessarily wasn’t going to help anyone.

 -

When Grimmchild woke up a few hours later he made his displeasure known immediately, teleporting out of Hollow’s bedroom and flying into the kitchen to make distressed and mildly angry mewling sounds at mostly Hornet. He was scolding her about the whole Ghost thing, wasn’t he? … Well, she did kind of deserve it.

“I know,” she said, hiding a sigh of relief over the fact that he was evidently perfectly fine. “We’re going to fix it, I promise. But first,” she stood up grab him by the tail, pulling him down to her eye level, “you need to understand that you made it worse.”

He flinched. Good, he definitely understood her.

“What made you think going in there was a good idea? It drains anyone who isn’t made of void and that’s you. If I hadn’t gone in there to investigate you probably would’ve died from it. And you caused Ghost to crack.” Not necessarily, it could’ve been something else, but the timing was just too close for it to be a coincidence. “So you made things so much worse for them and everyone else in Hallownest.”

He stopped flapping, letting himself hang upside down by his tail in her grip. Pulling his wings in on himself, he chirped in an almost dejected tone. An attempt at an apology?

She glared at him. “You better be sorry.” Ghost had gone through enough without that … and Hornet had let them. That was besides the point though, she’d had no choice. She’d tried to stop them in Greenpath and warned them in the City of Tears but they’d continued on as she knew they would.

“And now, you’re going to help me kill the Radiance, got it?”

He perked up, making an interested mewl. Then he started flapping again and she let him go. He then flew around her head, making similar sounds to the ones he made when spitting fire but not actually doing so. He was apparently ready and eager for battle, good.

“I need a way to access the Dream Realm though. I know you can access it pretty much whenever, right? So is it possible for you to bring me with you?” That would be the easiest solution.

He paused to think for a few seconds before shaking his head. Not surprising but still a disappointment. That just meant Hornet needed find another way. And now that she’d had some time to calm down and give it some more thought she maybe had a potential lead on how to do it.

If Ghost couldn’t do it naturally – as evidenced by the fact that Hollow couldn’t – they’d had to have learned it or gotten something that let them do it. Either way it was a skill they’d most likely gained sometime after she’d lost track of them in Crystal Peak. It maybe wasn’t the best place to start, especially with how long they’d been out of her sight after that, but it was something. So after a quick nap, she’d head out that way and hope for the best.

 -

Crystal Peak was one of the places she’d explored the least in all her time watching over Hallownest. It was way too bright and the way sounds echoed off the smooth surface of the crystals was unnerving. And at times it seemed as if the crystals let off their own almost ringing sound that was even more unsettling. So overall it was not a place she liked, give her the complete darkness and skittering of unseen things present in Deepnest over this any day. She was here on a mission though so she had to stay.

Except she wasn’t sure what she was looking for. When Ghost had entered Herrah’s Dream to break her Seal, something had flashed in their hand that they’d swung similar to a nail. Her hiding spot hadn’t given her a good view of it and she hadn’t been looking to see it anyway. And she hadn’t been present when they’d dealt with the other Dreamers. So there was no way for her to know what it even was let alone where she might find another one, assuming there even was another one. If not, she’d have to figure something else out.

It only took her about an hour of searching before she felt ready to give up. She didn’t know what she was looking for and didn’t even know for sure it was in Crystal Peak. She’d lost track of Ghost for a while after they’d entered the place, they could’ve gone to a number of other areas and gotten the power from one of them instead. She needed a better lead if she didn’t want to waste time searching every inch of Hallownest. �� Would the Teacher’s Archive have information on what she was looking for? Perhaps, it was probably her best bet for any more information. So… off to Fog Canyon she went.

But not long after entering she regretted it as she just barely managed to dodge the exploding center of an ooma. “Are you trying to get us killed?” she growled, glaring at Grimmchild, the one at fault. “I told you not to attack them.”

He mewled innocently at her, even tiling his head a little as if he was trying to be as cute as possible. Well she wasn’t swayed by it this time. She should’ve insisted he stay behind to keep Hollow company, too late now though.

“Never do that again.”

The very next ooma they ran into, he did it again. Leaping away before the fireball even hit it, she managed to dodge fairly well this time. That didn’t make it okay though. And she wasn’t taking a third chance so not in the mood to deal with sending him back home after coming all the way out here, she started unspooling some thread. It didn’t take long to fashion it into the beginnings of a collar and leash combo and muzzle.

Grimmchild flew in to investigate what she was doing, just as she’d hoped for, making it easy to jump him and attach it before he could even react much. As soon as he realized, he yanked back but it was too late. He chirped and mewled in distress, the muzzle letting him open his mouth not even half way.

“I told you twice not to attack them. You’re smart enough to understand my words as well as what’s going on around you so you should’ve known better. Now, let’s go.” She tugged on the leash part of the thread as she resumed walking. He continued to complain and tug against the restraint but she ignored it. He was forced to eventually come along lest he fall to the ground and get dragged because she wouldn’t hesitate to do that. She was not messing around right now, she was on an important mission.

 -

Hornet had been to the Archive a few times before back when it was still up and running. The first time had been with Herrah before the Dreamers had gone to Sleep though she’d been too young to remember much of it other than Monomon was a giant jellyfish and Lurien – he’d been there too, it had been some kind of meeting or something – had been a jerk and she’d bit him because of it much to the delight of everyone else in the room. She hadn’t been back since it had ceased being operational though.

It was vastly different now, didn’t even feel like the same place. The halls were empty except for the occasional floating ooma or uoma and utterly silent. It was almost kind of creepy in a way but she ignored it.

All was going well until she was quickly reminded of that fact that she didn’t know how information was sorted here. And she couldn’t read any of it even if she did know; everything was written in what seemed to be a weird code or shorthand. Which now that she thought about it, Monomon had been well known for doing that, no one but her, her pupils, and any scholars dedicated enough to figure it out could read it.

Scholarly pursuits were not her thing and thus she was completely out of her depth here. But she needed more information and the best place to get that was the Archive so… what did she do? … Well she could ask someone who knew their way around the Archive to help. She knew someone like that even if she’d never properly introduced herself to him. And he was a skilled fighter, he might be able to help with killing the Radiance too… if she decided she wanted help with that anyway. … She hated to ask for help in any capacity though. But at the same time, this wasn’t about her pride, it was about her siblings’ suffering so… off to find Quirrel it was.

 -

She found Quirrel’s nail was abandoned by the Blue Lake. If he’d gone and killed himself, she was going to strangle him. … All right, that didn’t make any sense but she’d be pissed because she needed him.

“I’m guessing you can’t track people, can you?” she said turning to look at Grimmchild. She hadn’t bothered taking the leash and muzzle off yet because she was planning to head back to Fog Canyon with Quirrel as soon as she found him. Naturally Grimmchild was still very displeased about it because he couldn’t attack the husks they encountered either but that’s the price he paid for almost getting her killed twice on purpose.

He mewled dejectedly. It seemed to be a ‘no’ because he made no move to investigate the sword. He was truly useless on this mission which was why she hadn’t wanted to bring him.

Maybe she should just go back to the Archive and wait for Quirrel there since there was a chance he would return eventually, right? It’s where he used to live and work after all. And while waiting, she could work on figuring it out herself. … Nah, he might not return at all and going to find him to do it for her should be shorter than the alternative. So, after collecting his nail, she moved on to continue the search.

 -

She eventually found him in the City of Tears in the clearing that housed the statue of the Hollow Knight. He was with the relic seeker – Hornet couldn’t quite remember his name right now – they were even sharing an umbrella as they looked up at the statue.

Hornet jumped off the windowsill she’d climbed up on to get a good look at the clearing to land in front of them, making them both flinch back a little. “Archivist,” she said, looking Quirrel directly in the eyes. “I need your help with something.”

“I don’t really go by that title anymore,” he replied, his tone surprisingly unannoyed. The look he gave her was filled with suspicion though which made sense. Last time she’d shown herself to him, it hadn’t been the friendliest of circumstances.

“I was unaware you ever went by that title,” the relic seeker said, squinting at him suspiciously.

“It’s complicated.” He shrugged. “And uh… may I ask what’s up with the moth baby?” He pointed at Grimmchild. “It seems kind of cruel to muzzle him like that and why is he with you anyway?”

“He deserves it and he’s with me because… I’m his aunt I guess.” That was probably the best way to describe it. “But anyway, here.” She tossed his nail to him. Why he’d ever abandoned it was beyond her.

He caught it with the ease of a practiced fighter. “I left this by the lake because I’m trying to leave my old life behind.” And now he did sound a tad annoyed. Hornet didn’t care though.

“Well, you’re going to help me kill the Radiance first and then you can do whatever you want with it.”

“Uh… what?”

“You heard me. I need help figuring out how to get to her in the Dream Realm.” She hated to do it but… “And I might need help killing her there too.” The Radiance was a god after all. Hornet was a demi-god but that didn’t make her invincible. “And I’m asking you for help because I need information from the Archive.”

“Well, I suppose I can…” Quirrel began before being interrupted by the relic seeker.

“I demand to know what this is about.”

“I don’t have time to explain.” And Hornet didn’t care to explain to an outsider anyway. It was bad enough that she had to deal with Quirrel, no way was she letting anyone else in on this. “Ask you boyfriend about it when he’s done helping me.”

He flinched at the word ‘boyfriend’. “He’s not… we’re not… we’re just…”

Hornet was tired of this conversation. “Let’s go,” she said as she grabbed Quirrel by the wrist and started dragging him away.

“Uh… I guess I’ll see you at the shop later Lemm,” he said, not fighting her at all. “I’ll try to explain things then. Now uh…,” he directed towards her now, “sorry I don’t know your name but… does this mean that the… vessel fellow failed?”

“My name is Hornet and yes, they failed, just like the first one. And I refuse to stand for it any longer which is why I’m finally doing something about it.” Now that she could. She should’ve done something sooner, like before Ghost had taken on the Radiance but better late than never, right?”

“Hmm… I suppose I’ll help in any way I can then.”

~

And so Quirrel is here now too I guess. I didn't plan for that, it just kind of happened.

A bit past this point is what I had written up to when I decided to start uploading. I have since written more obviously but the next chapter gave me a bit of trouble and I'm still not entirely happy with it so I might do another big heavy edit or full rewrite to the part of it I'm most displeased with. So next chapter might take a bit longer to come out than these other chapters have.

[crackimagines]

Would you please do HC’s for the blue lions reacting to Child!Byleth’s transformation after the sealed forest fight against Kronya and Solon? I love your writing!

HOLY SHIT THATS A LOT OF YOU NOW THAT I ACTUALLY PUT THESE TOGETHER

Child!Byleth Post Masterlist here!

Sorry it took me a bit to get to this concept, and thanks for the kind words, anons!

As for this ask, I’ll only be doing Blue Lions as I’m afraid that I’ll just make 3 different variations that pretty much have the same reactions.

AND also I’ll be combining ALL of these asks into one since it falls under the same umbrella pretty much so FUSION ASKS TO COMBINE INTO A MEGA ONE! Quality over quantity as I say.

Thanks for the asks anons, @straynoel, and @hopeful-blue-wanderer! I hope you enjoy!

though I’m not doing the KH music bit, this is a bit too serious for that lmao

—–

Adjustments (FE: Three Houses Short Fic)

Child!Byleth Professor AU

Everyone’s trying to get used to the new professor after his transformation but…Some are having a bit of a hard time trying to…

—–

When Byleth finally woke back up at first everyone was excited that he was alright.

However, they seemed to notice he was…different.

Felix noticed that the tiny professor no longer came to free-form training, always shutting himself away.

Sylvain couldn’t recall the last time he smiled, even in the presence of Flayn. It was like he was hollow inside, and considering how he was before, it was extremely concerning.

During the lectures, Ingrid began counting how many times it looked like he was completely out of it, his mind seemingly not even there sometimes.

Dedue and Ashe realized that he had been eating less and less lately. It wasn’t that he didn’t enjoy their cooking, it seemed more like he couldn’t even stomach anything.

Annette and Mercedes were crushed by how expressionless he had become lately. Granted, he never was that expressive to begin with. However, even his words seemed half-hearted, and they were one of the first ones to notice whenever he smiled it wasn’t genuine.

At some point or another, Dimitri heard his classmate’s thoughts on the situation, and it seemed like the entire school was catching on.

He didn’t know what happened to his professor that caused this sudden shift, but he wouldn’t let this happen.

Byleth was finally beginning to show so much emotion, and now it was about to be taken away? Dimitri refused that fate. The class needed the professor back.

Midnight, Cathedral…

Dimitri went to the Cathedral to pray until he saw a small green haired child in front of the statues.

No doubt about it, it was Byleth.

“Professor?”

Byleth didn’t turn to face Dimitri, but replied.

“Couldn’t sleep?”

“Something like that…truth be told, the reason why I’m up is because I’m worried about you.”

“…I’m sorry I made you worry then, Dimitri.”

“Well, it’s not just me, professor. Everyone’s worried. Even Felix, believe it or not…!”

Byleth let out a little chuckle, though Dimitri could tell his mood would not be lifted that easily.

“I never got to ask but…what happened that day, Professor?”

Byleth stood still for a moment, considering whether or not to actually confide in Dimitri about all that happened.

…

He was waiting for some piece of advice from Sothis but…

…You’re still gone, aren’t you?

—–

“You IDIOT! WHAT WERE YOU THINKING?!” Sothis shouted out.

They were now trapped in some god-forsaken void, much like the ones the two communicated in.

“Are you a boulder that just keeps rolling on no matter the hill?! No, even a boulder has more sense!”

“Tch, quiet! We need to think of a way to get out of this mess!”

“That YOU GOT US INTO! CHARGING INTO AN ENEMY TRAP SO EASILY!…”

Sothis sighed. She knew that yelling wasn’t going to help.

After a bit of examination, the void they were in would not be so easily escaped…

They had no other choice…

“You know Byleth…”

Byleth turned towards her when she said his name. She never did that unless she was gravely serious about something.

Which meant the words about to come out of her mouth was not going to be good.

And it wasn’t.

She pointed out the fact she had always been inside Byleth, perhaps she was the reason he never laughed or cried as a baby, hell even know he didn’t seem to be showing much emotion…Until he started teaching the Blue Lions class, anyway.

Rhea did something, it wasn’t clear what, to fuse them together…That being said, it was going to take the power of a god to leave this hellhole…

Which meant Sothis had to disappear.

“What?! If you’re a goddess, then there can be another way, right!?”

“Calm down, when I say ‘disappear’ I do not mean all that I am will be no more. My soul will join with yours, and you and I will never be apart…But, I shall no longer have the chance to speak with you…I will miss it.”

Byleth hesitated for a moment.

Despite his grumblings throughout the year, he did come to enjoy Sothis’ company.

The fact she was able to turn back time helped him save so many lives.

The fact she was a confidant for him, without being judged for saying what was on his mind.

The fact she knew his feelings and told him what to do with them, ranging from Flayn to the idiotic banters of the other classmates.

…The fact she had become a dear friend.

“For all that you have done, Byleth…Thank you, I’m glad it was you to whom my fate was bound…”

Byleth sighed and looked at her one last time.

“I’m glad you were here with me, Sothis…”

“Recall what I said, though we are apart, I will never disappear from you. I will be watching, and you will never be alone…”

—–

He still wasn’t used to Sothis being gone.

There were so many times he expected to hear her complain about what he was doing, or when he said something, expecting a smartass remark.

Yet, there was nothing.

He tested his abilities himself, he was able to use Divine Pulse without her but…

Even though she was most likely watching…it felt incredibly lonely.

As embarrassing as it was to admit, having her as company alongside his stuffed bird at night was comforting.

She was someone he could always talk to, whether they liked it or not at times.

Even though she quite literally fused with him, he felt…empty without her.

He wanted to laugh at himself…more accurately, he wanted Sothis to laugh at the fact he was getting sentimental about something so childish but…

Still, there was nothing.

There would be nothing for the remainder of his life, most likely.

“Professor?”

Byleth turned to Dimitri, trying to act like he wasn’t so deep in thought he almost lost himself.

“Are…Are you crying?”

Byleth’s eyes went wide, reaching for his eyes.

…Sure enough, he felt a few tears coming out.

“I…guess I am.”

Dimitri sighed and looked at his professor with very harsh eyes.

“Professor, what is happening to you? It’s like you’ve become an entirely different person since you’ve gotten back!”

“I-I’m sorry…-”

“Please, don’t apologize. We…We just want to make sure that you’re still here.”

“…What do you mean?”

“Byleth, I have seen you grow up so much during the past year. At first, I was quite concerned a child would be teaching us, an emotionless one at that…But as the year went on, I saw your true colors crack here and there. Ha, with no small part from Mercedes and Annette.”

They both smiled, but Dimitri continued.

“And so…it pains me to see you going back to seems like square one.”

“…”

“Professor, I am aware that so much has happened but…we’re here for you. I’m here for you.”

Byleth sat down at one of the piers, and Dimitri sat next to him.

“Well…I want to, truthfully, but you’ll never believe me.”

“Try me.”

“The goddess, Sothis was one of my best friends, and now she’s gone.”

Dimitri honestly couldn’t tell if that was supposed to be a joke or not.

“…Just one of, right? That means you have several.”

Now, Byleth let out a genuine chuckle.

“Well, if we count my stuffed bird as one..!”

Dimitri couldn’t help but laugh at that.

“Well, he’s a good listener, but I can’t say that it’d be good to talk to him for advice.”

Byleth smiled, but his face darkened.

“…Dimitri. I hope you know I consider you someone I trust deeply. But…”

He clenched his fists.

“Everyone I trusted is gone. Dad, Sothis, my mercenary group…I don’t want to lose you as well.”

Dimitri instinctively patted Byleth’s head.

…

The fact Byleth didn’t react violently meant that he really did trust Dimitri.

“Don’t you worry, Byleth. I’m not going anywhere until my duty is done. I promise.”

Byleth looked up at Dimitri and smiled.

“…Thank you, Dimitri. I really needed to hear that.”

“Of course…Now, let’s head back shall we? It’s not a good habit to keep staying awake this late everytime you feel bad you know!”

Byleth lightly punched Dimitri in the arm, and started following him out.

Though, Dimitri noticed Byleth was very sluggish in his movement. 

He must be exhausted after spilling his heart out like that…

Dimitri picked up Byleth onto his arms, giving him a piggyback ride. and started walking out.

At first, Byleth tried to squirm, but he eventually stopped.

And soon, he heard him snoring. Dimitri smiled to himself, and slowly walked back to the Professor’s room.

Five years is how long we’ll be apart soon, huh?

And to think, this single year has gone by so fast.

I wonder how our reunion will go now that you changed so much, my tiny professor…

[babbushka]

How do you think your writing has changed all these years, Mrs. Z?

Oh dang this is a pretty deep question, lol. I think that the very very short answer is, I’m writing stories now that help me, instead of stories that distract me. Long answer under the cut because, well, it’s long lol (tw for discussion mental illness/trauma)

Back when I started writing, before I even really knew it, I was writing to cope lmao. Which isn’t an unusual thing, lots of people do it, lots of people make art to help them get through whatever it is that they need help getting through. As a child I struggled with a lot of shit that I’m still struggling with now, I won’t get into the details of it because that’s a conversation for another day lol, but the gist is mental/emotional abuse/gaslighting, body image problems/eating disorders, suicidal issues, and also dealing with incredibly brutal antisemitism and homophobia. Things were rough up in my noggin’, for a very very long time, to say the least. 

And one of the big ways that i coped with that was through movies. I watched like 2 movies a day every day for 20 years lol (that’s sort of an exaggeration but also not really), and through that, came the love of stories and the love of writing. I dealt with my awful life by watching a movie and then either by completely and totally ignoring my own misery and writing stories that filled the void of happiness, or by projecting myself so heavily onto characters (whether it was cringey original content or even cringier fanfic) who were perfect and could do no wrong to somehow make my own misery feel a little less real. 

But you know, over the course of a decade or so, as you grow up and as you learn about yourself and you learn about the world, there are some realizations that come to light that impact you. You start to realize that the content that you’re consuming has an impact on you. I grew up and I got smart and I started to see the issue with a lot of the content that I was making and watching, it started to annoy me, because so much of it was just, poorly written lol. 

I stopped trying to desperately pretend that everything in my life was okay, and I started to embrace the fact that things were shit but things could be fixed, that it was never too late to start working to better yourself. I stopped projecting myself onto characters who were squeaky clean and perfect and flat and had no dimension, and instead tried to find myself in characters that maybe were just as flawed as I was. 

Because even when life is shit and you’re a completely fucked up hollow shell of a person, there’s hope. Even when things are bleak, there’s hope. There’s love. There’s solidarity in brokenness, and in working towards putting yourself back together again -- not for anyone’s sake other than yourself. I was tired of seeing women treated like shit, I was tired of seeing fat people and jewish people turned into jokes, I was tired of watching gay people get killed or only .2 seconds of screentime. I was tired of men writing, and in some reactionary way I began to write these like, what I thought were rebellious stories instead. 

So I went from writing these kinda cringey stories about like, nothing of any importance and were just puff pieces to give myself something to look forward to -- and instead shifted towards writing these (also cringey tbh) grand epic fantasy novels where broken people find family in one another and save the day and also themselves and it was always about strong women being incredible and doing amazing things and carrying the weight of the world on their shoulders. 

And you know, then you go to college and you go to grad school, and things happen during those years that shape you formatively as a person. You get fun new traumas that adult life brings you that get piled on top of old childhood traumas that you don’t even really realize that you’re dealing with until it all becomes too much all at once. And when it was just too much for me, I turned to writing. All the things that I felt and had absolutely no one to tell, no one to vent to because of my own fears at being mocked or shamed or gaslit or whatever, went into the writing. 

And the writing then changed again, because now it was no longer these fluffy fantastical pieces where everything is sunshine and rainbows, or these grand sweeping epics where the heroes save the day -- now it was just, humanity. Open and honest humanity. Real people in real every day situations just trying their best. People sharing the weight that rests on their shoulders, humans relying on one another to make it through the hell-hole of life, with all the trips and slips and falls and tumbles that go with it. 

So as I’ve grown up, the stories that I write have become less total escapist fantasies, and more introspective/thought-provoking commentaries on my issues with life. When something awful happened to me, I would try and process that through these characters, I would try and give them some semblance of a happy ending, because I could control their lives, even if I couldn’t control all the aspects of my own -- but I didn’t shy away from the uglier parts of their lives, because that’s what made them interesting to me. That real people could have real problems and real flaws and still be loved. Still have someone to want to be with them, still have someone to want to help them. 

I learned to love myself by writing characters learn to love themselves. I learned to process a lot of trauma and a lot of my own hangups mentally, by writing these characters working together and coming together and loving one another so much that it was almost as if nothing could be stronger than that love, not the hate or the bigotry or the depression or anything else. 

I had awful awful awful experiences with relationships and so I started to write nothing but healthy beautiful love, where all the people involved actually like one another, care about one another, support one another. I was hit with horrible and unexpected grief so I wrote stories that dealt with mortality and the way death hits us in ways we don’t think it will. I was assaulted and targeted for being jewish so I wrote proudly jewish characters who are celebrated for their difference instead of punished for it. The writing is me, and I am the writing, just as it always has been, but more honest. 

And now, the irony of it all, is that I’ve kind of come full circle. I occasionally do write fluffy puff pieces where everything is sunshine and rainbows. I occasionally write grand sweeping epics where the heroes save the day. But I’m much more honest about it now. I don’t kid myself anymore, you know? No one is perfect, that’s not how people work, and it’s not interesting to read about perfect people. 

It’s much more interesting to read about that raw humanity that permeates its way into every story ever told. It just took me a while to figure that out for myself, and even longer for the writing to reflect that. 

[sockori]

oh god ryu’s rambling about ninjas again- quick, batten down the hatches

 (Episode 1 Season 1: Sasori’s Transformation Interpretations + Brief Reason Why It’s Canonically Written This Way)

‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵ ‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵  a popular ‘headcanon’, or interpretation really, for Sasori I’ve seen pop up a couple of times is: his entire body is quite literally a corpse and not simply just his core. As we know, it’s essentially already been canonically confirmed that this isn’t the deal- but, we all love to disrespect canon rules completely, whether we admit it or not, so let’s roll with it: say we don’t know what Sasori is yet, other then that he isn’t necessarily human, so some propose he’s a human corpse, or another organic material. It doesn’t make a whole lot of sense, at least to me, so I tend to disagree with this whole idea. But I can see both sides of the situation on why people implement this overall change or interpretation. 

Here’s one idea. I would like to believe that Sasori is not entirely impatient. Rather, he values his patience in relation to others much differently to how he views patience in means to his collection/craftsmanship. For example, spending little time on a co-worker, whether it be feelings, personality and wants, yet very much willing to spend large amounts of time with his puppets. And a thought that comes to mind is, well, that’s because of many factors (ex. Sasori hates the trivial matters of humanity, instead retreating to puppets who won’t argue with him, which is true), and make the point that they’re artworks not necessarily co-workers, which is also true, but I think this can also illustrate where Sasori’s channeling his overall energy to in the big picture- that being he’s focusing much more his work and himself. So where in the world am I dragging this whole almost off-topic mess to? And, right here, is my other hand on the matter.

Embalming (looking at the modern example of the Russian scientists who work(ed) on both the corpses of Vladimir Lenin and various North Korean leaders) is a tedious process that is, overall, time consuming. One body alone requires a whole slew of careful monitoring, regular re-embalming, and scheduled cleaning, which can go from many hours, to multiple days at a time. Realizing just how much work is inserted into fighting the grim reaper that is decomposition, one can imagine that Sasori has quite a lot of work on his hands already. If he constantly has to dedicate his focus to the preservation of multiple puppets at once on a regular basis, how would he have any time for his own body?

And, in an counterargument, the believer of the headcanon probably has this to say: what if his suspected ‘kinjutsu’ surrounding the creation of human puppets pretty much eliminates this whole process to begin with? such as, the chakra channeled into this technique possibly making the conversation of organic material a self-sustaining process- thus, no need to keep up with the whole collection (at least not incessantly) and, in turn, have more time to focus on their functionality as puppets. If that is the reason one would want to propose to fill the void of ‘famously ambiguous human puppetry’, then Sasori’s body can, indeed, perhaps be a preserved version of himself, and provide a reason as to how he can take care of his work.

However, there’s a whole side of the coin we haven’t flipped yet- and that’s the subjective purpose. The reason behind Sasori’s wanted transformation to mechanics- philosophically and psychologically. Why go through all the trouble with such a complex, complicated metamorphosis if one wants a quick, easy escape from weakness? Or, in much simpler terms, why even turn yourself into a puppet(-like form) to start? Based on all the inner tribulations with see with gross puppet man, here’s the potential/general reasons that we know (not all of them, but the most important).

For the sake of “Eternal Beauty”, or an artistic reason: that being to exist long into the future while still pertaining an ‘attractive’ physical form.

To bypass the process of decomposition, or to gain the ability to do the opposite (synthesize- be able to be re-assembled after deconstruction).

Potentially eliminate physical human processes altogether, such as eating, drinking, sleeping/resting, among other steps.

Eliminate weaknesses in combat, such as fatigue/pain, blood loss, being mortally wounded, or wounded altogether (at least, when you disregard getting stabbed in the core)- in relation to being rid of physical human processes.

To destroy emotional connections, such as ties to people or memories (big clue: eliminating the ability to literally grieve).

To hinder the control that emotions and feelings have over the mind; to tear down impulses; to level the physical sense of feeling.

The list, at a glance, seems to portray: Sasori has transformed to separate himself from the concept of humanity or a “mortal lifespan”- to create distance between him and the fragility and ‘weaknesses’ of organic life by, in a rebellious way, converting to an inorganic form.

It���s obvious that the puppeteer has had bad experiences with being a human being- anguish from death, lack of appreciation/affection, lack of encouraging stimuli, unsatisfactory higher authority, and mental disturbance due to all these factors. It would make sense for Sasori, in response, to generate quite a lot of distrust, if not all out hatred, for the concept of a human body, and to go against its principles (and to take it out on others, but the complications of that could be another post entirely). Looking at Sasori’s canon descriptions of himself, he very much emphasizes that his inorganic form and his organic part (the core) are two separate entities (”   My heart… is just like this body…“ or his most famous “I am an unfinished puppet, whose lifeless frame still contains a beating heart at its core. I am neither dead, nor am I alive.“). I mean, seriously, in one of these situations, he looks down upon Sakura and Chiyo because they’re being human, describing helping each other as pointless, speaking of his inability to feel, such as the possibility of his grandmother’s death, as a higher-ranking trait in comparison. The divide is right there.

So, if THAT’S the case- why persist to be a preserved human life form and go against that goal entirely? If one believes Sasori thinks puppets are superior to human beings, and/or himself being superior to his puppets, wouldn’t it make more sense for him to push past merely being a hollowed out dead body, and further pursue being an actual puppet?- Not only for the emotional reasons, like the distance, but to emphasize his dominance over humanity itself by simply not being apart of it? Wouldn’t him being an inorganic form better portray his ability to manipulate mortality (being different from his human puppets)? Wasn’t all the effort he put into, canonically, for the attempt to push himself away from mortality as much as possible?

And THAT’S why I disagree with this concept.

So In conclusion, I think our puppet man staying a preserved corpse could work physically and scientifically, but not subjectively. The possibility is there, certainly, with the right factors, but the overall purpose of it is unreasonable, particularly to the definition of his role as an antagonist. With all Sasori’s personal opinions about preservation, eternity, puppetry, humanity, etc. I think him wanting to stay human would be pretty ‘ooc’ of him.

What I’m trying to say is, Sasori in canon right now- turning his body into an incomplete puppet, containing the ‘beating heart’ at its core- is incredibly crucial to his overall character. Very much symbolically. Again, keep in mind, Sasori does have organic life residing within him still- that already portrays the hypocrisy (or at least some form of oxymoron) of his beliefs and his actions. It does a phenomenal job of that alone, and should stay that way. ‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵ ‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵ ok ryu are you done yet

I just wrote this entire “rant but an analysis but an argument but also a rant analysis post” for no reason at all other then impulse and I hope and pray that an explanation about some skinny mannequin guy does not lead to any potential discourse within the much s̶u̶r̶p̶e̶r̶i̶o̶r̶  sophisticated sasori stan community cause i know some folks in the naruto world really can’t handle even the slightest disagreement

oh and there’s probably a lot of weird phrasing in this because i typed it all without thinking, so if there’s any inconsistencies i am sorry

 yes I’m aware this is a Wendy’s drive thru