#oh its such a beautiful metaphor for death ....

[crescentmp3]

thinking about my favorite little poem again ....

[astralnymphh]

copy that, romeo

— ellie williams was supposed to be your supervisor, not your object of infatuation ~ ♡

⋆❝ this is cordero tower, calling in.❞⋆

CHAPTER ONE: SUMMERTIME INTERLUDE . NEXT CHAPTER > ♡. pair; firewatcher!ellie x recruit!reader

♡. summary; it's 1995, and the angel crater national park welcomes you; a retrograde lookout all to yourself, a space nerd for a supervisor, and a whole summertime job spent in hues of sepia and juniper, waiting for the first sign of smoke. ninety–three days. you don't know her face, you share no breath— but by walkie–talkie, you know her voice.

♡. a/n; READ THESE; 1 and 2, HELP HERE, BOYCOTT. CLICK HERE. DO NOT BUY THE REMASTER, TLOU2, TLOU1, OR ANY GAME FROM NAUGHTY DOG! neil druckmann (the creator) is a zionist. PLEASE READ THIS. AND REBLOG THIS. ALSO THIS.

♡. content; EVENTUAL SMUT, narrator present, silly fourth wall breaking, a dash of comedy, slowburn (somewhat), living alone, long–distance pining, reader/characters are similar ages(mid–late 20s), depression, heavy metaphor usage, complicated poetry styles, mentions of organs, mentions of weaponry, metaphorical death, grim humor, drinking alcohol, drunk!ellie, drunken flirting (vaguely and bluntly), ellie jumpscare, uh-oh sassy masc apocalypse, she's corny and cheesy too (a dork), awkwardness, humiliation, lighthearted bickering, nicknames used. [lmk if i missed anything] . SERIES PLAYLIST .

WC; 6.1k+ ✮ thank you @trackinglessons for your sexy brain and beautiful ideas + custom art ✮ masterlist ✮ series masterlist ✮ ellie ref sheet

Summertime is the interlude between misery and Mondays.

  May was a rough patch for you. A coagulated chapter within the spring world, a shunned ponder, red jello in the gradience of passage. Tempus, time. Early months hence were just as pessimizing, doubt is an arid reservoir in you. But, as a maypole sits a svelte giant in the sweet Beltane soil, braving an invisible smile whilst little ones— little laughters, spun prances and wraps of dainty satin to an ensnare on its long body, it weeped for its delicate capture. You; flesh coarse like timber, relate to the log standing, ensnared. Sunk in that gelatinous texture, unmoving as pressures collided with the surface outward, ripples everywhere yet incapable of sprinkling through you. Something would have to delve itself to drag you out.

  Chapters; cusp of autumn to April, every single month, wound ‘round you. They each had separating colors, and spared turns to soundly fold your limbs and bulge your skin in ribbons. It snipped your circulation, shriveled the ripe breath in your skull and traded it for a pressure. A throb. Weight upon the cranium, you felt the narrowing cradle inside wilt from thought, drain from consciousness, and soften your stiff eyes locked on drywall. Hour to hour.

  But those weren't the only things taunting you with a dance— expectations danced faster. Expectators, paired minds heaping expectations; yourself and the selves blackjacking their wants expressed as worries onto you. Stressful creatures, they are. Bosses, co–workers, energy vampires disguised as lover boys prowling about your workspace, general creatures of the retail world. God, they're like ravenous wolves snarling hunger through their teeth, slobber moonlight–bright of that dire carnality for variety meats. Depression just took the first serving before they could.

  Even the domesticated places are a wilderness untamed.

  Stress drained you of life. It softened your desire to even try. Gods are dulling, blamed you, on another dull morning where the trickling sound of coffee pouring drilled irk into your ears, rather than simply a trickle. Caffeine, a roast so void–black was brewed to un–drain you. Yet, it fuckin didn't.

  Impugning was your everything, until it could no longer purify; Elaine. Emptiness. Hmm, you gave this state of vacuum–headed hollowness a name, keenly because it deserved so by its dismantling of your autonomy. You don't want it. It's not you. It's Elaine. A some–angel fallen out of grace, weary of its wander upon a washed up cove, beige toned and swept shivering–cold. Interested by the warmth your sundry organs pushed into its light silhouette. 

  And perhaps, if the bird was never freed from its heavenly cage, it would be powerless to pester you, to poke the meat inside with the pointy end of plumage.

  Elaine was an organized assault on your wellbeing, moreso against the pulpy, pinkish-gray blob sitting ugly above your throat. Believe it, or assume it. A paralysis, moving shoulders from bed sheets proved farcical, running bristles over your teeth twice a day rhymes with nonsense, and midnight ink born to swirl and curtsy to convey thoughts gone rancid, goes unused atop the white flutter between your journal hardcovers. You have a morbid case of the seasonal blues, except this time, the season is beyond its blue hues. Spring, a fuckin’ kaleidoscope embellished. Blotches of big fuck you greens so vibrant you'd long to die from your tears, and an abstract spit of smell me reds thorny as your stomach brought to a scream for something. Anything.

It was a slow, banal descent into the jello.

  January, floating atop the sweet delicacy, atop your bed.

  February, the solidity gave out beneath you, goo subtly etching around your ankles, calves, elbows, unforgivingly cold when it first hit. When in reality, the bed was heating from your lay.

  March, marrow goes heavy, your limbs at this time could not lift, your efforts waned, and satiating the rumble in you with sustenance was forgotten, as that rumble got so, so.. quiet. 

  April, the jello had stuffed your nose, your sockets, and lullabied your ligaments. You let it happen.

May.

  You let yourself sink. Let yourself decompose and go mush in the head. Like a zombie.

  The descent doesn't taste of sweet delight, but it also fails to churn your lips with a heavy saccharinity. Neutral, your hopeful side did say. Nothing, rationality slapped past your lips.

Five months, either a misery, or a Monday.

  Yes Eve, a bite out of the Apocrypha will indeed fill this human abysm in me. Forbidden knowledge is my craving. Contraband of truth, bite to bite, I envy that I could not cope with its coating of my empty gut earlier.

  Innocence is so dull. You are depressed, not a fucking saint for staying indoors, starving your rage.

  But on came a crisp bouquet of biker–boy newspapers; ‘Hiring’, and a few scans further; ‘Do you harness a great love for the evergreen?’

  A honed section in Missoula's local print— jobs. A publisher boldens and compresses enthusiasm sporadically; writing–on–the–wall hollers speckle themselves meticulously on the newsprint that strike a sense of obligation into the susceptible and soft–of–heart chunk of the population. A pert voice read with persuasion between your ears, gritty in tone and stereotypical of a middle aged ranger, vocals fried by cigarettes but as booming as a cannon.

“Do you care for the animals inhabiting our national sanctuaries?”

  Abutting small paragraphs, the sagging belly of a black bear, tender caramel snout and snoopy–faced, fitted on its head a mustard yellow campaign hat labeled, ‘Smokey’. Its burly, blundering frame on all fours stood out over a comic–style vista of the Montana rockies, paws obscured by blocks of thickset text reading ‘Only you’.

  Huh, a realistic depiction of Smokey Bear— over a not–so–realistic background, avant–garde. 

  Tree greens sprawly that didn't shout ‘Fuck you’ on your poor, sunken eyes searing for sleep and a twilight darkness. Sagey lichens that didn't draw out the spasms above your own bones, calling your regard to bring pin–sized problems and blemishes sprawling your own flesh out of the bliss of ignorance. Brunette muds with only a fleck of sun, a slice of earth dull, humble and unprocessed enough from benevolence to leave you unconsumed, unsunken. A mere slop and pudge in the future and wake of your walk. Nothing obnoxiously grand, nothing sanctimonious. Nature is by birth— righteous, regardless.

  “Before we can be proud of our nation, our nation must be proud of us!”

  The advertisement gropes for a summertime made free. A cyclopean sinkhole in the becoming of time. Recruits–in–waiting are called to bargain normalcy and the bustling cities plump with lumbering limbs of sheen–tight pantyhose shaded under short shapes of plaid skirts for boot–cuts n’ backpacks hefty with gear that could either save you the trouble of mountaineering by path, or trouble your time with a faulty snapping of two things. Rope and neck.

Too grim?

  A months’–long moment of tension snapped at the pressure joint— Summertime the snapper.  You'd be devoting ninety–three suns, ninety–two moons, and some two–million breaths of fir laden air up in Angel Crater National Park, northwest of here. Pupils flickering the double-page setup, you continue: A pictographic, old–fashioned lookout taller than the timber spires surrounding would be your station, your core of operations, for those three young and sunny months. Boxed provisions and supplies are guaranteed to ship every other week, and testimonies encourage even the anxious, balmy buzzes of your brain to sigh in solace learning that the weald creatures there— are mostly harmless, if you aren't bred an imbecile. Alongside, an appointed supervisor, whose name was never disclosed duly except for a scratch of text gingerly clasped in quotations reading, “E.R.W” trailing the mention of said supervisor. What’s required of you was delivered plain written and patent on that shoddy newspaper, held thick in your intrigued thumbs; Keep the forest from catching wild fire.

  You fiddled the idea. Should I? Or should I wallow the summer away? Fiddled it anxiously, fiddled it needily, bumped the clumped rim of the newsprint on your cupid's bow in bending rumination, steadied it cause newspaper smells oddly good— but next to minutes racing hours upon musing, a conclusion had to knock your static looping of gloomdom in the butt.

  One phone call, and the bird would be barred again. Pesterer, Elaine the Terrible, would be cast back where eyes can't roll over the cottony clouds. Just a couple fucking prods to your number–pad, might genuinely un–drain you.

  Luckily, you aren't an idiot reared to take bullshit longer than meritted.

You took the job.

May 30th, 1995, 7:28 PM.

  What does any clever pedestrian traipsing capricious terrain store in their pack to avoid total gangly–branch–grips–of–nature butchery?

Item one; Black nylons— scratch that, you aren't getting paid to snag at every kink and curl of the forest, tighties of gossamery fabrics are a no–go. Citywear stays citywear. Double scratch on those sweet, blackberry Mary Janes too prized and polished to muck up in shit of the earth. Immolating the rigid underside of some chunky hiking boots to the unruly woodlands is the adrenaline pinnacle of out–worlding, come on. It proves you've got a hardy backbone and the right row of teeth to chew what you've bitten off, sullying boots ‘till the color is forevermore stained. Backup boots are tradition, so that's item number two. Best get used to cargo, ankle–length overalls and miscellaneous graphic tees, cause the rockies’ fashion gurus can't get enough of ‘em!

Clothing, check.

  Swathes of ropes twined pumpkiny orange and plenty of clanging anchors to bolt them in, goddesses and gods forbid you be tight on anchors. Medical kits— duh, did you trudge all from yonder just to die out here? This country is dicey, at the cuddly claw of a bear, or not. Hair ties, scrunchies you hoarded as a teenager in the eighties, disposable camera to suit your flaky memories, and an eclectic dump of nutty and fruity cereal bars galore. Unless you're allergic. Substitute.

Accessories and essentials, check.

  Ah, and a spare pistol and switchblade in replacement of newcomer paranoia! Keep that hush–hush though. No matches or lighters, obviously.

True American, illegal weaponry, check.

  All this paraphernalia bangs and clangs heavily on the polyester holding of your backpack, straining your scruff uncomfortably as you tiptoe, scarcely tumble, and tread lightly across a log. It creaks, it groans, it wobbles slightly over the blaring white rush of a stream, suctioning your heart–to–stomach when it grinds a wee bit louder than you thought it should.

  “Shit!” you crimp your torso in and dart wary hands on the timber beam at your feet, assuming a gawky newborn–bambi–pose in hesitation, shuddering in cracked tones, “This can't be the right way..” 

  Hoping on an evaporated sun, you frazzlingly testify in repetitive thought that the map mailed by the rangers a week prior led you on this perilous and incorrect path.. for the last two days. Winding and wounding, literally— your bruises are measureless and on top of that ache your skin to want no more of this. But, you have to. A boulevard of brown, short and stout, wrung unyielding from one gray side to the greener other, a shortcut. Assumed to be a shortcut, based on the route drawn by utter confusion.

Oh yeah, and remember the advertisement stating the park was twenty-five miles out?

Nothing about that hot-press, black-cat inked newspaper accounted for the extra eight weighing your ankles down and your motivation dead low. Twenty-five only stretched out unto the ranger parking lot. The entrance, for fuck's sake.

  Shaky flit of your digits, they float gently off the carve–veined surface of the wood, unfolding your spine as you rise. “Wrong way—” you utter to your chest, oven–warm as it puffs, “—gotta be the wrong..” 

  Tentative–ism is normal here, right? Like, no way you're cautious and sweating at the brow for nothing. Right? 

  One foot— creeakkk— in front of the prudent other, two sailing lunges, three hurried hops and a matched thud soft as marshmallows plants your shoes to hallowed ground. Blades of verdant whiskers so innocent crush under, and it feels fucking— demeaning, actually. All that gulping and pausing.. for nothing.

  You tuck a shoulder–glance to the makeshift ricket of a bridge, and blankface, “Didn't feel like killing me today?”

The tree bears no reply.

  “Hmph, surprising. Seeing as someone killed you,” a sigh parts, fading into the whip and straightening of your head, “figured the pursuit of revenge doesn't stop at ghosts.” and the hoist of your boot up, carrying onward.

  Sundown paints, crescent layers repose approaching moonlight and dying sunlight sprawls psychedelic limbs above you. Balance ambling in tiny bops only made the swirling grasp of those gradient rays more trippy on your eyes and coercive of daydreams, rot–nip for the brain. You spot nutbrown brick— a fireplace in your mind, fevered heat roasting on the inside wall of your forehead too. It was Christmas before the storm, a subzero December. And it was, in fact, colder than the unreachable heaven. Dad was hunkered down in front of that innocuous amber crackle, his right leg slack to the ground and his left arched in the neck of an acoustic guitar, arms plaiting its hollow curve into his chest. 1971, when the veil through and within was thin, and love–vomit poured so easily through. A time of justified ignorance; Childhood. 

  Stood you adjacently, legs short and posolutely not stout, dimpled in the knees. Aged two years, and mushy as ambrosia, contorting your mouth jubilant as you're told for the camera, contrary to your father with his expression drooping to his strumming fingers. Sickly sweets, adult–you unpurposefully neglects to twirl lips at, your extraordinary grins now turned ordinary flat–lines. Holiday memoirs, those spoiled ripe quick after adulthood bolted itself in the slabs of your tender spine and instilled an artificial love for labor and country, displacing nostalgia from ever being seen as a flesh existence. 

“Say cheese!”

  America is sub–human, and sub–humans created America, the imperfect cycle. Families tear, eagles outcry, friends drink their death, and the days continue to unfold without a trace of acknowledgement. Days exist where you soak festivities and stave off the pointer–finger poking at so called slack you relish, and some twenty dwindling years ahead the slowly deadening oak grove road, carousals will be criminally known as layabout–makers.

Joy is a luxury now.

  A blockage prevents your foot from winching clean forward, meeting the bone–hard kiss of a boulder to sore your toes. “Fuck!” you brand your throat walls to a shout, pissed at the rock rather than your woolgather that lead you to said rock, “Fucking fuckhead rock!”

  Woolgather means daydreams, by the way. Funner to use words that don't make a split of sense. Yay for English.

 The sunset clouds dripped with a mania of fascination and had strung your brain to its hypnotic whims, like a siren had soloed a trance, drifting your mind somewhere utopian and phantasmagorical. It sounds silly, but, blanking out seems so often out of grasp from your control, you usually could never flag what caused it, when it started, and why. Nothing practical surfaces. Fuck, your head is so tangled upon memories, you haven't even noticed the progression of scenery twelve o’clock from you. 

  Ponderosa boughs band together where your eyes brush shapes and forage for a clue of what scene wants to greet you ahead. The sequestering silence of rustles indicates a clearing, possibly. Possible as it could be, you fully expected this cruel footslog to wallop your ass into a minefield, so you bet cards and course carefully beneath the crowns of pine, completely bent to the chance of another obstacle threatening your tender ankles. Leafy whispers above strum your ears brimmed with its sotto voce song, and then— colors it silently behind.

“Holy shit.”

  Presence crumbles above you, and opens before you. The lookout. Wood shafts slant in opposing directions, up and up along four brawny beams in three consecutive layers, like a blocky cone. The face closest to you overlaps the backing rest, giving the illusion of tufted wooden legs sketched under all lackadaisical. Endgame daylight spies from behind this one–roomed cyclops, gushing final spurts of citrus rays as if it truly was an orange squeezed to pulp. So, the flank and forehead of that towering, mountainscaping lookout rolling a cold shoulder to the sun, paves in a tattered tapestry of garnet smokiness instead. Shadow of sundown. From where you sow feet, a football field apart, petty details are difficult to squint into clarity, but the window panes appear tawny, too.

  An intimidation, “So much for a tiny room.” A beaute intimidation, “And no actual bathroom.” it makes you feel like a genuine insect compared.

  A sort of stairwell serpent faintly chokes the foot, the calves, the thighs, and punctures kindly a mouth leading up to the skirting balcony hedged in many gaunt teeth. Tamping gravel closer, subtleties and fine points fade as the tower's plank–lined and flat underbelly turns to you. Larger and larger, it dips darkly from miniscule masquerade.

  Bringing your decently aching foot to the first step, you press into the curb and meander your cruder aching— thanks to a random boulder— foot weirdly on the outer ridge of your boot. Making it up the stairs to fund yourself a fucking break was a palpable mockery in itself. Like, ‘Hey! Climb this long–ass stairwell for a teensy break before doing it all over again the next day!’. 

Un–fucking–believable. 

  Fifty years of history and past rangers grate in your walk, the floorboards thump with their stories, thump into your skin— verse you a wordless eulogy. Each step is a sentence, and every sentence branches into a whole tree of genealogy, lives. Lifestyles you can't understand now, but will.

  Really redundant of me to highlight the generations alive in those floorboards. The walk up there isn’t that exciting.

  After the last step, you're met eye–to–frame with a scratched door, pygmy window centered and paper–screened from within, and the stories predating your stay inspire a comical theory, “Jeez— bears make it up here?” you half–suppress a snort, palming a fist on the doorknob coldly before rotating and giving sympathetic pressure to the door.. jammed. 

  “C’mon..” knuckles pulse into the knobs plate, gradually upping the force you pushed, “.. losing light out here..” eventually adding your other hand to sweeten the push.

  Sure, a whole year has gone by since it homed somebody, and it's retro, but come on.

  Breaking splinters into the door was your last intention, so you try so–so carefully— to some extent, “Please..” now butting the tip of your boot on the rim to ease it— ease, and finally pry, a clapback of wind blowing dusty, nightfall air past your crescent cheeks following the snap of the fallow door.

  Thank goodness for your grace and balance, some days, avoiding a timely trip face–first to a floor so powdered in light dust, any kid would mistake it for a good time sweeping snow angels. 

  Not so good for the respiratory system though.

  Muggy space filtering your lungs tightly, you cough out, “Gah— fuck!” nothing higher than the level of a guttural wheeze, your chest punching into your throat. Gaping out the last flock of butterflies clumped at your collarbones, the tickle inside calms, and you find your sights taking in a dark box. A dim orb of lily silver glow rests in the middle of the pall room, raising the natural, “Where's the ligh— ah, big clunky thing—” 

  Flicking the off–white and stubby nub attached to an impractically sized lightswitch, which frankly resembles an electric box externally, an essence of Apollo ladens the room. Lemony–gold light, passably bright off the redwood ceiling, and murmuring a low buzz through one ear, and out the other, your pupils caper along the contrasting shades awakened.

  “Definitely retro, but.. no roommates.” spoke you, gingerly content with the colors piecing this camper pad together. You observe.

  Forget–me–nots bled the cotton bedsheets baby blue, leavening the mattress with a tidy emotion as it's tucked, folded at the top and draped in a complimentary quilt— benevolent blues, hues your lids soften on. The bed beelined from the doorway, a corner counter fawn–brown as the wood extends adjacent to it, covering the northeastern angle of the room. Magpied brands of canned food clutter shelves, spines spanning thick books of epic poetry to sci–fi comics create a ribcage of literature along a compact bookcase perching that countertop, and sunken in the east side of it, a steel sink. It shimmered sunflower bands of light as you moved, a rainbow–arched faucet brightened completely.

  Step by step, you draw near a circular table in the middle. Strange rods and gadgets stuck out of the borders, inlaid glass protecting a local map so sleek you could see a phantom of your face in it, and a black bar looming the width, so it rings with tangible importance. Of which you'll gauge about later. Truthfully, the journey by foot here? Dead–beating, your knees bloated, throbbed flesh hot, and almost buckled; fatigues infamous way of scolding you to sit the fuck—

“Sup Maple lake, you there?” 

  A pang hammers to your heart, and a crawlish wave of startled blood pales from your face and drops to your jaw, “Jesus!” sweat hitting you a blink after, every normal function just— flunked. That voice, more like a ruptured stereo sizzling, caught you the fuck off guard. Now you dither, dumbassery taking your eyes through a new loop of figuring out where–why–how and what the robotic intruder wants.

  But pre–realizing, your ears perk to a more coherent, and outstretched string of static, “C'mon, know you're checked in.” and post–realization tugs your eyes to a mustardy n’ black cased device; a walkie–talkie.

  Okay, way to creep recruits out. Whoever, for whatever reason— at the nick of night too, gimme’ a break. You wry, knitting raisin crinkles above your nose, trying to discern your palette of options; pick up the walkie, tap in and feign politeness in the shortest and sluggiest scraps of small talk to be done with the day, or rant off the bat— highlight how fucking late it is, and how taxing a double–goddamned–day hike made your head and patience feel. And right now, the second response route feels arguably more tempting than—

  “This is Cordero Tower, calling in. Can see ya’ standing by the Osborne, by the way.” 

  Its staticy feedback has waned completely, densening a thick husk and tilting towards a honeyed undertone. Relaxed sounding or not, what the fuck.

  You react predictably, flicking your chin west, then east only for you to meet the dead of night— thanks mountains— stalking perfectly in every single window. So, useless to check. Answering it was a yes–go, it would be sickenly awkward to thrust it under the rug now. Your knees pull forward, eyes calligraphing the power buttons tinted in cherry light, palm drawing to meet your focal point.

  The case is ribbon gentle under your fingertips’ graze, fresh and in store–new condition. Maybe the only thing hot from the pot of newfangled technology. Plastic intricacies roll under until you settle on a swollen button, denting the plush of your finger as you press, hold, and speak. A crisp crackle activates your line, tuning you in.

    Breath hesitates between your chords, “Maple.. lake.. speaking,” off–the–tongue words manifesting on–the–spot, “you can see me?”

  “Yeah.” the walkie chuckles, sugary curl pitching up and through their tone, “Look out ur’ north window, you'll see her.”

Her?

  Nooking your nose north, you only widen pupils on that same, starless coast of darkness nosing the rim of your window sills. What do they mean to—

  “Nh–no,” You literally said north, “get closer to the window, n’ look up.” What, are you a fucking sparkling, rasp–voiced eagle?

  “Fuck are you talking about,” mouthed you void of voice, stumped on what this person was getting at. Wedging your knuckles below the meshy underside of your backpacks right strap, you wrangle it down your arm as you glide rubbery sole along croaking oak, tossing that bag so cumbersome atop a lily white pillow— looking fresher than a daisy, and clamber the mattress pliantly dented to your knees to grasp a broader panorama. 

  And with that window hood washed over, a convoy of fireflies focus a tiny constellation in the murked glass. Little pinholes of light, dots in the distance. They rough–hew a blur, but the excess seconds taken to brood squints and balance the blurry blotches, an outline crops up. Another fire lookout, sprouting from rock and rise of a berg. Offspring of the distant cordillera that gives this whole park its sense of a cradled–woodland, but either way thought, a lookout hosts it home on top.

  “You can see me from all the way out there?” you wondered, truly. I mean— at minimum, a sore sprawl of miles bridges you both.

  “Mhm..” a pause loiters that fluid hum, then some really throaty syllables, “Binoculars~” you could almost envision— nah, feel the stare of those binocs, undoubtedly taking note of every contort in your body right now.

  “Oh thats, totally.. not,” you blunt your tone, shying a few inches from the glass, “.. creepy.” awkwardly. “Uh, who are you anyways— are you like, uh, another recruit?” as you engage small talk, grumpy frown pouting, the habit of kissing your wrist to your jaw as you would a piglet–tailed telephone overruns your burnt out focus, having to wince the walkie away when your eardrums nearly burst.

Ouch.

  “For one, I'm actually your supervisor. I know, I don't sound like a typical smoker–lunged, middle–aged white dude.” their tone gruffs and deepens to impersonate, finger air quotes practically radiating from the other end, “And two, my name is Ellie— Ellie Miller–Williams, if you care.”

  “Don't.” you heave out the pain stretching your head, aching each time you simply thunk.

  “Straightforward,” her timbre ups in approval, seemingly, “I like it. I like you, recruit I dunno’ the name of.” and a bubble hics her throat, quite audibly.

  “Not single.” Wrong, just uninterested. Hooking two fingers in the fabric handle of your bag and craning it to the ground, with scattered grates of plastic buckles skating the floor.

“What?”

  Oh, shit she wasn't— oops, ‘course she meant that platonically, heads so damn muggy,  “Uh, it's—my name.. sorry I’m just a bit out of the loop—” Dumbass, unscramble your brain alphabet soup, will you?

  “That’s a long ass name, what were your parents thinking? Haha.” Her duo–beat chuckle flares your humiliation, and then proceeds to pinch its swollen parts into total inflammation, “Where does it originate from?”  

  Cheesy bitch, “Can you not— I like, pfhh..” you temper yourself with a moon–cool blow to chap your lips and inflate your cheeks, ending up with a draw of an even more loosened tongue sour as it complains, “Did a whole two–day hike through the most torturous terrain just to get here, I really don't—”

Please.

  And if gripes trudged through teeth aren't persuasive enough, you recess your bone–ache bod avidly in the springy haven of your bed which chirped at your weights shifting motions, collarbones packing down on your vocal chords. You shouldn't sound up to chat whatsoever. Instead, vehemently drained, “I just wanna get some shut eye, talk me over n’ the mornin’.” your thumb lying a button away from disconnecting. 

  “Hey, hey—” Ellie ushered, her slurry breath fogging up the mic. Lips squeak softly into it, smacking before an intone, “Can't I be a little curious?”

  You synchronized in noise, sucking teeth behind heart–pursed lips, “Do you think somebody this exhausted has the appetite to entertain you?” stilling your thumb–pad on the power off key.

  “If I keep bothering you,” that alone ticked you, her blatant drive to carry on when your brain rejected its substance, “.. yeah. Maybe you'll be nicer then too.. huph!” a heartier peep hicced up on the speaker, and right then that noise jogged a discovery.

“Are you drunk?” has to be.

  Of course, she ignores the naked and sorely obvious, “Did your boyfriend break ur’ heart or something— an’ that's why you're out here?” bottle sloshing in the background of her mumble.

  Dumbstruck, you furrow a miffy expression, “W–what, boyfriend?” 

  “Said you weren’t single.” she recalls, warmly unspinning the fuddle that knit your brows, “Think I forget so easily?” drawled like a sultry retort, baking your ears.

You a hundred percent forgot though.

  Gosh, short–term memory sucks, or it's just your energy drought making you woozy. Blame it on lethargy, “No no, that was just.. tired talk. I thought you were hitting on me.” 

  “Oh? That's cute.” her choosing to say that latter statement unfolded discordantly, you seriously couldn’t gauge if that was a flirt, or another paper daisy— mock honey, a platonic notion. Even so, it sounded so damn smooth, lace to the ears. “But no, I wasn't— m'not like gay or ‘whutever.” stammered her, light snort fanning.

  A stifled chuckle hops from your chest, mixing with hers, “Uhuh, cool.” halfway uncaring and halfway amused, bafflement working your facial muscles. 

  “Yeah, um, but seriously..” her voice drifts into a ponderous rasp, the faint rustles of flimsy paper licking page to page subtler than her speech, “what's got you out here, newbie?”

“Newbie. Really?” A brow pricks.

  “I mean, you're new— new to the lookout, new to the job, in need of my phenomenal supervision and my wide range of knowledge. Yeah, a newbie.” 

  Then your brow mellows, tension held in your face dropping dead on backhanded flattery, “You are funnily agonizing.”

  “Aw.” her scratchily suave coo has your jaw set like stone, “That's so sweet.” but her short–lived song has your heartstrings soaked in ripe honeycomb, touched to the core by sweetness nebulose and an assortment of some foreign threads. Thickened heart, tighter ribs, a churn to weaken your stomach, a maverick of things unfamiliar to you.

  Momentaries, but still noticeable even if your senses were twisted backwards.

  Chewing over how you'll begin to explain, a few letters sift through your chords, until you hook on a sigh, “Ah, well, I'm out here for a fuck ton of reasons—”

“Reasons, or— huhp, problems?” Ellie blurt–hics, nosy.

“..”

  A brief gulp and exhale wheezes from her, “Sorry, it's the bourbons’— super good. Continue.” 

 You loosely split your mouth, gasping to exchange a gale for words pressing out, “A series of reasons, and problems, that I don't bother to lay on a grand platter, so you'll get a summary tossed on an appetizer plate.” you preface. Allow an elliptical gap to cut through, rousing her hum to let you know her ears are as intent–peaked as a Chihuahua’s, “Contact with my parents’ has gone cold, my last job made me want to hurl into a pack of crocodiles— and the city became too loud and too heavy–handed. Saw this job on the local paper, and got the hell out of dodge.”

An omissive summary, you meant. 

  There’s more that eats the heart. People can’t just.. drop the burden of knowledge wantonly on randos like they’re idling under fertile treetops waiting for the apples to plummet, biting into a pulpy biography. She’s just a girl, not a therapist.

  A discomforted purr lengthens into her reply, “Mmmmh, ever try a drink or two?” her intoxicated reply.

  “Oh, see,” you flap your hand and slap it to your denim clad thigh, “you are drunk.” as if she could even see your gesture.

  “No, I’m Ellie, hmhm~” comes with a giggle, and you consider her state of insobriety to be— wavering, but it’s stimulating to hear her fluctuate between groaned jokes and extra raspy comments, “Still haven’t told me your name though.”

  Some moments during this whole ‘Who are you?’ seminar made you concerned for your future here— if you’ll make it out psyche intact, but some moments found by winnowing through the illogical backtalk touched you with inbound camaraderie.

  Invisible touches that inhabit your neck with a leak of your name so— sincerely. It transforms into a fairer sound on your ears when she repeats it, affirming it. Nobody else's teeth clutches your name so welcome as she.

  “Hmm, ‘name kinda fits your voice.” odd commentary, but since composed with her already peculiar and drunken tongue, the shoe fits.

  That said, crabby confusion seems easier to articulate, “Thanks, weirdo.” but lips rebellious, they press an inevitable grin together. 

“No problem, sleepyhead.”

So many nicknames.

  Recognizing that downtick in hubbubs and breaths on the walkie, checking out for the night posed as a passionate option the burden weighing your eyelids couldn't or shouldn't veto. So you haul your torso up, kick and poke your toes over ankles to butt your boots off prior planting your heels, whisking toward the lightswitch and committing your lookout to swell with the outside's dark fresco. 

Stygian tones.

  “Speaking of sleepy heads..” you taper off speech, leaving the rest to her— touch wood— wide enough, hopefully–not–drunk–enough imagination to fathom as you slide and slip desperately beneath woolen blankets, sleepy worries, and sentences sailed to rest.

  “Aw man.” Ellie bums so, so stupidly, for comical value.

“Yeah, man.”

  “Mpht—” wetness smacks, “wanted to bore a pretty girl to death with recruit regulations and syllabi..”

How would you know?

  In reality, Ellie was reaching a transcendent caliber of wasted, drinking up your atmospherics and drunken to her gutly core. Woods hatch forlorn people; forlorn people get thirsty, “But, mhh, heads’ nearly falling off, whoof.” she expresses a soaring of vowels, but it parallels a gruff howl more. 

  Drowsy, buzzy jubilancy, plucking her flirty strums. You sugarcoat the flare in your chest hearing ‘pretty girl’, ears clicking to the swallow convincing your heart that Ellie was not flirting. As established; She’s under the influence, and not gay. Your brain repeats that, over and over, repeat, repeat, she isn’t flirting. 

  “Hey, here's a tip..” you inch the walkie a penny away from your flopped head, clefting your lip open, “Don't get drunk on the job. They didn't hire you to decoct your brain the day before chaperoning a recruit in the literal wilderness. So, stash that shit, n’ let's both get some shut eye, yeah?” and saying all that, may have just cashed in your last dose of breath and brain cells for the night.

  Ellie being Ellie— well, what you suspect is a ‘her’ thing after these few speckled minutes, dopily laughs at you. And dammit if she wasn't glamoring a dopey smirk in accord, you’ll have gleaned wrong.

  A voice, “Who’s the boss again?” her witty and cruel wisecrack, “They didn't pay you to boss the— hup, boss around.” 

  They will pay you to confront and reflect your spectrum of limits if this girl brushes their seams, that's for certain. Or, play God and lambast her, tender as milk.

  There's even a stroke of a chance, that your crooked lips poached her dopey grin instead, “Kay, well, maybe they'll reimburse me for your poor services.” 

  “My services are not poor. You'll see, tomorrow.” the volume of her melts away, going muted under liquid swills clanging on glass.

  “Please tell me that's the sound of you putting the bottle away.”

  “Mhm!” came out plugged, the bottle confining her garble, then popping clean as a cork, “Fuck— okay,” she siphons air in, pure little clink tinting the end of her sharp–edged sniffle, “Make sleeping in earlier worth it t’morrow, wanna drive you nuts with my questions.” she nasals, drawing near the mic again.

  Such a magpie, “Cause you're lonely?” and weird.

  “Shut up,” she shushes you, a satin whisper light–hearted and quick on beat, “M’not lonely anymore, right?” The type of softly spoken outcry that would balloon your cheeks with soreness if you were face–to–face with the throat that conducts it. Involuntary smiles plague you everywhere. But there is no mouth, no larynx, no throat that you view the swallow of. Just a walkie, so you settle in stoicism.

  You tug your upper–lip and pivot your eyes, drumming up something clever to combat, “In a sense. Not like we’re bunkmates, thank goodness.”

  “Fuck you,” Ellie breaks into a cuss spout so serenely, she sounded small and harmless, “just go to bed.” reduced to birch in winter shed of its brittle autumn arguments.

“Don’t gotta tell me once.”

  By the first full and emphatic giggle she cast just now that wasn’t suppressed nor achieved by humble pie, you take it that Ellie found you funnily harrowing just as her, two peas in an outstretched pod. Fault be with her, for getting wasted. Otherwise, you might have pried her skull open with questions dolled up as a pruner, clipping the forelimbs that are foliated in a messy breadth of first glance leaflets and attitudes until you piece it prettily, in a way that thralls you to never shrink your eyes back into their sockets. Drunk people are like prone beehives though, so you don't prod them.

Tomorrow, you can paint her portrait, or vice versa.

“Whatever you say, newbie.”

And with the whirry crunch of the walkie shutting off, Monday, came to a close.

if you enjoyed this chapter, please lmk what you thought!! i love getting asks about my content ♡

perm taglist: @whore4abby @aouiaa @ellieslittlewhore @baumbii @tlougrl @mina-281 @beabeebrie @fleshunger @elliewilliamsisactuallymygf @nicolicht @cosmikoo @xinyaya @sawaagyapong @reinersbigolboobies @brunettedolls-blog @syrenada @fairyysoiree @p4ison1vy @nil-eena @hi2647 @disaster-bi-suki @rarestdoll @narieater @hrtmal @eudaemoniaaaa @ellie-07063 @luvfaeri @carleenaelaine @kissyslut @ellieswh0r3 @beemillss @elsmissingfingers @bugaboodarling @slynxs @maleelee @savannahsdeath @littlegingerperson5 @seraphicsentences series taglist: @tearouthearts @planetloverr @elliesexual @isitadinosaur @eveshyper @3lli3l0v3r @yourmothersfavgirl @emst4rr @theloserqueen @crxmxnzl-c0rpzes @whenlostinthedarkness @diddiqueen @deliriousrn

[tototalks]

Now three quarters of the way through Captive Prince and I’m currently devouring this book like a vulture with its face in a carcass.

More ✨thoughts✨

- Love how there’s a whole conversation where everyone is sitting round eating grapes like “oh wow yeah Kastor was really beat up about the death of Prince Damianos. He looked real sad.” and Damen is just like… stood there… very alive… two feet away in big ol’ gold chains metaphorical sign over his head saying “NOTICE ME” lol

- On that note, spidey senses are telling me there’s no fuckin way Laurent doesn’t know who he is in a very “you killed my brother prepare to die” kinda way… unless he doesn’t?? Like am I wearing the tin foil hat?? Am I the fool?? Have they pulled a fast one on my dumb ass??

- Omg Nicaise. My heart kinda breaks for him. He’s a thirteen year old boy trying to survive by any means necessary, and if he’s gotta stab a bitch in the leg with a fork to do it then so be it. I support him.

- Ancel really is 💅that girl💅 in the same way Margaery Tyrell was that girl. He’s manipulative, he’s beautiful, he can spin fire, he’s out for someone to buy him a Birkin. Legend.

- I am, once again, requesting nice things for Erasmus and desperately need a whole training arc of Ancel teaching him how to use his looks to get what he wants. Glad my boy is safe. (Is he? Please say he is. Damen was on his best behaviour.)

- “He’s too old for my uncle’s taste.” SIR?? EXCUSE ME SIR????? 🚨🚨🚨 🚩🚩🚩 🚔🚔🚔

[allebasimaianunes]

lamb of god diary's † father charlie mayhew short-fic

sumary: there's a lamb of god very much loyalty for hers favorite preacher. so she writers everything what happens with both like her own bible. the bible of the sinners.

autor's note: my fisrt "fanfic" in english. the ideia it's this sounds like a really deep dive on the mind of a girl (reader) while she envolves with her priest, like a real diary where i'll can find thoughts and randoms stuffs about her life.

warning contend: sexual mention, lost of virginity, prient kink. drabble.

word count: 803

language: english

soundtrank inspo: preacher's daughter (ofc)!!!

lamb's diary. oct, 30 of 2024.

Father Charlie Mayhew was so incredibly hungry for me.

He needed to possess me, maddened, completely intoxicated by his own desires. And I wanted it too, I won’t lie! When he approached me—an angel in the church, a smirk on his beautiful face—I knew exactly what we’d be doing in that secluded place.

He looked deeply into my eyes during communion, letting me feel his touch as he placed the body of Christ on my tongue, whispering, “Come to me tonight.”

I was so nervous and anxious about it! In the midst of guilt and sadness, I always wanted this: the bodily contact, the intimacy, the singular pleasure that I sometimes indulged in alone but which, at times, was not enough. My perverted thoughts had haunted me, haunted me while I walked with my dog and saw the new priest jogging in those ridiculous shorts, his slim shirt clinging to his muscular body; haunted me when he fixed his gaze on me, on my body, with a hidden desire in his dark eyes; haunted me as I touched myself alone in bed, with the holy Virgin Mary looking down on me in mercy until I climaxed, thinking of Father Charlie fucking me so hard that it broke my bed.

Then I’d wake up from a wet dream of him, telling myself it wasn’t real. Until that day, when I entered his room. I sat on the simple wooden chair, hands clasped in my lap, looking at him with expectation.

Charlie sat on the bed, which sank under the weight of his muscular frame, his dark, intense eyes undressing me. His breathing was already heavy with desire, which I could tell by the bulge forming in his black cotton pants. He slowly declared his intentions, asked my thoughts on celibacy and sex. My response was simple, lacking arguments—a passive plea, revealing my need to be devoured by that man, so powerful in his presence. He whispered about God and the outdated dogmas of the church as he unbuttoned the front of my dress with one hand (he’s very skilled with his fingers, I might add).

With rough lips, dripping words from his soft tongue, he kissed me passionately. It was a delicious, desperate kiss, far more experienced than my first kiss, and Charlie knew how to move his hands. He made me sigh with passion, squeezed me between his palms, made me tremble as he undressed both of us. His body was a temple of temptation, sculpted and strong. He was big. As he laid me down on the bed, covering me with angelic, affectionate kisses, I felt something hard pressing against me. That’s when I thought, “Oh my God! It’s going to happen!” With abruptness, he removed my panties, followed by his own underwear, leaving us both completely exposed to each other, eyes filled with lust. His desire was dripping from him, radiating a strange, forbidden aura through his gaze, while I felt like a lamb about to be sacrificed.

Since I like metaphors, here’s one: with his sharp-bladed dagger, he pierced my throbbing core, causing a sharp pain that bled down to its hilt, flowing from the wound and bringing me closer to the sacred light. A radiance enveloped me—my thoughts, my body. A small death that revived me when he finished, filling me with himself and asking forgiveness for everything. But it wasn’t over. He kissed his way down, cleaned me with the blanket, and began to pray between my legs. Sacred incantations. Within minutes, I reached the epitome of something far greater than myself, giving myself over completely. Me, cruel.

Lying next to him, staring at the white ceiling, I lazily asked, “You’ve done this before, haven’t you?” to which Charlie laughed, his chest shaking as he responded smoothly, “Of course not.”

I knew it was a lie, but in that moment, I preferred to believe the sweet honeyed words of that serpent.

Then he helped me up, asked if I was okay, offered me warm water, helped me dress, and guided me to the door. The rectory was strangely empty, but Charlie whispered that God had arranged it all.

With a strange fear lodged in my throat, he gave me his blessing, and I went home, feeling a burning between my legs and a numbness in my mind. I must say, this has been happening for weeks. I enter his room, he devours me, ravenous, and then I slip from his hands as if I’m leaving the scene of a crime. And isn’t that what it is, really? A priest shouldn’t be doing this… well, I don’t think Charlie should even be a priest, but that’s another story.

In the end, though, it’s consuming me bit by bit.

Father Charlie Mayhew is consuming me entirely. And I’m not complaining.

[dekusleftsock]

MMMMM OKAY OKAY OKAY

I’m surprised no one has talked about how interesting Izuku breaking his mask is???????? Like oh my god?????

He even comments on the fact that it’s probably useless to wear in a scene like this, since he only put it on previously to shield his face from the waves while fighting and running away from Himiko.

In fact, I could even compare this to another Himiko scene altogether!

Himiko’s broken mask.

It’s a metaphorical mask, but honestly, so is Izuku’s. In this chapter (and previous chapters, obviously) Izuku is hiding from the fact that he has… deeper than desirable feelings for Katsuki that makes him violent and hateful. He does not want to be violent or hateful, but currently, he is at such an awful state of mind (due to Katsuki’s death and then reawakening, and also partly the state of his friends and colleagues) that he can’t help doing so.

That hate and violence cannot be stuffed down deep in his bones like usual, oh no, his quirk elicits a PHYSICAL reaction. But he didn’t have a quirk before, how could he really know that this would happen? It’s like walking through daily life as a teenager, and then in your early adulthood being hit by an extreme anxiety disorder or other health conditions. With no real reason, it just happened one day! Other people have dealt with this before sure, but they had several years throughout their adolescence to figure it out, how to cope with it. And just like it’s said in the manga, it’s like everyone else is running far ahead, and you’re just starting to crawl.

And that’s what the mask is (fuck you dream 🫶🫶🤭) really for. It protects Izuku on a very emotional level. The mask is broken, chipping, dirty—yet he wears it anyway because it’s the only way he can really smile like allmight. Just like allmight found his mask, he also found his smile. It’s also probably why his first reaction to having a quirk stolen (while also strategical) is to hide hide hide in blackwhip. A bubble that hides him from Shigaraki, from Katsuki, from everyone who could see his face.

And comparing this to toga, hello?? Her masking metaphor is about MASKING AS A HETEROSEXUAL GIRL, and her breaking that mask makes her a deviant, an outcast! And here Izuku is, doing the exact same thing.

Shigaraki has danger sense now, by all means, the table has flipped—Shigaraki now knows that Izuku wants to hurt him. Izuku wants to destroy him. Danger sense doesn’t work on just anyone, it has to be coming from a place of malice (because Himiko doesn’t affect danger sense), and an urge for violence. Very Himiko trait.

AND IZUKU KNOWS THIS, HES BERATING HIMSELF, INDIRECTLY ONCE MORE—saying that he has this useless power (similar to how he berated the fish when he was mad at Katsuki in chapter 1), comments on how the mask is broken and that allmight found him that mask, and he even holds this disappointed look on his face.

THIS is the weight I was talking about. This. The berating, the indirect hatred, because Izuku hates. He hates people and things just like Shigaraki does. That’s why danger sense was the only power shigaraki should have taken, it’s the literal power to feel who is loving and who is hating.

AND OF COURSE WE HAVE THE THROWBACK CHAPTER TO 342 OH MY GOD

The fact that Izuku has to say, “you’re a person”, ITS SO DAMN BEAUTIFUL YALL IM DEAD

Oh also! Izuku having matching blood falling over the other half of his face is just too fitting.

To me, with this whole chapter, Izuku and Katsuki, the parallels Katsuki had to ochako last chapter (the falling on the ground, passing out because “it’s getting cold”), it’s just given me a lot to think about.

And I’ve thought and paced and I really really hope I can describe what I’ve been thinking.

Pikahlua (or however their name is spelled, sorry!) translated the text on top of ochako as “Im still not sure what was obvious to that person”. These are the rough translations which is good to keep in mind, but there’s a few ideas I’ve had floating around from that line.

I went back and read 342, Ochako is ofc looking out into the city, calling herself an oddball, even saying she feels like she doesn’t know anything about Toga; if, and this is a big if, but… if this is Izuku thinking about Ochako, then that makes this line far more interesting.

What was obvious to her? A couple of possibilities—possibly understanding that she doesn’t really know Himiko, maybe it’s the fact that Ochako is so openly ready to accept Himiko (unlike Izuku for shigaraki, though this doesn’t apply to Katsuki. Showing Izuku is capable of feeling long term resentment for someone who wronged him, so long as that person doesn’t just wrong him, izuku), or maybe, it was the fact that she was so openly ready to say that she was weird, an oddball (a queer trope for coding characters, “she’s just so weird about that girl”, “I feel like I don’t really fit in”, or “I feel like the way I think of this same sex character—regardless of contextual status such as being a villain or an arch enemy—is wrong, and I should be condemned.”)

Though this could also be Ochako talking about Himiko that wasn’t directly said/shown in that scene, “I’m still not sure what was so obvious to Himiko about me.” (Though personally I find this harder to believe since this isn’t a panel directly taken from the chapter, rather a redraw from Izuku’s perspective. The drawing even makes her look taller than Izuku, which is interesting. Maybe he thinks that she’s better than him, morally)

And if we take Izuku’s comment of “You’re a person” then that furthers my belief that these are thoughts ABOUT ochako. Maybe the “obviousness” was the seeing the villain as a person. She EVEN TELLS HIM that she was thinking of Himiko during her speech about how Izuku is still human to the civilians. Maybe that speech was never about Ochako to Izuku, maybe it was ALWAYS ABOUT HIMIKO.

And ntm, this is another case of Izuku projecting onto someone else; not only is this a declaration to Shigaraki, “You’re still a person (that’s why I know I’m going to save you)!” But it’s also a declaration to himself, a motivator, a reminder that Ochako made to him during her speech, in Katsuki’s apology, and from allmight during his vigilante arc.

“You’re still a person (Izuku).”

The same declaration he made to the fish in the first chapter, to Shoto during the sports festival, and to Katsuki during dvk1.

“I matter.”

And it’s this that truly makes all of this so ironic—izuku speaking for himself, projecting onto shigaraki… honestly they feel the same way about hero society. The only reason Izuku can and does relate to Shigaraki is that he also feels cast away, no adults to reach out to as a kid, therefore making decisions on morality and bias that he mostly made on his own. Not only that, but Izuku has been the boy that was not seen as human. He has been the one to be isolated and shamed for being dirty and looking like a villain.

That’s honestly probably why he agreed with Ochako at all—he saw the little boy Shigaraki once was in ofa yes, but he’s also been an isolated and dehumanized teenager at UA. What if what Izuku was thanking Ochako for wasn’t actually standing up to the people and the speech she gave to him, but that she was able to truly open his eyes, see the bigger picture. Save Shigaraki.

Do I think shigaraki and dekus relationship and ideas of relatability are vastly different from togachako AND dabi + shoto ideas? Yes. Extremely so. Shoto and Ochako don’t and never really did hate Himiko or Touya. Obviously, to an extent Izuku does. Ntm, Shoto and Ochako brought up their conversations about their respective villains on their own, professing their insecurities and doubts, unlike Izuku who only expresses that he relates to them.

Maybe this anger and hatred came more recently, after seeing Katsuki’s death, but I have a feeling it more has to do with a built up grudge of Shigaraki targeting Katsuki.

Regardless of all of this, I see something bigger; when Izuku breaks his mask, he smiles. Genuinely smiles. Not his bright allmight smile, but he smiles regardless on that last page. It hurts and it takes a lot of power to push it, but it happens anyway.

This is the first time I’ve seen Izuku happy, or at the very least motivated, since seeing Katsuki dead. Even when Katsuki woke up, he still looks heart broken.

But the mask is gone. He’s free. Just like Himiko was free, so is Izuku.

And I thought for just a second that he would cover himself up another way, but he didn’t. He got up and he said “You’re still human” And smiled at him like the badass he is (yes I can compliment him, I promise. He’s my favorite character for a reason, I also just wanna kick him in the balls 24/7 for being so dumb).

And what did Himiko do when the mask broke?

She gave in.

She was free.

She let the world know, “this is who I am, take it or leave it.”

And I know, in my heart, that this is what Izuku will do too.

Yk how I mentioned earlier that this was a parallel to this?

I mean that, down to the fact that Ochako is calling Himiko by her first name.

Will Izuku try to give his life to Katsuki? I doubt it, he can’t do much in the medical sense.

However, do I see a shared moment similar to this? Maybe.

Okay all I’m saying is that it’s undeniably canon atp. Like I’m gonna wait for some kind of confession or kiss (bc yes I still believe that will happen, I am in that camp and you couldn’t drag me out unless I was cold and dead on the ground), but Himiko literally says she loves Ochako multiple times, INCLUDING is 395, so like. Idk what else you want. It’s this. We did it. Horikoshi you bastard.

[stardustgates]

Author’s Notes: Possibly OOC behaviour? I’ve done my best to stick by Canon as much as I can, but given I’m a newer player, I don’t know the relationship between Kafka and Silver Wolf or the characters individually as well I’d like to. Though I did do my best, please be aware that I may have taken some creative liberties in their characterisation and inner thoughts regarding each other. Also I am aware that this may just be 5.5k words of nonsensical BS but I haven’t written proper fanfiction in a hot minute so take it with a grain of salt. Not so much of a reader/canon thing and more like a reader AND canon thing currently. Perhaps that will change in future works, who’s to say? Oh yeah this is a SAGAU.

Warnings: Canonical In-game violence, references and descriptions of dissociation via player-induced body possession, references to drug use (one sentence), yandere tones if you squint really hard (shes a slowburner ya’ll), and a single swear word :3

Beyond the mind, within your body.

Description: Unaware that your presence has been made apparent to the eccentric duo during your first run through of Honkai Star Rail, you happily indulge yourself in the immersive (tutorial) world before your eyes. Kafka and Silver Wolf attempt to adjust to the feeling it brings, which leaves their minds constantly switching between distrust and euphoria, and all the things in between.

Word Count: 5.5k

Hoyoverse’s newest game hadn’t seemed much to your liking when you’d first heard the announcement. For one thing, you weren’t particularly pleased with the constant stream of ‘HONKAI STAR RAIL - PLAY NOW’ interrupting your YouTube doom-scrolling every other ad; Not to mention, you weren’t very keen on the gacha aspect. 

Within your small circle of friends, you’d been known to cave easily when attractive anime characters were involved and you weren’t planning on another hyperfiction to solidify your position as the group’s resident simp. That being said, with such a title swaying above your head like a shiny silver dagger, you’d held a metaphorical death grip on your wallet, solemnly swearing that you’d keep your distance from the game for as long you were able.

Ultimately that so-called iron will of yours didn’t last so much as a year, as just seven months after its release a simple character trailer was enough to break your steadfast resilience. Well, it wasn’t ‘simple’, if you were being honest with yourself- It was a brilliantly unique masterpiece, tailored to the exact essence and spirit of his character. You were sure Argenti wouldn’t be released for a good while, so you decided to pick up the game and grind what you could before his arrival.

That was your plan at least. Your friend had warned you a few months prior (Though admittedly, you hadn’t been paying much attention at the time.) that the download and installation would take an exhaustingly long time. Well, it was better than Genshin Impact had been- but still, you were getting bored and subsequently decided to fetch yourself something to drink in the meantime.

With your back turned to the loading screen, you waltzed out of your bedroom with little care in the world- oblivious to the ominous glowing cracks slowly sprawling across the screen of your device.

As you returned a few moments later, you found that it had finally finished installing! You’d certainly waited long enough. Sure, it wasn’t as soul-sucking as Genshin had been but your patience wasn't that of a saint’s either. With a renewed sense of anticipation, you hit start and breezed through the usual terms and conditions without reading anything and let out a sigh at the beautiful change in scenery.

It perhaps wasn't the smartest idea to skip it completely- but you had spent so long waiting already that you weren’t going to bother wasting time reading a document filled with dolled-up words you could barely pronounce.

✄————————————————

 Herta’s Space Station’s defences hadn't been particularly difficult to slip past surprisingly, though Kafka didn’t recall any mention of difficulty regarding entry in Elio’s script, so she supposed the lack of security wasn’t of any particular importance.

Despite the calm confidence that usually accompanied her on these little operations, Kafka couldn’t shake the strange feeling of being watched. It wasn’t the usual sort of lingering gaze or sharpened stare, but a vague pulsating heartbeat that faded in and out, as though blinking through blurry vision. 

Needless to say, she kept her guard up. Playing none the wiser and bowing mid-air to the tempo of a rather graceful tune. She forced her shoulders to relax and gently swayed her body, controlling her every little move with practised ease- even as that strange pulsating presence slowly sped up and stroked the fires of an oncoming headache- as the elevator descended to the station’s ‘ground’ floor.

 (You remained none the wiser to her sudden awareness, the rapidly changing scenes flashing past your eyes far too quickly to pick up on a single, brief second of stillness in her body.) 

A sudden explosion reverberates across the station's cold, metallic body and brings Kafka’s impromptu air-violin session to a screeching halt. Simultaneously, that presence settles over her body like a thick blanket of fog. That ‘gaze’ she had felt becoming so vivid she could feel its weight pressing down on her tongue.

She has little time to process the feeling before the usual blueish glow of Silver Wolf’s communications screen flickers into existence before her very eyes. 

“... Seems I came at a bad time.”

“No, No – I think you couldn’t’ve timed it better. Twenty-three-fourty-seven-fifteen system time. Very punctual, Kafka.” Silver Wolf almost sounds impressed, though Kafka suspects she’s only trying to butter her up so she’ll let the girl go off task again. Perhaps, under different circumstances, she would have been kind enough to allow it, but with the nature of their current mission and this inexplicable presence, Kafka doesn't find herself in a very generous mood. 

Kafka merely hums in response and ignores the empty praise.

“Elio always tells the exact future. So What’s with the explosion just now? Was that part of his script?” Silver Wolf picks up on her cue to focus without any fuss.

“Twenty-three-four-four-fifty-nine system time: The pulses from the explosion cause a massive breakdown from the master control system.”

Pulses. Perhaps it’s linked to the feeling curling itself around her senses?

“You did that?” Kafka doubts that Silver Wolf would waste effort on something so minor.

“No, the antimatter legion did it. They completely invaded the space station two system hours ago.” She whistles in response and glances down the glass panelling to the approaching ground floor. A small group… annoying, but manageable.

“Alright, so do we need to fight the legion?”

“Dunno, Elio didn’t say anything about it, so it doesn’t matter.” Hmm. Silver Wolf made a good point. 

“Got it. So from now on, I'll be in charge of this operation.” She feels that tingle of a smirk reach the corner of her mouth, and smiles a little wider in anticipation.

“Copy. Can you let me have some fun this time? Our last few operations turned out to be pretty dull.” Kafka lets out a playful hum as she ponders over her colleague’s request with faux consideration. She can practically hear Silver Wolf’s stifled groan in the second of silence that passes.

“...Sorry~ I’m afraid there’s not much I can do for you- our task this time is just to ‘place’ the target properly.” 

Her choice of words is careful, though not enough to cause any alert in potential eavesdroppers. The feeling still hasn’t left. 

“But if you wanna go look for some fun yourself, I won’t stop you.”

“I mean… after all…” she chuckles lightly as the blue hologram blips out of her vision, and reaches for the holsters tucked into her lower back. “After all…” Kafka readjusts her footing just in time to watch the elevator’s doors slide open, the sound of metal dragging against metal pinching at her ears.

“Elio didn’t put it in the script… Why would it matter?” 

Just as the impact from her gunshots flitters across her skin, Kafka feels her mind being pulled back to the edge of her skull. 

The group of voidrangers in front of her feel distant and smudged, the sockets of her eyes creating a blurred tunnel of vision that refuse adjust no matter how much she tries to blink it away. Their dark forms bleed into black speckles that crowd her already limited vision until she’s staring directly into the singed edges of the universe.

Kafka’s body… is no longer hers to command.

✄————————————————

She returns to her mind with startling swiftness. Her memories of the brief battle suddenly bubbling up as though pushing themselves through a thick soup of aether. She feels disconnected from the memory but can at least recall that she’d lost control of her body before blacking out. 

She attempts to think back on that burnt, golden memory but is stopped by a sudden wave of nausea. She opts to set that aside for another time and refocus on the operation. Elio had not mentioned this happening anywhere in the script- so either this had no significance or… 

Still, those Voidrangers hadn’t proved to be much trouble- in fact, they’d been less of an annoyance than she had prepared for. Either she’d been far more ruthless than intended or the antimatter legion had lost its touch.

“When did the anti-matter legion become so weak?” She asks out loud.

“I could only attract this much. Did you really want the entire legion to come here?” Silver Wolf speaks in feigned annoyance, her usual behaviour. 

She hadn’t even realised. Kafka chooses not to mention anything for the moment, instead opting to subtly gauge the extent of control this presence… or rather... Entity, seems to have over her. 

“This lot won’t be able to slow down the Astral Express crew.” Silver Wolf sighs in response on the other end of the device.

“Relax, a doomsday beast is also here.”

As she approaches one of the station’s automatic doors, Kafka feels it slip back into her body as if wearing her like a coat. Its influence feels… less heavy than it previously had been a few moments ago.  At the very least she remains conscious this time; A strange lightness in her feet as she feels herself stealth towards a lone voidranger lounging about the area.

Her movements come to her now like instinct, striking down enemies with admittedly far more efficiency than she was naturally capable of. If it weren’t for her body being strung along like a puppet against her will, she’d almost be grateful for the power and resiliency it granted her. 

Kafka has barely had her fill before a euphoric sense of power seems to swell up all at once; Killer instinct pumping through her veins like a well-oiled machine. 

Ahh. Now this… this particular feeling wasn’t so bad.

Truthfully she’d liked to have toyed with this one a bit longer, but she knew all too well that it wouldn't manage to survive her next attack. She chatters to no one in particular, the ecstasy in her mind clouding whatever decorum she would have usually displayed. 

“Good times never last… time to say bye.” 

“Ah- She’s so cool…”

Kafka tenses up at the stranger’s voice, just as the swirling dark mass in front of her collapses into itself. 

She sheathes her sword and adjusts her gloves, ignoring the voidranger approaching her from behind. Just before its darkened claws reach her, Silver Wolf’s ability activates no more than a hands-width from her shoulder blades.

“Cleaning up other people’s mess isn’t in my job description… y’know Kafka?” Silver Wolf huffs out, but her voice has no real bite in it. Was it her? She wasn’t usually one to doubt herself, but that fog of exhilaration certainly could have played with her mind. 

“Yeah, yeah. Where did you send it Silver Wolf?”

Kafka turns in time to hear the gooey pop of the silver-haired girl’s bubblegum as she hops to her feet. She isn’t sure if it's Strawberry or Grape, but the artificial sweetness and scent of no-fruit-in-particular is so strong it actually grounds her mind for a moment. 

She sighs for no real reason, but it brings her relief regardless. 

Oh.

She hadn’t realised how bad her headache was. 

“Some random Co-ordinates, not important.” She avoids Kafka’s gaze for a reason she couldn’t care to name before taking on an adorably defiant stance, her hands placed at her hips as though it would help her short stature in any way. 

“You care about where that voidranger ended up?” She doesn’t. But she’d rather think about that than, well… She didn’t know what to call it at this point. But it was distracting and she needed to focus on literally anything else for the sake of what sanity she had left. 

Though some could argue that she wasn’t sane at all- which was only half true because most people’s definition of sanity varied greatly from her own. 

Oh, Silver Wolf was still blinking up at her expectantly.

“Of course not- I’m just amazed at this fancy technique of yours, as usual.” she smiles down at her colleague, who only rolls her eyes in response. To the girl’s credit, she’d been dealing with Kafka’s empty flattery for quite a long time.

“Just a little trick of tampering with the data of reality, I wouldn't call it fancy.” Kafka smiles a little wider, following behind as Silver Wolf strolls down the hallway. Her tells were always so obvious.

“What were you looking at just now? Let me see.” Silver Wolf huffs a bit as she settles herself onto a desk and faces her.

“Herta’s toys,” she begins in an almost mocking tone 

“A catalogue featuring the space station’s collection of rare items.” Her fingers briefly tug on the white fluff of her jacket as she speaks “They’ve got quite a looot of interesting gadgets~”

Kafka’s previous interest (however feigned it may have been) dies down a little at the prospect of these ‘gadgets’ but nonetheless she indulges Silver Wolf’s unspoken desire to share what information she’d dug up.

“Like what?” 

“There’s this gun, it can rate any creature within its crosshair as a score from 0 to 100.”

“... Doesn't sound very interesting.” Her brows pinch together and her mouth stretches into a thin line of clear disappointment. Not one to be disheartened so easily, Silver Wolf continues on

“Aren’t you curious how much you would score? I kinda wanna know mine.” 

So this is what she’d been hinting at since earlier. Kafka crosses her arms and takes on the tone of an exasperated mother having finally given up after being nagged at for far, far longer than the reality of it. 

“Fine. I guess we can swing by and play with it, if it’s not too far. What’s our destination?” She redirects Silver Wolf’s distractable attention onto their current objective with practised ease. 

Hmm. 

She feels a little cold for some reason… and those watchful eyes haven't left during the entirety of their conversation. Kafka’s guard raises a little further than before.

Her colleague’s eyes flit down to a small blue hologram, her fingers swiping past various screens until arriving at what Kafka could only presume was a list of directions given to her by Elio.

“Go down the corridor, behind the door… ooon the left. There’s a room where some kind of rare item is stored.” 

Kafka feels the entity strongly now, she stares just beyond Silver Wolf’s shoulders where it feels most concentrated. The feeling she is met with is a dense smouldering hotness. It’s like melting iron dripping down her throat and burning it in the process. It feels almost itchy.

She redirects her gaze back to Silver Wolf far quicker than she’d intended to and resists the urge to scratch at her throat.

“So that’s where the Stellaron is?” Kafka is somewhat relieved when the feeling seems to simmer down. She once again debates speaking on the sensation during the slightest lull in their conversation but when Silverwolf turns her head back to face her, she finds the girl’s gaze to be much sharper than before.

“That's where we can find out where the Stellaron is.” 

Kafka immediately knows that Silverwolf has finally caught on to this feeling and says nothing as she readies herself for the next half of their mission. Almost instantly, she feels the presence shift and roll over her shoulders, like a cat stretching out its limbs. 

It's languid and smooth and she feels her tense- She had been tense this whole time?- muscles slowly relax until she finally feels that usual calm focus she’s so intimately familiar with. She hadn’t realised the extent of how cold she’d felt when it had stepped- strange, it feels like a person?-  away.

Kafka decides that her feelings towards this... Being- She isn’t totally sure if it feels sapient, but it certainly has some form of will… That much she can tell- are mixed, to say the least. She wonders one more why Elio hadn’t mentioned anything about something so foreign and strange but sets the thought aside and refocuses on the task at hand. 

She locks eyes with Silverwolf briefly, and just as she thought, Silverwolf is most definitely aware of it at this point. 

“The central area of the space station is up ahead. There’ll be loads of Legion Void rangers there.” Silver Wolf hops to her feet and saunters toward the door’s control panel. A bit too casual to be natural, but it doesn't cause the feeling to stir, so she says nothing. 

“Okay.” Kafka breathes out. 

Then that feeling of puppeteering seems to stitch itself into her mind once more, albeit in a much more faded sense- it feels more like muscle memory than it does being pulled from her own body. She allows it to pull her along and lead her toward whatever it wants. As her fingers glide over the room’s control panels and her heels click against the cold steel of the station, she feels that fog of exhilaration settle over her again- that almost euphoric surge of strength from earlier suddenly vivid and fresh in her mind. 

Silverwolf seems to feel the building strength in her own body too, as she quickens her pace when they turn the corner to find themselves at the back of a particularly strong-looking voidranger. She huffs out in bemusement and half-heartedly mutters out some encouragement to her colleague.

“May as well kill them all.” 

Not needing much more encouragement than that, Silverwolf leaps forward with as much grace as her short form can allow her and drags her digitally enhanced blade across the muscles and sinew of its chest. She leaps back beside Kafka as it staggers on its feet and tries to regain its footing. Kafka’s arm pulls itself up, gun in hand, and fires out a cascade of bullets that each burrow and pierce into its flesh. 

“This… seems a lot easier than it should be.” Silverwolf comments under her breath quietly. 

“Well, let’s count our blessings–” Kafka is cut off as her arm is singed by the blast of the voidranger’s fire canon. 

“Tch. Didn’t hurt.”

Silverwolf pulls out her holographic system at such speed that Kafka feels the static waft across her skin.

“Hmph, still. This combat needs optimising.” Just as the creature aims its weapon once more, it’s hit with a blast pulled from the loosened strands of reality itself. 

“At that speed? Too slow!” 

Kafka almost feels sorry for it, as she watches its body disintegrate while collapsing into itself.

Unfortunately, the girls are not left with time to bask in their victory- Silver Wolf lets out a small yelp- the entity has left its place on Kafka’s shoulders and draped itself over her companion it  would seem. Her short colleague adjusts to the sensation of its guiding hand far better than she had, if her losing conscious was anything to go by.

Kafka follows behind silently, eyes trained intently on the girl in front of her for any indication of danger.

“Hold it. Someone.. Or something is up ahead.” she warns quietly, arm extended out to her side like a makeshift barrier. They both come to a sudden halt as the entity violently rips itself from their bodies and settles just beyond their skin. 

Goosebumps this time. 

The cold seems to get worse and worse each time it separates from them… well, her. Silver Wolf grits her teeth. Kafka notes the tiny pearl of sweat rolling down the side of her face. Still a shock to the system then. 

“Looks like we’re the ones getting ambushed.”

“...But they’re the ones getting besieged.” 

✄————————————————

The game has felt pretty cool so far, and you quite like this Kafka woman. You don’t recall her being part of the main cast your friend had rambled about however many months ago it was, but you hoped you’d get to see a lot more of her. 

Her design was really nice- though strangely familiar?- and her voice was pretty too! Silver Wolf was alright, but she hadn’t really caught your interest so far, so you werent sure what to make of her yet. 

They did seem to be close though, but less like friends and more like tired workmates who’d been stuck in the same dead end job for a decade- that is to say, it definitely felt like they were used to dealing with each other’s nonsense. 

Were they a ship? You could see it. Ah, another battle, sweet!

The combat system Star Rail used wasnt particularly innovative or anything, but it’s playstyle was strangely addictive- especially the Ult animations! Kafka’s especially had you nearly squealing with how badass it was. Did the MC have a cool one too? You could hardly wait to see. 

✄————————————————

The mood is light despite the circumstances, they both feel a sense of safety and confidence while the presence pulls them along, as though leading them in a dance. The Voidranger’s movements stand out like a pindrop in an empty room. Predictable, and delectably so. 

Silver Wolf barks out a short, quick laugh- a taunting thing that aggravates the musclehead stomping around in front of her- before decapitating the creature in a single, swift move.

“You took the bait, just like that?” Her jubilance is cut short by an attack from her blindspot, it isnt fatal- hell it barely counts as a battle wound- but its enough to flip her mood in the opposite direction. “Tch.”

Kafka laughs lightly at her, amused with her momentary lapse in spacial awareness. Silver Wolf scoffs and scowls lightly at her. Really, like she hadn’t gotten hit before? 

Just as she opens her mouth to hurl a barely-an-insult-but-im-still-annoyed-with-you comment towards the magenta haired woman next to her, Kafka’s aura shifts somewhat. Time seems to slow down for a second as Silver Wolf watches the woman’s pupils dilate in slow motion. 

Had she appeared like this? When that wave of energy had swelled within her?

She receives no answer to her unvoiced question, and instead hears Kafka’s voice ring through out her ears.

“That breathing sensation. Remember it.” Silver Wolf gulps in a breath of blood-scented air and breathes out a sickly, golden-sweet taste. As Kafka’s bullets rain down upon the bodies of their would-be-ambushers she can't help but feel pure ecstasy in the moment. Truly…if this was a drug she’d be hooked like a fish to water. 

Even just being near it is enough to cloud her mind.

“Alright, now that that’s over with…” Silver Wolf’s body relaxes significantly as Kafka speaks, the strength of whatever had possessed them slowing dripping out from their bodies like tree sap. She feels like she just got a massage. 

“I could get used to that.” She isn’t sure who she’s talking to, but it feels appropriate to voice. Kafka ignores her and spins her around to face the door, and Silver Wolf seems to go into auto pilot as she unlocks the control panel blocking their path, stepping lightly as her taller colleague gently pushes her forward without a word.

 The monitoring room is completley empty. Nothing but the quiet beeping of a few monitors and the rustling of swaying leaves, courtesy of the air conditioning unit humming softly above them. 

“Huh. not a single soul here. Impressive evacuation work. Did herta organise it herself?” Kafka seems mildly impressed- and entirely unaffected by the sensation Silver Wolf is still trying to shake from her skin. 

“According to the access history, she hasnt logged in her for over six months. The evacuation was directed by the acting lead researcher - a girl named Asta.” 

“Doesn’t ring a bell. Oh, right. Elio said we wouldn’t run into herta. It seems she really isnt here.” Though something else definitely was, but Silver Wolf supposed they weren’t going to be making any conversation on that topic.

She sighs, and scrolls through her holograms nonchalantly.

“Elio’s Script doesnt include any info about the location of the stellaron. Which means in the future he foresees…”

“... we would find the stellaron in a non-physical way?” Kafka crosses her arms, easily having picked up on her train of thought and already dipping her metaphorical toes into several different plans of action. She was always efficient like that. Silver Wolf strolls over to the water cooler and pours herself a cold cup. She gestures to Kafka who only shakes her head in response.

“This space station is packed with extraordinary objects, I wouldnt be surprised if theres one that can make it happen.” She takes a long sip, the cooling sensation bringing relief to her sweltering body. The combat efficiency was nice, but she was left feeling like an overheating graphics disk everytime it took control of her. She idles on a page in her hologram briefly before continuing on her scroll-fest.

“Hiding something extraordinary with something extraordinary… this is pretty Herta. I assume you know what to do? I mean, You’ve been reading that cataogue for a while?” Ah. Perseptive as ever, Kafka never changes. She ignores the heat building in her ears at the prospect of being caught slacking-off, and bins the styrofoam cup as she turns to the older woman.

“Hmph. I’ve got all the clues we need. The only piece missing is a simple trick- maybe this entity thats been stringing us along could lend a hand? After all, it doesnt have a physical form.” 

(You didn’t expect them to involve the player like this! What an awesome storytelling device, and it would hopefully grant a lot more player agency too! Hoyoverse had truly out done themselves this time. Feeling a surge of excitement at being learning you’ll be able to lend a helping hand ‘directly’, you decide that Silver Wolf is also really cool.)

Kafka says nothing in response, only staring down at Silver Wolf in consideration.

“Why dont we have it help us investigate the terminals around here, that item we’re looking for may be inside.” The magenta haired woman only sighs, internally cursing the girl’s lack of caution. Though… she couldnt deny that it had only been helping them so far. 

“Alright, lets give it the spotlight.” 

“Oh god, I hope I don’t fuck this up…” Kafka stills. The same voice from before. So it can speak? She tucks the information away in her mind for later.

She watches it guide her along the messily arranged desks and flickering monitors. Stopping at a memory storage cart- which is, of course, missing its memory. Not useful for her current objective, but it at least told her that whatever it was could see the same things she could.

“...I cant see the memory storage for this terminal.” Her body shifts slightly.

“This is the monitoring room, the must have deleted the records and made a run for it. Classic.” Silver Wolf is still scrolling through the holographic catalogue, idling against a desk in the middle of the room. She doesn’t look up, even as Kafka is strung along past her towards a monitor on the other side of the room. 

“You don’t seem to be very affected by it? Its control over you, I mean.”

“And you? You seemed a little weary earlier.”

“I wouldn’t say that. It’s just new, thats all.”

Kafka’s hand reaches out to flick through various active surveillance cameras, interesting but ultimately fruitless. 

“Hmmm… I can see the whole space station on the surveillance screen. But not the Stellaron.” Silver Wolf scoffs indignantly behind her, she almost sounds offended.

“Even if you could it’d be a trap. Herta doesn’t display her collections.” She turns to her hologram once more.

“This thing isnt very good with investigating, is it?”

Kafka expects some form of insulted rage to squeak in her mind’s ear, but she hears nothing. Though faintly she imagines a rather adorable ‘Hey! I’m trying my best!’ echoing in her skull.

Kafka staves off the sudden urge to get defensive in response and clamps her mouth shut.

Silver Wolf sighs at her lack of response and shifts onto her feet. 

“Make your way over here then. There’s no point in trying to search like this.”

“So? Got a master plan? I’m all ears.”

Kafka’s tone takes on a slightly irritated edge, for a reason she herself doesn’t quite understand. If Silver Wolf picked up on it, she chooses not to say anything and instead gestures to the warping static of the holographic screens lining the walls of the office.

“Its a matter of hacking the surveillance system directly.” She says matter-of-factly, smirking playfully as her iconic vandalism plasters itself onto every screen in sight. 

“Aha, I see. Herta’s collections aren’t in the system so anything unaffected should be our target.”

Their heads are guided to turn and face the back of a lone monitor by the main desk. Ah. that one then. As they both stroll over to investigate, Kafka feels a strange sense of pride bubble in the back of her mind. Not for Silver Wolf’s accomplishment- that much would be expected from the shorter girl- but for the entity curling along the edge of her mind. What exactly she was supposed to be proud of she couldnt tell, but the feeling was pleasant regardless.

Silver Wolf slips into a chair and slides forward to the desk, cracking her knuckles and wiggling her fingers as she readies herself for some data mining. 

“Crude, simple, but effective. Look, found it.” The computer’s cursor circles a line of code tauntingly. Kafka doesn’t understand what any of the values mean.

“Item number two-eleven, ‘Blind Spot’ : a simple light-deflecting field. It allows an object in its field to pass unnoticed, but if a different item ceases to be obvious, the object gets revealed.” 

She isn’t sure which set of numbers.. Or letters? That item is supposed be, but it does seem like a very… uncomplicated form of security for someone like Herta. 

“So, Herta the genius… hides her collection with something as simple as this?”

“the simplest method is the hardest to spot, isnt that our motto?” 

“Huh? How is that simple?” Kafka nearly chokes on her saliva while trying to hold back a bark of laughter and wonders why she’d kept her guard up for this thing. She follows Silver Wolf towards the glitching hole in the wall and sighs bemusedly. 

“The data suggests its just an ordinary hologram. But it has an added layer… “ Silver Wolf eyes the frayed edges of the hologram cautiously, despite the confidence in her voice.

“Lets take a look. Dont worry, this place wont be our grave.” The girl only puffs her cheeks and steps forward, ignoring Kafka’s words of comfort completely. Well, she’d expected that much at least.

As she follows behind, her vision melts into a stark change of scenery. 

The bright, ethereal glow of the Stellaron coating the walls of the closed off room in a golden-blue light. A strange combination, but one that was all too familiar; the everchanging strands of reality warping and stretching around itself, as the Stellaron sat patiently- sealed away- in the center of the room. Such an otherworldly treasure was exactly what all Stellaron hunters across the universe strove for. Though admittedly it was a mere front for their true purpose, a fact that Kafka was intimately aware of. 

Their true goal would see this stellaron- sealed away, courtesy of Herta- to another use. Once said seal was removed by Silver Wolf, all Kafka would need to do was take hold of it and place it inside that vessel. 

It had been laying in wait for this exact occasion…Kafka smiles fondly at the memory of it. Silver Wolf makes a small noise of surprise, catching her attention. She steps over towards the girl and the control panel, asking a question without speaking.

“It has its own security system… I guess even for herta, a Stellaron is no ordinary rarity.” Silver Wolf sounds genuinely surprised at this fact, though Kafka feels this was a rather likely outcome.

“Can you get it?”

“Of course, even the genius Herta cant compete with me when it comes to hacking.”

“Good. Then I’ll also count on you for the preparation of the receptacle.” Not to mention, she was quite sure this being wouldn’t be able to provide much help if Silver Wolf couldn’t figure it out herself. Speak of the devil, she feels the entity waft away like smoke in the wind and settle in the air around them as she lifts the Stellaron from its prison. She turns to her Silver haired companion and unspoken words flicker between their eyes.

This is Kafka’s decision.

Or perhaps it isn’t, she corrects herself over the distant sound of Silver Wolf’s voice.

 When it enters her body, it no longer feels like being puppeteered or controlled. 

She recalls that first feeling of possession, and the bleeding darkness making way for glowing golden edges of a burnt milky way. Her mind is dipped like an apple into the thick syruppy taste of synethesia. The amber eyes of the vessel- piercing into her soul and leaving her tongue sizzling in an almost addictive sort of pain- briefly flash open before collapsing to the floor in Kafka’s arms. 

The Stellaron has found its place. And something else entirely has made its home there too.

(What an amazing tutorial and intro! You get the feeling you’ll be playing this game for a very long while!)

[anianurst]

Dreams Do Come True

Summary: days go by, and Yuji's dreams stop. restless by your absence, Yuji decides to confide in his teacher

A/n: the final part of this mini-series :( im happy that it's received so much love <3 thank youuuuu

Warning(s): mentions of death, puke, mental breakdown, spoilers for jjk season two (episode 17)

It's quiet without you. Not a peaceful quiet but an unsettling one. One that fills your lungs and sits and you struggle to breathe. You hadn't appeared since Yuji was awakened from his last dream with you. Night after night, he goes to bed with bated breaths, hoping you'll appear and he can again relish in your devoted love.

But that doesn't happen. A day goes by, then another, and before he knows it, two weeks pass by with no appearance of you. It's noticeable to everyone that something has been irking Yuji. He smiled a little less and always responded with short answers.

The more noticeable change was the absence of the curse within him. Now that he thinks about it, Yuji doesn't remember Sukuna appearing or talking to him ever since you had appeared in his dreams. The king of curses had been quiet and seemingly lurking in the depths of his soul.

There was one moment that Yuji remembers (more like his body remembers). The moment that you had left with Uraume, he remembered a deep pull from the bottom of his soul. A rough tug that told him he needed to go to you now. The sharp pull then fizzled out as his body turned the opposite way.

"So, what's bothering you, Yuji?" Satoru asks, his bright blue eyes filled with curiosity hidden behind his trademark blindfold. Yuji jolts from the sudden question as he looks up from his phone. An unsure feeling fills his stomach before he sighs and confides in his teacher.

"There's this girl."

"Oh?" There's a teasing tone as Satoru smirks. Yuji's cheeks flare up as he quickly shakes his head.

"It's not how you think it is," he says. "I don't know her." Okay, now Yuji's just talking nonsense, Satoru thinks. "She started showing up in my dreams a while ago, but she hasn't appeared in a like long time."

"Oh?" Satoru says, and it's different this time. He's intrigued by Yuji's confession.

"It's like I know her, but I don't at the same time," Yuji adds. Satoru hums and runs a hand through his snow-like hair. A second passes before he snaps his fingers and makes finger guns at his student.

"You don't know her, but someone else does," Satoru concludes, and Yuji's eyebrows furrow. Why is his teacher always speaking in a metaphorical way? It isn't until Yuji feels something shift on his cheek. A single eye surfaces underneath the teen's left cheek and glares at the white-haired male, warning him not to dig any deeper.

23:14, Dogenzaka, In Front of Shibuya 109

Your lips are parted in awe as you stare at the crater of destruction before you. Even now, in modern times, Sukuna's destruction has always left you breathless, in awe of the beautiful chaos left behind.

A gust of wind comes from behind you, and you turn to look. 'He looks different,' you think, your eyes meeting four ruby-red ones that have always sent warmth through your body.

As he steps towards you, a smirk makes its way to Sukuna's face. A single hand (he has two arms instead of four. a fact that makes you question if you like this change) caresses your face, and you snuggle into the warmth of your lover's hand.

"Be sure to savor this, brat," is all Sukuna mutters as his red eyes give way to brown ones. His hand falls from your cheek, and Yuji's eyes are wide in horror.

He takes in your captivating form, smiling at him and the mass destruction behind you. His hands come up to clutch at his face as shaky breaths leave his lips. Memories of Sukuna's destruction fill his mind, and he falls to his knees.

A groan leaves him as he empties his stomach onto the ground before him. Tears start falling from his eyes as he screams his lungs out. Chants of 'die' and 'only me' fill the air as you continue smiling at him.

His cries die down in volume while you kneel down, your traditional, thin kimono becoming stained with his puke. Your welcoming arms wrap around his shoulders as you pull his figure into yours, your neck becoming damp with his tears.

"Welcome home, my love."

taglist: @aish777 @chuuberrysworld @reigenation @shegetsburned @destroyer-of-za-warudo @darkcowboypirate @cunisna @reverrieee @hotpossumjam @nnasv @sunshinesetsstuff @smolgojo

[suigetsusunny]

Temporary Whispers Of The Heart ⊹₊⟡⋆ | Sosuke Aizen X Reader

Chapter 1; Prologue | Haunted

ꜱᴏᴜꜱᴜᴋᴇ ᴀɪᴢᴇɴ x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ ; ᴀ ʙʟᴇᴀᴄʜ ꜰᴀɴꜰɪᴄᴛɪᴏɴ

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆

Aizen Sousuke, the enigma of a being has been rashly released from his prison sentence to allow for the Soul Society to repair damages resulting from Yhwach's terror.

Your previous comrade and now sworn enemy is required to join forces with you in order to aid the Soul Society in its new branches into the Human world as his power is now once again weaponised by them for support.

Every moment you spend with your old 'friend' feels more torturous than having each of your limbs slowly cut off with a chainsaw, the past often creeping up on you the more you were forced to interact with him not helping in the slightest.

Can you work through your difficulties together for the sake of the Soul Society as you both once did?

1.

PROLOGUE | HAUNTED

Shihōin; Y/N.

Half-human, Half-Shinigami. Illegitimate child of the Shihōin family, half-sister of Yoruichi, cast away at youth from the her family due to her illegitimacy. It wasn't a large bother, however, as she was picked up quickly by Unohana and raised under her wing.

A long time ago, she worked tirelessly as a novice soul reaper, moving from city to city in the human world to settle disorder and misconduct, receiving high praise and offers in return.

A sufficient candidate as deemed by Shunsui and Unohana back then, a well fit as pertaining to her Shihōin heritage and uptight personality. She was therefore appointed Lieutenant of Division 2 for this reason after Yoruichi's banishment, the Soul Society desperately requiring assistance in the dire period of sudden Hollowfication. Yamamoto required as much force as he could gather from anyone, and another hailing from the Shihōin family yet out of contact with her sister, she was deemed a sufficient replacement in this dire time.

Graceful and elegant, a sweet child whom did only her best to protect her honour and the dignity of the Soul Society.

Y/N held onto the quintessential value of camaraderie between her peers, ensuring to thoroughly understand and be by the side of each Captain, regardless of how miniscule she felt under them as compared to their astounding skill.

She formed a strong bond with a particular individual back in the day. A genuine individual such as herself, trusting and diligent. Fit like a pair of mahjong eyes, he would joke as they enjoyed a cup of tea with one another.

 ˖   ✦ ‧₊˚ ⋅

Pre - fake Aizen death; Soul Society arc.

...

"The moon's gaze feels like a blessing tonight."

Aizen's soft hazel locks glistened almost hauntingly in the moonlight with their beauty, the glow present on his body being simply enchanting. You glanced towards the living beauty lying on the floorboards beside you as he spoke, his incomprehensible poems and metaphors once more befuddling you.

"Yes, it is quite bright tonight." You returned his reverent smile, enjoying the soft moment of silence.

"Do you know why I called you here tonight, Y/N?"

You turned to look at him as he spoke, shrugging as you laid back onto the oak porch of Aizen's quarters before returning to staring out into the night sky. You felt a timid blush creeping up to your cheeks and a buzz in your chest as you pondered why he did.

"No... I presumed it was just for some company. Or a drinking partner."

Your heart rate went erratic as he chuckled back and turned from the stars to face you, tilting his head to the side ever so slightly. The chestnut floorboards creaked as he leaned his elbow onto them, propping his head up to rest on the back of his hand. Oh, he was truly moonkissed.

You felt a sliver of hope arise in your heart as it pounded irrationally with the way he graced you with just his gaze. Butterflies rashly gnawed at the enclosure of your chest, it felt as if they would explode out of your stomach at any given moment. You silently prayed he would say the words you were yearning for him to say.

"... There's been a lot of unresolved disorder in the Soul Society, hasn't there."

You tilted your head, perplexed at his abrupt statement, yet you still nodded to signal your focused attention. Aizen leaned backwards once again, gazing into the constellations as he spoke.

"Hollowfication... The sudden betrayal of Urahara and Yoruichi... Even the current weak intruders that are somehow getting through the Soul Society's defenses... You don't think it's lamentable that events of such insignificance have been causing the Soul Society so much loss?"

No words came out of your mouth, you served only as a silent observer to his choice of topic. You slowly rose and sat up to pay further heed to what he was saying.

"It is an upsetting time for all of us, I think." You softly reassured, unsure at what he was getting at.

Aizen sat up alongside you, shifting his body a bit closer to yours. His once comforting scent and warmth made you slightly uncomfortable as he extended an arm around your back, holding your arm in his extended hand and tenderly caressing it with his thumb. Goosebumps erected on the skin underneath your shihakushō where he so carefully touched.

"Don't you agree that it's clear that the Soul King is too weak to reign this world any longer?" 

You paused, the familiar sparkle in his eyes fading the longer you stared into them.

"What are you suggesting, Mr. Aizen."

He sighed, briefly looking downwards before letting out a soft chuckle. "I will change this world, bit by bit if I must. It's clearly necessary, the balance of power in this world is catastrophic. There needs to be some sort of order... I'm sure you can understand out of all people, Y/N."

Your mouth gaped, pure repulsion flowing through your veins as his once compassionate gaze was replaced with unrecognisable animosity. So cruel it could be comparable to a bestial hollow.

"You... All of this was really you?"

You attempted to shuffle your arm gently out of his grip, backing away steadily as you tried to retain your composure.

"Mr. Aizen. You know this cannot fix anything. There is no solution or outcome that could ever result from this that would provide any sort of positive outcome for this world. You know this." You state, firmly rebutting his argument.

Aizen grunted, tsking as he sighed exasperatedly.

"You cannot compare your intelligence to my own, Y/N.

I'm sure you're well aware."

His cunning eyes shot you a vexatious glance as he scoffed at your attempt to reason with him.

"There has to be some sort of catalyst for change... a leader. I despise obeying this pitiful, weak Soul King like some sort of lifeless being and I refuse to do so any longer. I will see change and become its leader. I shall become a God if it's what it takes to change this world."

You scowled at him, the words coming out of his mouth stabbing you like daggers.

"Do not dare to harm the Soul King. Your desire to become a God is simply only for your own good and selfishness. Return to the society and repent or..."

The way his profoundly alluring, sepia irises shone in the moonlight captivated your senses, causing you to stammer and stall your defense. Even knowing the severe power imbalance between the two of you, you still swiftly freed yourself from his grip and stood up to unsheathe your Zanpakutō, the edge pointed directly at his Adam's apple.

"I will have to halt you myself."

Aizen's leer and sly grin mocked you, belittling you as he rose alongside you. His change in demeanour stumped you, the way his mischievous eyes taunted you in the luminescence of the pale moon truly petrifying you. A benign chuckle emitted from his hexing lips as he walked towards you, backing you into his room. The loud clacks of your waraji sandals gradually replaced with soft tufts as the flooring changed from oak floorboards to the tatami of his room whilst you retreated  as far as you could from him.

"You can't stop me. I'm simply asking you to come with me. I want you to join me, Y/N...

You're perfect for my alliance."

Aizen's illusion faded, revealing another ominously standing in the corner, next to his futon. Your eyes darted sporadically around the room as several Aizen's emerged from the darkness surrounding you, causing you to hurriedly stumble away from him until your back slammed against the shoji wall.

You started to grasp the true nature of his plan and his request for you to join him.

Of course...

You were half human, half soul reaper after all. A rare case... a perfect little experiment for his hollowfication plan.

"How dare you threaten to use me like you've used all these innocent souls. I refuse. Return and repent, Mr. Aizen. Please. Should you turn yourself in now Council 46 may lower your punishment."

Your merciful plea had a limited effect on Aizen, the illusions in the room finally fading to reveal his true self.

"That is not what-"

You felt peril creeping up on you as he approached you, and you returned your Zanpakutō to the same cultivated pose as before. You threatened to dig it deeper into his neck, as a trickle of blood slid down it as a result from your increased proximity.

"Repent, Mr. Aizen!"

"No. You do not understand-"

Before he could restrain you once more, you briskly moved aside, hardly escaping his grip. You knew you didn't stand a chance.

You didn't think as your fingers latched onto the shoji door, violently sliding it open as you barely managed to escape his room. The sound of your sandals clacking against wooden porch echoed throughout Aizen's quarter and you tossed them aside, ridding yourself of any noise to conceal your location better.

I am far too weak to battle him myself. I have to tell them. Shunsui. Unohana. Sister...

Flashes of your traitor sister somehow always managed to poison your mind whenever you were in jeopardy and were in dire need of a hand. Your aching heart as a result of this was not helping your ability to quickly retreat and fix the situation. Your legs moved on their own, leaping over obstacles as you hastily made your way to the other Captain's quarters. You huffed spasmodically as your lungs begged for air from the intense speed you were travelling at.

You glanced behind you, the lack of Aizen in your sight relieving you. You prevented yourself from faltering as you kept your eyes focused on the target ahead of you, releasing your kido technique to jump higher over other living quarters and move faster.

So close... Your mind motivated you as you could perceive Shunsui's quarters in your sight.

So close...

Yet so far.

A familiar gait advanced rapidly behind you, yet you kept running. You refused to stop until you reached Shunsui's deck.

Unfortunately, a hand clasped around your wrist rashly, the grip so hard it felt as if it could burn through your skin.

The sly fox had outrun the feeble rabbit.

You were yanked backwards, a hard surface that once gave you comfort sending chills down your spine as your back collided with his chest.

An arm secured around your waist and another slithered over your mouth to halt your shrieks as Aizen took hold of you. He muttered an order to Tousen under his breath and before you knew it, you were transported into an unfamiliar room.

You cursed yourself for being so weak, you could not even heed a warning before he had caught up to you. You continued to struggle before you felt intense reiatsu suppress you, until you were immobilised and forced onto your knees.

Your begs for mercy and curses were silenced from a talisman being harshly sealed around your mouth with Aizen's rough hands, following with reiatsu cuffs sealed around your wrists.

"I knew you were too dense to comprehend this." Aizen huffed, shaking his head as he gave an order to Tousen to open an exit.

"I gave you your chance. Your ungrateful response will cause you to now suffer, as I cannot have you ruin my plans due to your own idiocracy."

You muffled curses and swore to become stronger underneath the talisman, before its effects started to cause your head to spin. Hearing you, Aizen whipped around to face you, his haori flowing slowly along him as he kneeled down on one knee to bring your chin up with his index and thumb.

"Oh? I look forward to the day you prove it to me then, Y/N."

The last thing you perceived was the curled side of his mouth as he gave you a cunning grin, before your eyes lolled back and your head slammed onto the floor, fainting. You were only to be found unconscious Council 46's court room and released days later by Hitsugaya after discovering the murder of the 46 by Aizen.

˖  ✦ ‧₊˚ ⋅

...

You thought you would never see that man again after his banishment into the Muken, let alone set free out and about. Yet here he was. Aizen Sosuke, standing right in front of you.

A minute silence ensued as you paused in your tracks on the way to your new workplace - the newly appointed firm building in Karakura for the Soul Society. An illusion? A prank by Mayuri? Not a funny one to say the least.

"Will you keep staring at me like that or will you actually address my existence?" Aizen chuckled cordially at your dumbfounded expression.

You wasted no time in flipping out your Soul pager from your pocket as you rang Shunsui with great speed. Squeezing the flip phone by pressing it between your shoulder and your ear, you used both hands to lock Aizen's hands behind his back and suppress him with your own reiatsu. You looked down at his wrists overlapped firmly from your hands, bewildered that he could still even stand from the thick reiatsu cuffs on him and your own suppressing him.

"What an impolite way to greet a former comrade..." He muttered as his face was mercilessly slammed against the side of the building.

You scoffed and the line finally picked up, allowing you to finally release your agitation. "Shunsui sir, care to explain why special threat Aizen Sosuke is roaming the Human world without a care in the world?" You barked into the phone, rage filling your veins.

,,Ah, Y/N! A hello would be nice... Oh! That... right. I forgot to tell you. Um, don't be too upset but...

I've had to appoint him as your assistant.''

Your eyes widened larger than saucers.

,,I'll explain more when I arrive-''

"Is this a joke? This isn't amusing. Explain to me right now, what on earth you were thinking?! First you set him free whilst Yhwach is terrorising everyone, and now this? What is wrong with you, you egotistical, idiotic, stupid excuse of a Captain! I deplore you-"

The line abruptly cut, Aizen's suppressed chuckles slightly setting free as he snickered at Shunsui hanging up on you. You slammed his jaw once again into the concrete wall to silence him in response.

"Do not speak until he gets here or I will mash your jaw into this wall so hard you will never speak another nonsensical word out of your ugly mouth ever again."

He seemed to finally comply, and you let out an exhale of relief.

˖ ✦ ‧₊˚ ⋅

What a fool of a God.

To assign Aizen as assistant chief executive officer of the Karakura office? Shunsui must be out of his head. Truly.

Aizen's reign knows no end, unfortunately.

And neither does his gaze.

...

"You are making a fool out of me, Shunsui."

A dark gaze perpetuated contact with yours as you felt yourself being figuratively cut from the sharpness of his irises. Aizen being your colleague once again. After what, years upon years?

A joke, really. Unfortunately not one you were willing to entertain.

Shunsui, that cunning man. You damned his ideas of releasing Aizen from the Muken and allowing him to bloom once again previously as well. It was truly a pain that his immense power was unfortunately required and weaponised by the Soul Society.

In the human world with guards and intense reiatsu cuffs, he knew better than to attempt to do any harm. Therefore, his removal from the Soul Society allowed it to properly repair the irrevocable damage and harm done without having him wander around it, free to take the reins of its horse once again. Yhwach’s mass destruction had resulted in Aizen's home, the Muken, being destroyed after all.

Or now once again, Mr. Aizen.

The raven haired man grunted, exasperatedly yet solemnly itching his beard as he exhaled in frustration.

"Come on, Y/N. You know how short staffed we are right now, and after Yhwach's terror, you know that we need him."

Need.

You tsked at Shunsui's poor attempt at convincing you. "Short staffed? Goodness, I wonder where I've heard that before." You shot an unforgiving glance to one of the causes of the Society's reduction in force, his nonchalant attitude causing flames of detestation to ignite in your blood. The Captain sighed once again, advancing towards you and giving you a sincere glance.

"… You used to be such a sweet little girl."

Those words left a wound in your heart as he serenely strutted past you, placing a courteous pat on your back as he left you two alone.

"This is necessary. I hope you understand."

Where have I heard that before, I wonder.

The click of the office door sliding shut served as a reminder to the both of you that you were lamentably forced together, alone. You turned to glare into the eyes that were almost burning holes into the side of your face with the way they were fixated on you.

Aizen's grin only widened in response, causing yours to further deplete.

"My, I can almost feel myself bleeding at your gaze. Aren't we supposed to be familiars now?" He jests amicably, causing you to wince at his poor attempt of humour.

Aizen's deep, brooding sepia eyes seemed to refuse to hook off of you, your mind cursing Shunsui and his entire blood line for this unfortunate reunion. He propped a leg up onto his other, leaning back in his new desk chair and admiring the golden plate atop his desk that read out the characters of his name.

You tucked your arms into each other as you held them against your chest, giving an intense yet unimpressed gaze as you leaned your hip back into the wall of his new office.

"You're not here for long, don't get ahead of yourself."

What a pathetic, naïve man for thinking he could once again fool you.

Another snap of silence was abruptly broken by his upfront attitude.

"I noticed you did not bestow your presence upon me in the disputes of Karakura. Why was that?"

His sharp and stern tone stunned you as a stark difference from his previous complacency, and you felt humiliated to say the truth.

"... I was advised not to after you took hold of Orihime."

Aizen raised an eyebrow as you blatantly lied through your teeth. You were fervently opposed to admitting you were still too weak and had trained with Squad 0 rigorously to even try to match up to your previous pitiful altercation. He truly had no idea the amount of guilt you held for not being able to defeat him that night, and prevent all of his catastrophe from occurring.

"I see. I was looking forward to seeing how you had improved." He stated, softly grazing his fingers over the engraving of the shimmering nameplate. You only scoffed in response, chuckling at his remark as you looked away.

"I already gave you your chance to battle me back then, I guess."

He exhaled in exasperation at the strong grip you clearly still held onto your previous experiences. "It seems you're still latching onto the past, Y/N. I wonder what benefits you receive from such... obsession." Aizen persuaded, eyes locked onto yours regardless if you decided to return his gaze once again.

"Do not feel you have a right to speak on what part of my past affects me. You are simply a temporary employee and I intend to retain only a collegiate work relationship with you. Do not expect anything further as the only reason I am doing this is for the Soul Society's sake." You paused to inhale, muttering under your breath as you followed with a deep exhale.

"Clearly not something you are familiar with."

He stared up at you, unimpressed by your lecture and returning to a complacent manner once again. It bothered you greatly that you could not tell what he was thinking at all.

"Shall we get tea, Miss Shihoin?"

You sneered at his pitiful attempt to switch the topic to something lighter.

"Over my deceased, decaying body, Mr. Aizen." You gently remarked back, giving a slight grin in response to his imprudent question. Aizen's eyes depicted an oddly different expression this time in response to the nostalgic address you used with him.

Before he could bombard you any longer with that torturous voice of his, you left the room swiftly and without a word. You severely doubted you could take the slap in the face you felt hearing his voice after so long any longer. Yet you still decided to suck it up, refusing to let this tarnish your dignity and poise. You had to repeat a mantra in your head to prevent yourself from completely losing yourself.

This is only temporary.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.

happy reading ! let me know your thoughts

sumi <3

[cedarxwing]

Faust allusions in Hannibal

"I believe that Hannibal Lecter is as close as you can come to the devil, to Satan. He's the fallen angel. His motives are not banal reasons, like childhood abuse or junkie parents. It's in his genes. He finds life is most beautiful on the threshold to death, and that is something that is much closer to the fallen angel than it is to a psychopath." - Mads Mikkelsen on Hannibal as the Devil

I'm not a Faust expert or anything, but I've been balls deep in Wikipedia for the last week and here are my findings:

Super Short Summary of Faust:

Faust is an old scholar dissatisfied with life. One day Mephistopheles (the Devil) shows up and offers him a deal including unlimited knowledge and worldly pleasures. The particulars of the deal vary by version:

Original Faustbuch: Mephisto offers 24 years of service, and then Faust must serve him forever in hell.

Goethe: Mephisto will serve Faust until he experiences a moment of perfect satisfaction, after which he'll be dragged to hell. (Mephisto also makes a secondary bet with God that he can tempt Faust away from righteousness and into damnation.)

Gounod's opera: Mephisto turns Faust young again and wins him the beautiful Marguerite's heart. He also offers knowledge and power, but the story is more about Marguerite.

In most versions, Faust is damned to Hell at the end. In Goethe's version, Faust finds his moment of perfect satisfaction, but Mephisto doesn't succeed in tempting Faust into sin, so Faust ends up going to Heaven.

Explicit References

I won't list all the times the script refers to Hannibal as the Devil, but they're fun to look for. :)

The first explicit reference to Faust is in Sorbet (1x07), when Gounod's Le veau d'or plays while Hannibal gathers meat for his dinner party. This aria is Mephisto's manifesto on human nature:

"The calf of gold is the victor over the gods! In its derisory (absurde) glory, The abject monster insults heaven! It contemplates, oh weird frenzy! At his feet the human race, Hurling itself about, iron in hand, In blood and in the mire, Where gleams the burning metal, And satan leads the dance"

People are slaves to greed and easily tempted away from their morals--a nice description of Hannibal's perspective on humanity and his favorite pastime. I also like the implication that the rude people in his Rolodex are damned souls that he's come to reap.

This is a quote from Hannibal Rising when Hannibal watches Faust at the Opera Garnier with Lady Murasaki and the Paris Police Commissioner (which, wow, this chapter is practically Phantom of the Opera fanfiction). It's funny, because at that point in the novel, Hannibal is more Faust than Mephisto, so he's contemptuous of himself. Later, once he's undergone some, ahem, character development, the book quotes Goethe:

"I'd yield myself to the Devil instantly, Did it not happen that myself am he!"

This is probably the origin of the "Hannibal is the Devil" interpretation.

Also, I just want to point out that it's not particularly unique to be contemptuous of Gounod's Faust. He's a skeevy old man who fucks up his own life and everyone else's out of boredom, which is very human and relatable, but not very likable! We're all Fausts who are contemptuous of Faust, just like we're all rooting for Hannibal and contemptuous of Chilton.

Another quote from Goethe. Faust says this line while complaining that he has to choose between a simple/familiar/earthly life and a life unbound by earthly limitations (x). The double meaning of this line perfectly sums up Dolarhyde's predicament. He gave up a normal life to experience something otherworldly, and now he's fighting against the Red Dragon to save Reba.

This line also summarizes the temptation Hannibal dangles in front of Will. "Don't you crave change, Will?" A moment of perfect satisfaction, after which his soul will forever belong to Hannibal. This moment comes to pass when they kill Dolarhyde and go off the cliff, a metaphorical fall from Heaven (better explained here: x).

Not to get too lost in the weeds, but I would argue that killing Dolarhyde wasn't really a sin (maybe it was a sin to let those prison guards die, but killing Dolarhyde was self-defense and he was a serial killer for Pete's sake), so Hannibal lost his bet with God (Jack), and Will (Faust) is going to heaven after all, just like in Goethe's version. Maybe this idea would've been explored in Season 4, who knows.

Faustian Bargains

Once you strike a bargain with Hannibal, your soul belongs to him, and he can collect it at any time. The whole show is a series of people falling for this trap (except for Will, to Hannibal's never-ending frustration).

Some characters go to Hannibal seeking "otherworldly knowledge" while others are motivated by material greed. Gideon wants to know the Ripper and pays the price. Chilton and Sutcliffe commiserate with Hannibal in their medical malpractice and are punished accordingly. In Digestivo, Alana/Margot accept Hannibal's offer to take the fall for Mason's murder (and also get Mason's sperm) so they can inherit the Verger fortune.

The Faustian bargain motif is most apparent in Season 3, when Hannibal starts making characters explicitly ask for his help:

And, of course, the bargain Hannibal waited three seasons to strike:

Bedelia is the purest manifestation of this. She makes not one but two deals with Hannibal. The first was to help her get away with murder. The second was to take her "behind the veil" in Florence, where she acquires otherworldly knowledge and experiences. This is framed as "lucid greed" on her part, and maybe not just greed for knowledge, depending on how much she made off her lectures about being Lydia Fell! Hannibal spends Season 3a trying to get her to "participate" and makes some headway before his plans are derailed. She gets her come-uppance in the post-credits scene.

Finally, the most heartbreaking deal Hannibal makes:

Abigail's soul belongs to Hannibal as soon as she accepts this offer. In Mizumono, she willingly goes to her fate. :(

(Again, I'm not an expert, so if I got anything wrong please correct me!!)

[fandomsandfeminism]

I think a lot of my complaints about Oppenheimer might boil down to- "it's a movie about Oppenheimer, not Los Alamos, and I kinda just wanted a movie about Los Alamos."

But also, which things get call backs later in the film and which things don't, and whether or not the call backs make sense? Doesn't? Really? Track? (Granted, I just saw the film, so maybe it needs to marinate more.)

But like, we spend a whole scene establishing that Oppie knows that New Mexico thunderstorms break before dawn....so that when it's raining in the Trinity test, we're like "oh! But he knows about the rain." ....which...ok? Sure.

But at the beginning of the film, we get a whole sequence where he tries to kill a teacher with a poisoned apple, realizes that was fucked up, and is able to stop it from harming anyone. Rather than like...connecting this to how he creates the bomb, realizes the damage it will do, but is UNABLE to stop it- the only call back is...he tells Jean about it and she tells him that he needed to get laid?

And speaking of Jean. Oh Jean. Jesus, Nolan needs some therapy about women. But like... the fact that Oppie reads the "I am become death" line *while having sex with Jean*- why? Why is the movie trying to connect that moment to the Trinity Test. It FEELS like it could be a metaphor. At the Trinity Test, its all about the duality of accomplishment and dread- of success and impending doom. But why are we connecting that to him sleeping with Jean the first time? If she played a larger role in the movie or in his eventual "downfall", it might make for a metaphor. But....it doesn't? So why, except to have another scene with topless Florence Pugh? (Which, hey, I get it.)

Nolan, if you are going to create a mental connection between fucking a beautiful unstable communist woman and the *Trinity Test*, at least have it mean something, my dude. Otherwise it just feels like a "heeeeey, I understood that reference" moment.

[thelunarfairy]

A long analysis about the Yugi twins

How should I start? Maybe in a more objective way, or perhaps with a "once upon a time"

No? haha I imagined.

How could I start with "once upon a time" when there is no fairy tale in this story? Maybe it's more like the Grimm brothers' tales.

The story of two twin brothers that culminated in a mysterious family tragedy, how should we tell this story?

How about we start with brotherly love?

Oh yes, that's a good start.

The melancholic, brotherly love of the Yugi twins. Ah… the love of identical twins, more intense than the love of ordinary brothers, there is a connection, a bond, being born together and sharing the best and worst moments of life, discovering the world little by little, each in their own way . .

Their love transcends and surpasses death.

A beautiful story, isn't it?

But why do most beautiful stories tend to be so sad? A 4-year-old child who gives up his own life because his older twin brother will no longer be by his side in the future.

A younger brother who feels rejected, unloved and who strives to his own limits to win the love of his older brother, come on, see him fill his room with toys, books about stars, what else Amane likes ?

He wanted to do something for him, to give Amane a kind of genuine happiness, even with such simple and small gestures. For a four-year-old boy, giving someone his favorite things would make him happy, wouldn't it?

He gave everything to Amane, including the health he wanted so much.

And in exchange for that, he gained solitude.

The first shock was born here, the disappearance, the despair, the sadness, the melancholy. How many times can you imagine little Amane leaning against the window looking up at the sky, hoping and wishing that his brother would miraculously appear to him?

Amane's desire that brought his own pain.

How did he react to Tsukasa's return? Did he cry with happiness? Did he pretend he was strong enough to not let the tears fall in front of him?

Are you listening? Yes, the sound of silence, we still don't have an answer.

There is the first great brotherly love here, a younger brother who fears the death of the older one, who did everything to make his days happier, who found a way to save his brother… And the firstborn, the one who just wanted to be healthy like his twin, he suffered the sudden and inexplicable absence of the youngest.

What were the consequences of this? Insecurity? Lack? possessiveness? Want to be in control? Did Tsukasa's disappearance change Amane?

What has changed at Amane?

What kind of love did he feel after Tsukasa's return? What happened in the interim between childhood and pre-adolescence that culminated in such a tragic end?

All we have are symbols, metaphors, flashbacks. The flowers that surround them in moments of tension or reunion, the camellias, which represent love itself.

We could list its colors, but only one interests us, red. The color that reflects on Hanako's clothes, which represents him as a whole. The red camellia, the one that represents love, passion…. Passion?

They appear between Hanako and Tsukasa, in the same intensity as they appear between Hanako and Nene.

What do they have in common?

Love… but what kind of love?

The human being is a handmade work, as complex as all the stars that mysteriously float in a dark immensity. How many ways could a human being love?

The flowers represent passionate love, romantic love, the love that Amane feels for Nene, but then, why do they appear to Tsukasa? Why is Tsukasa sometimes represented by Sakura flowers, those that show femininity and fragility?

How would Tsukasa fit in here? Freud could help us with this, he, with all his wisdom and experience, showed us a new concept of unacceptable love, the tragedy of Oedipus, the boy who, as a child, had loving and hostile desires towards his mother.

The boy who would kill his father and marry his own mother. Oh, another tragic story involving forbidden love, sound familiar?

What kind of love did Amane sow and allow to grow? What was Tsukasa to him? And what does Amane represent to Tsukasa?

"Oedipus complex: The Oedipus Complex is a phenomenon described by psychoanalyst Freud to designate a time in child development in which the child develops loving feelings for the parent or family member."

I could spend hours explaining the concept, but I believe you already understand perfectly where I'm going. We are on the fine line between brotherly love and romantic love, what separates them in the case of twins?

That's the right question.

At what point was Amane's love sown? There are no answers, just clues. The suggestive touches, the strangely romantic and sometimes ambiguous displays of affection, the light touch on the older brother's lips

A warm hug enveloping him between his legs.

An almost reunion kiss

The older brother on top of the younger one, while he places one of his hands on Amane's arm and gently touches his lips with the other, as if waiting for him to come closer.

Amane's squinty eyes looking shyly at the camera "there's someone watching us"

What would you understand if I used a random couple's name during these times? Isn't this an intimate and intense moment between a couple?

We could perfectly confuse the type of love that exists between them… romantic love, brotherly love… love… obsessive…

Ah… one of the evils of the world, obsessive love, a complete and dangerously alarming package. It is a love that transforms people, making them obsessed, controlling, selfish, inconsequential, disrespectful, jealous, and invasive (with unfounded distrust and suspicion).

I'll ask once again, does it remind you of anyone?

Can you see in those golden eyes a love that shines through your whole healthy way of being? No? This does not exist in the universe that hovers in Amane's head and heart.

What is his is HIS. There is no second option, there is no other alternative, it is his, it is for him, it is all related only to him. Nene is his, Tsukasa too. And if both of them are about to get out of his control, he traps them, like birds that have just lost their wings.

It's a selfish love… It's a jealousy so painful that he cries to the point of almost getting sick. The terror of loss, he hates losing. How did Hanako shock people by crying inconsolably after her little brother kissed the girl he likes?

Would he cry the same way if it was someone else who had kissed Nene? Would he have cried like that if Akane had kissed Nene on the day of the elevator?

Hmm….it's not just about her….

Why did Hanako start showing more love for Tsukasa when he kissed her? Hanako found the two of them falling to the bottom of the abyss of number one's boundary, and he went to Tsukasa.

He wasn't looking at Nene, he wasn't talking to her, he was talking to Tsukasa. He looked him in the eyes without trembling, without hesitating, without yelling

He placed him between his arms and later wrapped them between his neck. He saved them both equally.

And even though he showed irritation, he denied being angry, was he just jealous of Nene? If he was jealous, if he was suspicious, why would he throw Nene to Tsukasa? Why would he scream his name with so much concern?

Why was he so embarrassed when Tsukasa found out that he wants to do perverted things? Embarrassed to the point of turning red all over, including his hands, embarrassed to the point of almost crying, can we see a tear falling here?

Yes, he was more embarrassed here than when Nene kissed him on the cheek….

The chaotic energy that emanates from these two, uncontrollable, one is calm and the other is storm, the Yin and Yang, the sun and the moon. Come, allow me to show you Tsukasa once again being represented in a feminine way, when he becomes the moon of Amane.

Yes, the moon, the one that represents yin, femininity, the opposite of the sun, the masculine, virility, masculinity. Ah, the moon, the one that Amane loves, the one that Amane dreams of finding every day, touching it, making it his own.

Why would Tsukasa be her representation?

Many say that it's because Tsukasa is Amane's treasure, the one who made him give up on his own dreams, the moon is Amane's unattainable hope of freeing himself from the ropes, the ties that don't allow him to float so far.

The moon is the light in the middle of the darkness that he seeks so much.

Who is Amane looking for so much?

Tsukasa?

It's convenient that he's the moon, she represents the unattainable, the love of an older brother that can't be completely true because he knows it's an equally… unattainable love…

The love locked away in the chest, the love that made Tsukasa become a prisoner. Amane loves him, but he can't express it, he can't admit it, he can't be honest, but he doesn't want to let him go, he doesn't want to let him go again, Tsukasa's love is his.

He trapped Tsukasa himself in a cage that has no doors… But can Tsukasa create a passage?

On the other hand, we see the youngest, the boy who shows his emotions without regret, without being ashamed, he just loves, Tsukasa is a simple boy.

But he loves it too much. Permissive and loyal love, let Amane decide, let Amane tell me. I sacrificed myself for him, but it wasn't enough, I want to understand him.

Why? Do you want to fix things? Want to do better?

The silence echoing everywhere denounces this boy's motivations, the permissive love, so altruistic to the point that he still misses the brother who would kill him in the future, perhaps Tsukasa could even justify Amane's reasons for killing him.

It's a strong love, but it's not unconditional.

Amane tied Tsukasa to him, the boy didn't have the opportunity to truly die. He has lived in eternal purgatory since he was four years old, and from the beginning it was always for him, it was always for Amane…

Tsukasa befriended death, and made it a great friend.

He never had a "rest in peace" it was always a "see you soon". He didn't go anywhere, he remained in purgatory alone for years on end

And when he returned to live next to his much-loved older brother, he deluded himself into believing he had achieved freedom, when in fact he was thrown straight into limbo. .

He was lonelier than before.

Limbo only had memories, darkness and silence… The walls revealed his presence, the hands marked with a certain constancy, with a certain insistence, were marks that Tsukasa left before finding a way out.

The only thing that could be heard was Tsukasa's voice echoing between the walls

"Amane" - he called on Hanako's boundary.

The walls were discreet, Amane didn't hear him

No one listened to Tsukasa.

It will be?

"I'm not going anywhere" - said Amane, forgetting to complete his own sentence - "Neither is Tsukasa."

Tsukasa's loneliness screams intensely but no one hears, no one sees… No one listens to Tsukasa

But no one listens to Amane either… equally lonely, sitting on top of an old toilet while waiting to be called by someone, while waiting to be heard again.

He can break free, Tsukasa can't.

Ah, obsessive love…. it has those things. Amane feels remorse for everything, but his mouth stops, it shakes to the point where he can't speak, he may lose his tongue but he won't ask for forgiveness.

It will be? Ah, my mistake, he will, at the right time.

Love is slowly awakening… Amane had locked him away together with Tsukasa, but now that he is free, love is blooming again…

Hanako had abandoned a love that he couldn't deal with, but that was embedded in his chest, there is nothing he could do that could get that love out of there, it was just dormant…

He was?

Or has Amane been suffocating him all these years?

A tiring love… for both of them… so the Yugi twins' great dilemma was born, to stay or not to stay?

Tsukasa didn't leave because he was selfish, he went to give Amane everything he wanted, he exchanged his own life for his. We can imagine little Amane's pain when he no longer finds his little brother anywhere, even searching among his favorite toys, even calling him over and over again.

Tsukasa didn't respond.

When he returned home, something awakened in Amane, the intense and dark fear of losing, how could he deal with it? His naivety was broken at the age of four when he suddenly lost the one he loved… but, that person came back…

He won't let him go anymore.

Tsukasa wants to go, he wants to give Amane wings to make his dreams come true, but Amane chose to cut them off, he doesn't want to fly anymore, he wants to stay next to the person he loves.

The dilemma that culminated in a tragedy

We could paraphrase Shakespeare, when the famous tragedy born of his genius thoughts told us "to be or not to be, that is the question" to suit the Yugi twins, we would say

"To stay or not to stay, that is the question"

Tsukasa was often stabbed by Amane's silence, the intense attempts to make Amane talk about how he felt, made Tsukasa tired, he wanted to hear, he wanted to see…

It was a tiring love….

What did Tsukasa become when he allowed his chest to fill with the purest supernatural darkness? What did he become when he went there? And who was he when he returned?

Was Amane's love able to overcome the inevitable loss of his four-year-old brother? Tsukasa who returned was not the same, the old Tsukasa died. What kind of relationship did they have when Tsukasa became an otherworldly being?

He who carries death with him.

When Amane allowed Hanako to be born, was he still Amane?

Yeah, he's back, can you hear it? The silence of a non-existent answer.

Supernaturals are not human, and do not relate as such.

To repeat, supernaturals are not human.

How do they love?

It is a mysteriously hostile and unpredictable love, the love that reflects the intensity of the deepest desire, to devour, to desire…

The twins love like humans, but have similar desires as supernaturals. Devour or be devoured. Ah, the explicitly sexual connation in the context, having someone in possession of you, desiring it with all the intensity that you carry in your chest, making it his, uniquely yours.

The misunderstood and illusory love of Hakubo and Sumire, the girl who is geniusly in love, who created castles in her own mind to suppress the pain of living in reality. Being loved by at least someone is a comfort that eases the pain of loneliness.

The years that escaped time separated them, but the resolution came, even after a long wait, Hakubo returned. He took her as his wife, he asked to take her… and she allowed him. The consummation, the blood on the floor showing the painfully unforgiving love they had to submit to.

An Oni who pretends not to see, and a Kannagi who asks for help without speaking. A disagreement that ended in consummation.

How do they compare to twins? Love misunderstood and unresolved… a love that will end in consummation…

It will be?

We see it again, yes, the fine line between sibling love and romantic love.

Taking Tsukasa as his, devouring him, consuming him, as a last gesture of true love.

But would Hanako devour him?

Does Amane love Tsukasa the same way he loves Nene? Does Tsukasa love Amane the same way Nene loves him?

Is it as heavy and difficult to love Amane as it appears to be?

This is the lock, full of clear and objective questions, but the same question screams with all its force at all times:

What kind of love is that?

We still haven't found the key that will unlock the truth, the answer to that question…

We remain trapped in a bird cage, waiting for Amane to arrive with his golden key, only he can bring the truth, the big problem is

When will he come?

Important observations:

The post is an analysis, it has nothing related to my personal preferences, I don't ship the twins and my intention is not to encourage behavior similar to theirs, again, it's just an analysis based on their behavior. Don't take what I say here too seriously, these findings could be completely wrong, so it's just an analysis.

I carried out this larger analysis due to the number of requests to create new posts or complement existing ones about the twins.

There is more content about them on my blog, if you are curious, just go to the pinned comment and look at the index, there are the main posts.

[kaledya]

Always a pleasure to see your talent! YEAH I LIKE IT ALL !🌸 _

I like the punishment for Valentino and the fact that Angel is choosing to have revenge. I think, for redemption, Charlie would not tell to her guests to fulfill revenge but if they ask and its deserved (like Val and Angel) I think she would accept without a second thought to punish the abuser/criminal for his victim.

Angel should also learn to move forward as for now, he will be free of Val and once its done, stay ptsd, trauma and mental business but its just you and yourself alone that can pull you through it. I think Angel will be a bit lost after Val death and little by little learn to breathe by himself again.

Exactly ! Use val if necessary of forget him. Perfect ! Thank you to explaining your pov!

I think for the drawing you show, the first drawing on the left where Charlie confront Alastor could be nice after or before the mission Alastor has to do with the gangs.

Alastor : I'm will kill something like 40 Sinners. Charlie : ... What did you just say ? Alastor : 40 deaths. Charlie : what ?! Alastor : This is fine. *meme*

_

Episode 6 will have so much happening ! I prepared well to not forget everything ! _

I KNOW I WANT TO GIVE SPOILERS FOR YOU BUT I CAN'T!

[*take the sacrifice and whispers* I can just say that Lolicia will have so many things happening in the same time that it will be too much and have dark consequences (until Constantine)]

And of course you are a writer too ! Don't doubt it ! If I choose to follow your storyboards  its because it was well made, logical, something worth to work with *crying in goodbye at the last storyboard I finished to follow*

Ahah the "cries on the floor for lolicia" so cute.

_

A little thing about the encounter for Constantine and Lolicia is like... trying to find a metaphor... "Huge hurricane that only one person can transform back into a wind." And harp too.

Like Daemon singing to Vermithor (dragon) in the trailer of House of the Dragon season 2.

_

Oh yes its called slice of life ! I forgot the therm thank you ! _

Shen, my baby.

And yes Constantine and his parent relationship is sad and powerful.

For Shifu and Tai, I'm always for Tai in this but I don't hate Shifu at all of course. Its just that if Shifu known himself better, if he took more importance in Uguei words, it would have never happened. Tai is a warrior of strength and tactics, like the Five Cyclones (and Kai).

And its obvious that Uguei is a warrior of  the spirit/shi will take someone more fated to be like him. Someone chill and less *fighting sounds*.

So if Shifu had opened his spirit, he knew that he created Tai just to fail Uguei test. And he just prepared Tai to be good at one thing. One ? That is not even sure will work ? So no plan B ? Because of the arrogance "I'm sure my son Tai will be Dragon Warrior". And of course Tai, when the 'NO' happened how could he understand ? All my life is plan A and I will never have my A ? What ?

Understandable!

So I that case, I'm Constantine's side. Sorry Luci/Lilith I adore you but damn, you broke your kid.

The wip story arc is very good ! Intense !

_

Honestly, a luxury and quiet ticket plane for the king !

_

So the Lucifer design (corrupted) :

So first his body.

In the different sources, Lucifer is said to be very beautiful, feminine, bat wings, ect ect. So I mixed all that.

So he has big bat wings that sprout from his back, two little red bat wings on his shoulders and two on his halo.

His halo is corrupted, shattered, and I couldn't show it in the drawing but it moves, shattered and comes back together over and over again, trying to fix itself and failing.

He has the golden scars and Morningstar symbol on his body like in your design ! And he also have the same beige goat legs that in your design (but I didn't have enough room on the same page to draw it)

In in torso, he is marking that look like an eaten apple ! If you just look like the contours of the apple, he looks more feminine. If you look like the actual shape of his body more masculine. Its like a illusion !

Hiding his private part, there is a snake face.

He has two manacles on his wrist to show that he is emprisonned in Abaddon's bowel and link to his throne and his fate.

His arms are dark like his neck, and there is one red eye on each of his forearm!

On his right shoulder and left thigh, his skin is shattered, inside its black and corruption pieces of the skin fly from it.

He has his wedding ring of course.

• When in good mood, Luci look more like a demon-like. Smiling, playful, manipulating, not caring. Its what demon are suppose to be. Dangerous tricksters !

• But when he is in bad mood (not his ultimate form) he is more an angel. Angel are inflexible and here is harsh thinking is also led by pride. So a prideful Angel.

His halo change and becomes a broken disc. (Like Abaddon has a disk with angelic writing when he takes his casual form)

The corruption get orders and try to get closer to the 'angel part' of him showing in anger. Like a reminder that his anger/envy/pride lead him to where he is.

His tail (like in your design !) shows up and the  archangels wings (but not three of them). The red little bad wings on his shoulders transforms only in extreme cases.

His clothes are not too difficult, a bit military, with a snake belt and heart symbol for his family. And heart shape opening on the back for the wings !

His hair are blond on top and red underneath! (because most people say he is redhead or blonde)

And he is still a short king.

Thats it ! Tell me what you think ! I will keep this design for AA, but of course if you want to change something or for SSAU, I will hear everything! Hope you like it !

_

For Constantine's hair, I don't know because I like him with hair loose, braids or men bun, ponytail 🌸

Make doodles for yourself with his face and different haircut to choose (like he is in the hair salon!)

Personally, even if I love drawing long hair, I think, loose hair is something more intimate and tied up with accessories or braided, or just tied, its more formal day-to-day life. (Except with short hair) I dont know it it help...

_

Thanks for the explanation of swap AU ! I was just curious !

_

Thats sweet Constantine like Hellhounds babies !

Thank you for liking my writing so much ! I love faithful readers.

Don't worry for the reviews, there is no obligation. AND THANK YOU AGAIN AAAH🌸🌸

_

Ahhah Serenity : the bigger fish...snake. Snake, i mean. Alastor : My dear I beg your pardon ? Serenity : Snake. Alastor : wth

And I'm glad you liked the overlords meeting episode ! It was great to write!

_

Abaddon in terms of age ?

I mean, Abaddon has two ages, as he is both a place and an angel. So when he is the place (the huge version of himself we see a little in the short story when he eat the sinner) is like created in the same time as Eden or something.

But his angel self, the Abaddon we know is born just after Azrael. So I saw in a post you said this :

Michael-11

Uriel-10

Gabriel-7

Raphael-6

Azrael-4

  Abaddon is here- 3,5 !

Jophiel-3

Lucifer-2.5

_

Thank you again ! For everything Take care and have a great day too 🌸🌸🌸

Yes, Charlie definitely think like that , she doesn't interfere, she ask Angel to make the decision.

-And for Angel, I really think you really think well his mental state after that arc, I seriously think you approach things in a realistic way.Angel's years of trauma and ptsd will not disappear immediately, it will heal over time.Seriously can't wait to see how the arc will work

-And yes, that Charlie and Alastor doodle might be the Inspiration how Charlie will react when Alastor destroys the gang.

So, after all, Alastor is an employee of the hotel and The hotel trying to save these sinners and give them a place where they can feel safe.But this small-scale massacre he committed goes against everything Charlie stands for.And since she accepted Alastor to the hotel, the things Alastor does are, in a way, her responsibility.

And lmao Alastor is definitely turning into a This is fine meme

Charlie may be a really kind person, but at the end of the day, she's the devil's daughter.shee also has limits and he shouldn't cross them for his own good. I hope Alastor will take his cards carefully while he's talking to her in future.

--

I'm ready for episode 6 LETS GOOOOO!!

---

WHYYYYY ༼⁠;⁠´⁠༎ຶ⁠ ⁠۝ ⁠༎ຶ⁠༽

WHAAAAT???! My question has been answered somewhat, but now I have more questions in my mind??

So Lolicia will experience so many things in a row that there will be so many of them that there will be dark consequences.Until Constantine...

WHAT HAPPENS?!??!???

But let's be honest now, beautiful loves also begin with tragedy uwu (Sorry, the angst lover locked in the cage inside me was let out for a moment)

-

And I'm so glad you liked the storyboards I wrote!! I am very happy that my writing was liked by a writer like you.

*Yes, goodbye story boards you were loved*

--

WHATTTT???YOU MAKE ME MORE EXCITED WITH EVERY SENTENCE!!

İs their first meeting, when Lolica is almost at breaking point due to the all things happened to her,is Constsntine will be the one to lend a hand to her.The person who turns the storm into a wind, the person who turns the flames of hell into A Heat that gives comfort to the peraon??

Or perhaps, in the darkness of the deep that is a light symbolizing the hope of rising to the surface.To breathe again.

I don't know, I'm just so excited to see!!!

Yes, I saw that scene in House of Dragon, it was really effective!!

--

I totally agree with what you say.Tai lung's fall is entirely shifu's fault he was Blinded by his pride And cub Tai just wanting to make his master proud, he made Tai lung believe his lies (these were lies that he even fooled himself with).

If he had listened to Uguie like you said, none of this would have happened. Uguei will never want an heir like Tai lung Tai lung's immense talent can be evaluated in a different way But Shifu ignored it. And Shifu's mistake caused Tai-lung to be imprisoned for over 20 years, unable to even move.

And yes, Shifu only prepared him for one thing, he was so intimidated by the Pride that he didn't even think about what would happen if he rejected Tai lung.

There is no Plan B and as you say, naturally Tai lung's reaction to this was not good.He's been groomed his whole life to be something, and now he's been rejected against all odds.What to do now?, Shifu never prepare him for plan B.And this was the reason why Tai lung threw a tantrum.

And the tragic part is Shifu didn't SAY ANYTHİNG.Nothing...he didn't try to object to Uguei, he dindt tried to console Tai lung He didn't say anything..

I'm sorry, Shifu may be you're a good master, but you were not a good father.

I'm really glad you're on Constantine's side!!

And even if you don't really want Lilith and Lucifer YOU broke your damn kid ,but he's getting better now, thanks to others.

--

First of all, I absolutely LOVE your Corrupted Lucifer Design!🤌🤌🤌🛐✨

Seriously, the details I mentioned are really wonderful, you are very creative🛐🤌🤌🤌

-I really loved the bat wings on his shoulders and the Halo wings at the end are also very cool.And the detail of it having a shattering halo is seriously spot on.And it is very clever that her body looks like an eaten apple and this illusion creates a masculine and feminine effect!!

-Also, the way his halo is constantly breaking apart and constantly coming together is a really great metaphor!

-It's seriously cool that she has menacles on his wrists, a testament to his punishment. And it's nice that his arms and neck are black from corruption!!

-And I think it's a very nice detail that corruption comes out like a disease! break the skin and spread.

And I loved the way you drew Lucifer's hair!!

It's a really nice detail that he still wearing his ring!

-I'm really glad you detailed the good and bad mode! I think you chose very logically.And I loved the balance and distinction between good and bad mood.

-I also really loved the events behind the appearance of Lucifer's Angel part!!

I seriously think you think the way you make his transform is pretty cool, it's scarier.And I really like that you gave him a more military uniform.And seriously, snake belt or a heart/apple symbol Details are amazing

And yes, red hair, probably if I designed Lucifer completely independently, he would have red hair. He is generally described as having red/dark orange hair. That's why making the roots of hishair red is a really clever and beautiful detail.🤌🤌

-I really like your design, I think you did a very creative job.The story details beneath his appearance was one word, it was perfect!!! I seriously love every detail.I seriously can't wait to draw this version of Luci!!🛐🤌🤌

---

And it really helped a lot!❤️❤️ Thank you so much for your advice about Constantine's hair!!

--And yes, one day he met one of them and showed her a little trick. After that, the puppies followed him at every opportunity and asked him to show them new magictricks.

(Puppies don't know anything about hierarchy)

-

Of course I love your writing!! You bless me🛐

-

Thank you for the clarification about Abaddon's age,And it makes sense to him have two different ages.And now that I know that Abaddon is one of the youngest brothers, I can die in peace rn. Lmao

Thank you for your answers and for blessing me with your wonderful Lucifer design. Have a nice day!! 🌸���❤️❤️

[maaikeatthefullmoon]

I want to recommend two GO fics that have really hit me recently.

In the house we remain by @commodorecliche

Rated M - Human AU. This is, at its heart, a ghost story. But it’s so much more than that. I’m a wuss and don’t like scary things so after @shadesofecclescakes recommended this to me, I put off reading it for aaaaages. But I finally picked it up while I was recovering from a migraine and Oh. My. Fucking. God. I bawled my way through most of this beautiful story. It’s a story of love, yearning, death, and life. There is deep frustration at the unfairness of life, and it evoked really deep emotions in me. I does have a happy ending, I promise. (I had to keep begging Shades to reassure me) - CW for death, murder, unresolved & unpunished murder, drowning

and

The One-Way Waltz of the Moth and the Wild Flame (and the Incident of the Authorial Intrusion) by Pokimoko

Rated T - This amazing post-canon work is in turns hilarious, insightful, deep as FUCK, and soft as down. It is written in a style so close to the book that it made my heart sing - it was like reading Pratchett. All his humour, insight, and metaphor style were right there. There were even ducks learning socialism. I mean…🥰 There is no happy ending to this piece, but it’s still highly satisfying - there is growth and emotion that is so deep and well written that it made me cry. Funny flippant things turn into deep metaphors, and if nothing else, there’s some banging songs mentioned - both Queen AND classical. 😉 CW - forest fire- so much fire. Can’t think of anything else but please let me know if you know of anything else.

[cellarspider]

20/30 Special delivery

(Previous) | (Index) | (Next)

⛬

We return to a movie that has never been to medical school, Prometheus. 

Here it is. The scene that everybody remembers because it gave a fair few people the screaming heebies. This is the movie's take on the chestburster scene–except for the less impactful, more literal version of the chestburster scene we’ll get later, I mean. This one, though, this one, they got it right.

Content warnings for gore, nudity, nude gore, exhaustive discussions of the place of chestbursting in franchise history.

But first! I saw a tag with a desire to see the scene with David and the star map. To spare everyone from watching the rest of the movie to get there, here it is!

[See previous post for lengthy description of the events. I didn’t talk about the music in this before though! It really adds to the sense of wonder in this scene. It reminds me of Daft Punk’s Overture to Tron Legacy (2010), another beautiful and flawed movie. Given the modern use of temporary music in editing that definitely sneaks into what directors demand of scores, there’s a chance this was a direct influence. In terms of the “oh wow, space!” feeling it gives me, I’d also mention the Star Trek TNG opening theme.]

Anyway! On with the horror.

In Alien, the creature’s life cycle was developed by writer Dan O'Bannon, who had two major ideas for its early appearances: sexual, reproductive threat directed at a male character, and Crohn’s disease. O’Bannon had Crohn’s, and he said that inspired the idea of a critter chewing its way out of a man’s guts. 

That personal connection has been lost through subsequent media, in part because the series has continued to use the same creature and the same method of killing, minor deviations like in Covenant and tasteless ones like AvP Requiem notwithstanding. The chestburster is a thing that can only ever really work once in a movie. The first time is relatively drawn out, made a setpiece of the movie, and is a horrifying plot twist for anyone who goes in blind. After that? Drawing it out may risk becoming meaningless gore or boring, so most movies have chosen to just have the little bugger pop out within seconds. It’s the sideshow before you get to the main event, despite being the iconic scene of Alien.

Prometheus’ equivalent scene wins back a fair amount of tension by altering the details of the event, if not the general arc of it. It certainly hammers on the reproductive horror aspect, but loses the original subversion of targeting a male character. Which is a shame, because male-targeted reproductive horror is still boundary-pushing. From the world of horror gaming, Outlast: Whistleblower produced some notably panicked reactions from male players when they encountered the emasculating, specifically reproductive threat of Eddie Gluskin. (Content warning for gore, death, forced feminization, misogynistic language, censored nudity.)

Regardless, we have The Chestburster Scene again, but now it’s in the back half of the movie, and happens to the main human protagonist.

I find it very odd that this movie is so self-consciously iterating over things that were first done in Alien. It’s like watching a devout Catholic pray at the Stations of the Cross.

Speaking of crosses

Before we get to the main event, there’s the first actual attempt at character work between David and Shaw in the movie, as we’re in the final act. David confiscates Shaw’s cross as she wakes up from her post-boyfriend-barbeque faint. “It may be contaminated,” he says.

Shaw’s christianity is one of the few character traits in the film that ties into one of the themes, and has its own arc. She’s giving up her cross to the person who killed her partner, a metaphor for a crisis of faith which is so blatant as to barely be a metaphor at all. And, given the general arc of how these things go, means she’s going to get it back at some point. The context for it is going to be confusing and disappointing, frankly.

And it’s especially weird given the other metaphor going on simultaneously: David runs some scans on her, and declares she’s three months pregnant. This is a non-virgin virgin pregnancy. She is Alien Mary. This, then, is the narrative reason why Shaw is infertile–so that she could be the Mary figure, and, more practically for the plot, have foreknowledge that something was wrong. 

Except it really didn’t have to be that way to make this work. While christian allegory and the creation of life are themes in this movie, Shaw’s infertility was handled with zero grace. And honestly, the movie could work without it–Shaw and Holloway did not have romantic chemistry, as far as I could tell. Lean into that! Just say they haven’t had sex in ages. This scene would actually flow better, because Shaw explicitly objects that she only had sex with Holloway “ten hours ago. There's no bloody way I'm three months pregnant.”

Which again hammers in how stupid fast this movie has been racing its characters toward their doom, but I’m immediately distracted by David pronouncing “it's not exactly a traditional fetus.”

It certainly isn’t. It’s an alien squid, placed there by the holy spirit of black goo. She’s all set to give birth to Squesus. 

I think that’s the only worse way he possibly could’ve said it.

David, frankly, gets some of his worst dialog of the movie here, because he is infected by The Plot for a bit. “It must feel like your God has abandoned you,” he says, after sedating her, “to loose Dr. Holloway after your father died under such similar circumstances.” Which leaves one momentarily with the wild mental image of Dad Shaw sacrificing himself to a flamethrower-welding corpo, but no, David means ebola. David found this out via that dream-watching tech that exists solely to be a mildly unnecessary plot point. Blessedly, this is the last time we see any mention of it.

It’s very strange, how the movie is stuffed full of plot and edited so tightly around the plot that characters barely have room to breathe, yet what it prioritizes as plot-relevant is so scattershot. This failing is also inflicted upon the part of the otherwise very effective Chestburster: The Prequel scene.

Shaw attacks the people who come to take her away to cryo, running in her underwear to the PAULING MED-POD the movie very loudly announced earlier, so that you wouldn’t forget it exists. She tells the PAULING MED-POD that she needs an emergency caesarian. The PLOTPOINT MED-POD informs her that it’s only formatted for male patients.

I’ve seen many people complain this makes no sense. It’s in Vickers’ quarters,  why would she have an expensive medical device that she can’t fully use? Others counter that no, it makes sense, because the med-pod was actually installed for Peter Weyland, thus justifying its male specificity. He’s a selfish bastard, he got it for himself, plot hole avoided.

…Except that doesn’t address the more fundamental problem: What does this add to this scene, to balance out the fact that the audience is now distracted by this information? It slows Shaw down a bit as she figures out how to cue up a foreign body extraction from the abdominal cavity, adding to the tension. But you don’t need that to be what draws out the scene. Maybe the PAULING MED-POD has a slow boot-up sequence. Maybe someone follows her there, and she has to fight them off, possibly killing them in her panic. A dead body in the room would solve an actual logical problem with a later scene.

It’s frustrating, because the pacing of this scene is actually excellent, as is its premise. Shaw has to forego anesthesia and make do with self-administered local painkillers, because the prosthetics and CG teams have done a bang-up job making her stomach writhe unpleasantly, making it very clear that whatever’s in there is mobile enough to be a danger to her, even if it’s removed. 

The pods instruments are mostly CG, but its combination of unhurried routine and abrupt, industrial roboticism adds to the uncomfortable nature of the scene. Sound design is also important here, with all sound effects well-chosen, and mixed to imply claustrophobic closeness and how trapped Shaw is.

The creature itself? Eh. It’s a slightly phallic squid, and squids were already slightly phallic to begin with. They added on a slightly vaginal mouth, which is also a lateral move--squid mouths already look quite a lot like an unworksafe orifice with a beak tucked away in it. Unless you're looking at Promachoteuthis sulcus, whose inner lip structures fold into patterns that look distressingly like human teeth.

Honestly, this is freakier than the actual prop. Good job, Promachoteuthis sulcus. You're only 25 mm long, and a delightful tiny terror.

...But the fact that Shaw’s stuck in the pod with her flailing squid-child is what actually adds another minute of fear and wince-worthy pain, as the almost comically brutal medical staple gun closes her incision and the pod slowly opens up.

She tries to kill it with what appears to be a soothing mist of decontamination spray. This is the one other stumble of the scene, because it’s just… I mean, look at it.

It’s just been spritzed with Febreze. There’s nothing that leaves you wondering if the thing’s still alive for later, you know it’s still alive.

But overall, a well-done scene. The standout horror scene of the movie, which is light on scares. That sparsity wouldn’t even be worth mentioning if the movie were going for slow tension, but with its strange blend of existential quandaries and unremarkable horror tropes, it takes a very strong, singular scene to feel like the tension has actually paid off. I don’t think it completely balances out the deficits of the rest of the horror, but it very nearly manages it, and does manage to be memorable.

Next time: An entirely underwhelming horror scene, and the movie takes another swing at having themes.

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Citations for alt-text rambles:

https://www.theguardian.com/film/2019/aug/30/memory-the-origins-of-alien-review-francis-bacon-greek-myth-dan-o-bannon-sci-fi-classic-film 

https://www.stanwinstonschool.com/blog/aliens-chestburster-mechanism-behind-the-scenes 

https://avp.fandom.com/wiki/Seegson 

https://stackoverflow.com/questions/3314219/how-do-u-v-coordinates-work 

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Surgical_staple (medical gore cw)

https://sites.uw.edu/pauling2020/ 

https://www.paulinamarket.com/

Overflow Ramble #1

A shot of the screen on Chekhov’s g–I mean the PAULING MED-POD, showing the text “EMERGENCY PROCEDURE”, and that it is “AWT VERBAL CMD”. The med-pod turns out to be a Weyland product, because all corporations in Alien movies are either Weyland, Yutani, or Seegson, if you’re particularly unlucky (cite 3). 

They made the mistake of putting more actual words on here, and so I’m squinting at the top right corner at “CARDIAC STRESS TEST”, “ELECTROCARDIOGRAPHY” AND “MECH ALGN TCH”, which means the pod appears to think she needs to have her heart checked or her wheels aligned.

But what I find funniest is that there’s coordinate sliders in the center bottom: X/Y/Z and U/W. You know where I recognize that from? 3D modeling. U/V/W are used as an alternate coordinate system in that context (cite 4). Somebody was designing this, thinking “well, we need more buttons. Where can I get more buttons?” and then looked at the horrid mass of options and sliders in their modeling software and realized they had the answer.

Overflow Ramble #2

A close-up of David’s hands, holding a sample container and placing Shaw’s necklace inside. Two details, one of them insane, the other just plain funny: First of all, this is a different set of hands than the one when David was messing with the black goo–there was a small but notable blemish on the fingerprint that wasn’t there, proving once again that hand and arm doubles are one of the odder things you don’t think about in film production.

Second: The container is turned so that the label on it is facing away. This allows you to see the necklace, but it also highlights a completely flat Braille label, reading “PN#ZTZouSthe#Z”, which is obviously very informative.

But the real reason why the label is facing away is because it almost hides the fact that the label says “PRODUCT CODE” on it, which means he may have just put Shaw’s necklace in an empty peanut butter jar.

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[fuckyeahisawthat]

Hey ho, have you seen The Creator (2023) yet? Unsubtly about US imperialism, but also really moving, aesthetically stunning (Greig Fraser as DP, oh yeah) and John David Washington killing it in the main role. I was surprised by how much there was to love. xoxo

I fucking LOVED The Creator and kept trying to write something about it here but never managed to collect my thoughts. But yeah what a fucking movie, oh my god. I feel like it kind of got buried by lack of publicity but tbh I am not that surprised because it's one of those movies with politics that make you think how the fuck did they get away with making this.

Gareth Edwards, like Villeneuve, is a director I've been paying attention to for a while now, ever since his 2010 movie Monsters, which was a really impressive low-budget sci-fi with effects that just looked seamless and interesting things to say about borders and the human cost of militarized responses to disastrous events.

And then he did Rogue One and pulled off something very impressive, which is to take one of the most famous sci-fi weapons of our era--the Death Star, a metaphor for nuclear weapons so iconic it has become a symbol in itself--and made it actually fucking scary for the first time in the history of the franchise. And he did it by turning the camera around.

Because the thing is that before this point, we had only ever seen the Death Star from the point of view of the people firing it. The idea of a planet-destroying weapon is intellectually horrifying but we didn't really ever feel it. Because for that we need to see the weapon from the point of view of its victims. It's such a simple but radical shift in perspective, and I feel like Gareth Edwards took that idea from Rogue One and then made it into a whole movie with The Creator.

The Creator, for those unfamiliar with the premise, is about a near-future counterinsurgency war in which the US military is hunting down various forms of AI/android/robot beings. It also features a space-based super-weapon that is eerily beautiful but goddamn fucking terrifying. It was mostly shot in southeast Asia and heavily evokes Vietnam War imagery (as the ending of Rogue One did as well); it is probably about as close to "Vietnam War movie but you're rooting for the Vietnamese" as it is possible to make in the American studio system. The protagonist is still an American soldier (who defects and "goes native" fairly early in the movie) but making him a Black disabled veteran was certainly a Choice. And yes it's John David Washington and he's great in it.

It feels facetious to say The Creator is Reverse Terminator, because it's much richer than that, but it's also kind of fucking true. For the entire movie, the characters are just running for their lives from the implacable and overwhelming destructive force of the US military which is just crushing everything in its path.

The movie does a lot of things that you simply do not see in most American war movies, but the one that stands out to me the most is that in every scene of war violence there are civilians, including children, fucking everywhere. It really threw into relief for me how often American war-action movies create these empty video game environments for soldiers to run around in, where any actual people who might live in the place where the war is happening are at best props and at worst completely absent. (Alex Garland's Civil War, in addition to being terrible in every other conceivable way, is a particularly bad offender at this.) The Creator does what really should be the bare minimum of taking time to showing that these are people whose homes and lives are being destroyed and it is shocking how novel it seems. (There's a line that plays in my head all the time where one of the AI characters says something to the effect of, "Do you know what will happen to the humans when we win this war? Nothing. We simply want to live.") I will also say that this made it a very intense watch in late October 2023 in particular, but it is fiction so we get a very satisfying and cathartic ending. And yes it is an absolutely gorgeous movie, the VFX are mind-blowing, and I found it quite moving.

[dansconcepts]

GI Roleswap AU - Meeting Venti

"I am the last one." The yaksha- who's actually Venti, who knew?- admits. 

You seem pretty lighthearted about it was Aether’s immediate thought, but he noticed the tenseness he doesn’t often see in the bard/yaksha’s eyes, the unnatural glint of a smile that doesn’t match. His tease dies on his tongue.

However, in unsurprising Paimon fashion, she holds no such reservations as she goes, “You don’t seem the least bit upset about that!”

Venti's eyes immediately narrow, but his smile grows even wider, if that were possible. “Don’t tell me how I feel.” He hisses out, words dipped in honeyed poison.

“EEP!” Paimon screeches. The fairy’s head frantically bobs up and down. “Got it! Loud and clear!” 

Yet under her breath, she murmurs, “to think the bard can be so scary like that… what a terrifying change!” 

Venti’s eyes glare impassively at the small being, and she immediately freezes, wondering if he heard. 

The yaksha turns away. He has a more settled gaze, with an actual frown. She lets out a sigh of relief. Aether watches them, calculating. 

“If that’s all you needed, I best take my leave! Oh, to depart from you is quite the relief!"

"HEY! WHAT DO YOU MEAN RELIEF?!"

"Ehe~! Bye-bye Traveler and your little pet!" The bard waves in lieu of answering. Almost like an afterthought, he adds, "You're pretty decent for a human!"

And he disappears with a sudden breeze of the wind.

[Some angsty Venti in the form of the flute scene because Xiaoven under the cut]

Is this how he dies? 

The silence blares louder than his pained gasps of breath. Each sharp intake bleeds out of him like the gashes he's taken. His head pounds to a jarring rhythm, lyrics growled and snarled at him as they take delight in his pathetic attempts to stand up and find his lyre. 

He'd honestly cry out, if his throat was able to. Yet it feels like even that, too, is torn apart, and his tears flow more freely than he'll ever be able to feel. 

It certainly flows better than his rhymes. He snorts.

He honestly could use the rest, eternal as it’ll be. So many of his friends have done so already.  Vennessa… Dvalin… 

He wonders if there will be anyone who would tell the tale of the death of the final, and last, Yaksha. The one who sung lullabies to entrap monsters into eternal slumber. The one who used the winds to carry a voice razor sharp in both wit and piercing with wordplay. The one only seen by a few and trapped by the contract he had signed, dying on the same soil he vowed to protect. 

Voices grow louder with their resentment. Crescendos, really, until everything means nothing. All of it.

He is so tired.

This is what he deserves. He aches to close his eyes.

Yet he doesn't.

A soft melody calls to his soul. To his role. To the body that lays still, so unlike himself who never stops dancing to a phantom beat.

He is certain it belongs to a flute. 

Yet what flute's songs can drown out screams? What flute was a serenade, coaxing the burning of the wounds to soothe, the thoughts in his head to rest, letting himself focus on the forefront of his mind?

A stunning clarity did the flute bring. Even with his... talents, he cannot produce such a sound. Its playing coos at him, reaching out a metaphorical hand from its composer. 

It was unlike any song he's heard before, and he knows so many over the years from purely seeking it out. 

He wants to stand and cry and laugh and cry again.

So unlike his music.

Music acting to save, not to kill. 

He knows not of anyone, either archon, mortal, or adeptus, that plays an instrument like this flute.

However, he's presented the answer when the song reaches a bridge of calm, of promise, and of a cool caress against his cheek. Wind! 

He's taken, higher and higher, and he laughs. He laughs, even with the blood drying on his skin. He laughs, because he is weightless, and has heard the most beautiful thing in his whole lifetime. He doesn't want to let it go. 

The beauty of this world rushes through him, and suddenly he wants nothing more than to experience more of it. To remember it. The now and the then. Maybe even the potential of a future just as beautiful.

And, as if praising him, he feels the wind slowly die down around him, gently setting him back on the ground. 

It spins around him. His braids float with it. His hand trails after the winds with a giggle, before it drops something in his hand.

A Vision.

An Anemo Vision.

He recalls the name from his Lord Tartaglia, mentioned offhandedly with an indifferent shrug, slightly terse on his lips.

"Alatus." He breathes. The name of his saviour. 

And the music stops. Yet the wind- or perhaps it was himself, really- keeps the melody stuck in his head. 

It hasn't ceased. He doesn't want it to.

He doesn't ever try to replicate it.