#somewhat angst

[icedteainthatbag]

songs that make me think of mulder and scully for whatever reason

“not wife” - shakey graves

“call me” - elevator fight club

“satellite” - guster

“iris” - the goo goo dolls

“love will tear us apart” - joy division

“underwear” - pulp

“cloudbusting” - kate bush

“be sweet” - japanese breakfast

“x&y” - coldplay

“think about me” - fleetwood mac

“the woods” - daughter

“time machine for two” - bart & the bedazzled

“if you ever leave, i’m coming with you” - the wombats

“star” - mitski

“something changed” - pulp

“younger” - the hails

“right through” - the happy fits

“running up that hill” - kate bush

“pretend” - alex g

“the scientist” - coldplay

“jealous” - eyedress

“cemetry gates” - the smiths

“some kind of love” - the killers

“i’m your man” - mitski

“i hope you die” - molly nilsson

“the night we met” - lord huron

[factual-fantasy]

Ya'll.. hear me out-

[chuluoyi]

everything, but not anything

- gojo satoru x reader

you were his last remainder of the happiest blue spring in his life, until your untimely demise. and on the death's door, he finally found you again.

genre/warnings: angsty wangsty, consolation towards the end

notes: i said i can't create gojo fics without feeling depressed, so here i present to you, angst. it's inspired from a thread in twitter i read about how gojo was given everything but he couldn't do anything and my heart just incredibly hurts and―this happened. it's unedited because the idea popped into my mind at 1 in the morning

i wrote this while listening to this wonderful song. consider it the theme song for this piece. i highly recommend you to read this and listen to it!

[update] sequel -> found you

general masterlist

You were so pretty. So really pretty, in fact. And he likes pretty things. Perhaps that was what spurred him to spontaneously ask you out.

You declined him at first―after all, he was a special grade weirdo. And you half-expected him to give up soon enough, only that he didn't. He persisted like a cockroach, smothering you with his very being. Then like a sweet romance novel, you too finally fell for him, melting at his clumsy attempts to woo you.

And by God, you were happy together. To Satoru, it was the brightest, most vibrant page in his life. And with his very being, he would do everything he could to protect you. After all, he was blessed with the best, he had all means to protect you.

He should've known better.

It started with his failed star plasma vessel mission. Riko was dead, and at that time he was just numb. Later, he made excuses. He couldn't have foreseen that a sorcerer killer would join the fray and made a mess of things.

But then his best friend, Suguru, left. Satoru couldn't make excuses any longer. For that, he was wholly responsible. From then, he realized that just being strong wasn't enough. And throughout those dark days, you were with him, consoling him as you brought his head to your chest, letting him sleep in your arms.

"Don't ever leave me, okay?" he whispered at the dead of the night with hoarse voice. It made your heart sting. You nodded and ran your fingers throughout his hair, mumbling a soft "of course."

And you never did. You were always by his side.

Satoru was really grateful for that. To have the last years of your life by his side. Looking back, it was like a beautiful mirage.

He had hidden himself behind the facade of the strongest. The unreachable. Untouchable. It felt nice, still is. Before he had known it, he had drawn this line between himself and other people. Between him and you. He wasn't lonely, but he was at the very same time.

And perhaps he had gotten way too arrogant, and thus the heavens decided to humble him.

He couldn't prevent the Shibuya Incident from happening. Worse, he fell into the enemy's hand and got sealed, and just before he was trapped inside that accursed box, he saw you die. And even after the most excruciating 19 days of his life afterwards, he couldn't do anything about it.

Your face haunted him. The tears you shed for him still lingered at the tips of his fingertips. The blood from your mouth still soaked his vision.

"Satoru..." you croaked. You were afraid. Afraid of dying, but most of all, afraid of leaving him. You had promised him once, on the bunkbed of your dorms back in Jujutsu High, that you wouldn't leave him. Tears wouldn't stop falling from your beautiful eyes.

Satoru burned that image on his mind. He wanted to hate himself with every fiber of his being, but then you said the most damnable thing possible.

"Thank you... for everything..."

And you had a smile on your face. In your last moments, you decided to convey how much he meant to you in this life. How much you cherished him. You prayed with all your heart that it would reach him.

And once again, just like the first day he saw you at the training grounds of Jujutsu High, Satoru found you to be really breathtaking. You were beautiful even as you laid dying. Even as his visions were obscured as he fell into the darkness.

Inside the prison realm where time passed long and uncertain, he made himself numb once again.

You were his most cherished figment of the most precious memory held in his heart―the three years of his youth. He wouldn't have changed anything about it. He was devastated, severely so, but so did the sweetness aftertaste he felt.

Your feelings reached him, and because of that, even if the road ahead was long and hard and painful, he would stay on that road.

If it meant he could meet you again on the other side of this dream... he'd stay and move towards tomorrow, no matter how bleak it was.

When his comrades freed him from the prison realm, he gained knowledge that most people he knew were also dead during his absence. Nanami. Yaga. The students.

Perhaps it was his curse. To be blessed with everything, but not being able to do anything about it.

He had nothing more to lose when he fought against Sukuna. He gave it his all. Everything his life had led him to―he put it all on the line.

And suddenly―suddenly, he was back to the happiest chapter of his youth. Everyone was there. Suguru was there. Nanami, Haibara, even Riko.

And you.

On the other side of that dream, you were once again standing before him, in your old uniform, just like when you’d get ready for a class so many years ago, and with the smile he fell in love with. The smile he would gladly fight the world for.

"Satoru," you called, breathless, but just like before you left him the first time, you frowned and your eyes suddenly glistened with tears. "Why... are you here? How did you―"

But you choked back your tears when he ran to you and pulled you into his arms so tightly. You heard him grunt, and then to your surprise, slightly sob.

Now he is no longer Gojo Satoru, the strongest. He is back to a young sorcerer wanting so badly to live his youth to the fullest, happiest.

"You lied to me," he reprimanded you amidst his weeping. "You left. You freaking left―"

Your vision blurred. "I'm sorry..."

Satoru let you go to have a good look at you. You were no longer bleeding. Your insides were intact. Just a little crying because you couldn't help it.

"I love you, you know that right?" he blurted with the most sullen expression he could muster. He turned back into the child-boy you somehow fell in love with.

"Satoru," you breathed out, anxious. "You shouldn't be here―"

"I should," he cut you with a firm tone. "I have no regrets. I have done what I can, and now―"

"But the others―they need you! They need you, Satoru."

He drooped his head. He had thought it over too, but he had come to a final conclusion. "No. They don't."

Maybe it was finally the time to let go of it. It was time to just... pass it over. No more interventions. No more tipping the balance of the world itself.

Immediately, you understand what he means. Gojo Satoru has served his purpose. There was nothing left that he must and could do.

"You waited long, huh?" you whispered with tears, yet a smile bloomed on your face.

"I did."

"Then... now that you're here," you offered your hand towards him, and then looked at the faces of your friends. They were all beaming at you and him, waiting for this exact moment.

You stared at him fondly, lovingly.

"Would you... walk this road with me once again?"

Satoru snapped his head. He nodded at you with pure certainty, zero hesitation. "Yes."

He took your hand, grasping it tightly in his.

"Even when there's a possibility that you have to walk to the other side of a nightmare again?”

"I would," Satoru resolutely replied.

Because it's you, he would. He'd willingly and gladly cross the throes of hell and set out on this lonely yet hopeful journey, just to meet you.

You chuckled at him heartily, and Satoru felt the immense love he held for you as the two of you walked towards tomorrow, without regrets.

It may be his curse, to have everything yet nothing at the same time. But each time he would be faced with this decision, he'd remember that feeling and let go of everything just for this very chance to live a life with you again.

[assiraphales]

the most “yah we gay keep scrolling” image I have come across in years

[seaweedraindraws]

I was saving this for my fanfic but I liked the idea so much I had to draw it!

Bonus:

Here is a link to the fic this scene is from! (Only chapter 1 is up, so this scene has not yet happened)

[metukika]

I'd like to ask for #80 with a 100% Mob

100% rejection. im not used to doing a lineless style so i made sure to have lots of fun with this one! [palettes]

[junosmindpalace]

His head aches directing his eyes toward the doorway, but Senku does anyway to get a glimpse at your figure.

Your fierce expression tells him you refuse to get any closer, as if punishment for the suffering he subjected himself on the dock of the Perseus just a few hours ago. Senku had caught a glimpse of you at the far back of the crowd when the crew had rushed him in from further ambush.

He remembers pain, a lot of it, Luna tending to him, and various members coming both to check on his condition and to receive instruction and advice. He’s found himself with a rare moment of true quiet and space for himself. Until you appeared, that was;

Angrier than he ever expected to see, yet he immediately knows why. The realization makes a frown settle over his own features, and he doesn’t dare break away from your tense gaze.

You strode towards him suddenly, hand slowly coming up in the air as if to punch him, tell him off with a disapproving finger, do something to express your fear and anger toward him for his stunt. All he did was stare with his mouth firmly planted in a deep frown, not wavering in his expression for a second even when you stopped suddenly by his side, keeping your hand in the air and staring at him with a fury hardly being kept in check. His stare almost challenged you to try and retort against the sacrifice he made, and oh how it made you wanna—

But then you sighed. Stepped back. Lowered your arm back to your side. Your brows creased upward in distress, and, oh, no, was your bottom lip quivering?

“You’re an asshole.”

“Well, isn’t that a pleasant way to greet a friend?”

“You shut up with that, I thought you—“

You halted your words, turning your back toward him as horrified eyes stared forward in an attempt to steel yourself. A hand ran down your face, stopping at your mouth. What a horrifying sight that was. Not even a sign of warning.

“C’mon,” he wheezed out with a slight upward curl of his lip. “I thought you knew me better than that.”

Yet the silence his remark was met with brought his lips back to a frown, a more melancholic expression. He called out your name and was met with nothing.

“I braced myself: what more could I have done?”

And you know he’s right. He’s being realistic. You have no right lashing out so aggressively toward him. If anything, you should be praising his bravery, his sharp thinking, his ability to still uphold witty banter with you in the state he’s in. But you can’t. Not when your racing heart hasn’t settled it’s violent thrumming against your ribcage, bruising it and your mental sanity, since the shot rang out. Not since you saw the blood spill out of him. Not since you saw the intense look of pain on his face.

So for now, you hate him for it. For all of it. Even though it wasn’t his fault. He anticipated it at least, so you hate him for it.

He calls for you again.

And finally, you look over your shoulder, eyes glassy and expression fierce. The sight makes Senku want to shiver.

“I did…what needed to be done…” he starts gently. “It’s up to you guys now. And I’ll help where I can.”

Ever the efficient one, that Senku. How it could infuriate you like nothing else. You would think him made of steel at times with the way seemingly nothing fazed him. But with the way you saw his blood pour out from him so quickly, the anguish on his face, it reminded you that he was more human than anyone you’ve ever met. So passionate, so full of life. Nearly childlike in the way he winced as every uncomfortable stir and breath he in and exhaled.

The tension in your face dropped. Senku’s own expression perked up, but mostly stayed firm as you approached him tiredly, pulling up the chair by his bed and taking a seat, hands hesitating as they reached for his.

He stared down at the space in between them, and then back at you just in time for you to raise your own exhausted gaze toward him. Don’t you dare push me away, they pleaded with him.

A little knock of his knuckles against yours gave you the permission you were looking for, and your carefully took his limp hand in both of yours, holding them gently. He chuckled a little as he stared upward, while your gaze remained steady on the bed, and offered a small squeeze in return, which in turn relaxed the tension in your shoulders.

Things were okay between you two. Things would be okay. The sentiment didn’t need to be voiced aloud.

[absolutely-not-my-main-blog]

If you like Piña Coladas...

And at last, my third, main, final and favourite piece for the beautiful The Gang Finds Their Pride Zine over @its-always-ziney-in-philadelphia. Everyone go check the full thing, it is jam packed with so many incredibly skilled and talented people, and it was an honour to be part of it.

[seance]

THE MUSKETEERS 10TH ANNIVERSARY REWATCH / fave episodes [4/?] ↳ SEASON 1, EPISODE 10 / musketeers don't die easily

[coralinnii]

Prompts for Tragic Love/ Toxic Love

I’d rather break my heart and lose you now, than hear you say this was a mistake in the future.

He doesn’t love you, he just loves the feeling of being loved by you

I know you don’t really know how to love, because I’m just like you

I can’t do this…Love terrifies me

I’m sorry I lied about loving you…I just wanted to feel normal.

You were wonderful. I’m sorry you had to meet me.

Why do I feel like I have to prove you can love me?

Being with you just makes me feel lonelier

I hated you for making me feel things. I hate that I can’t even mean that.

If you hating me is the closest I can be to you, then so be it.

I was so perfect…until I met you

You called me your moon, because you knew I couldn’t shine without you

You and I were only using each other. Are you upset I didn’t fall for you like you expected?

I still love you, but I don’t trust you. They are not the same.

Have you ever looked at someone and thought “How do I love like them?”

I can’t do much, but I can at least love you more than I love myself.

How can you still love me no matter how much I break myself? JUST LEAVE!

I hate your view on love. Love is ugly and people would kill and die in its name.

Can we just destroy each other and end it all?

It’s easier to pretend that I don’t love you

Aphrodite despises me, because I despise everything she adores

I was the subject of your desire, not love. Don’t fool yourself

Your love is like Atlantis, so unsure if it truly exists.

So fitting for flowers to be intertwined with love, poisonous despite its beauty and dies no matter what.

[anonymouscheeses]

Tw: themes of sa and alot of blood (Angel blood but still)

(Vent)

They won't believe me. I didn't even understand what it was. I was so young and uncomfortable but I still didn't understand what was happening. I could have stopped it, they were in the next room, I could have told them. But it's long past me and the fact I just figured out what happened, I keep telling myself it doesn't count. I'm lying to myself. It didn't happen the same way here, but God i wish I was lucky enough to have someone to tell. And now it's happening all over again. With another family member. And I can't say anything because no one would believe me. It's not the same as before but he's my dad, my fucking dad. I see him everyday. And it's when he's drunk, he wouldn't even remember. I wish he would stop looking at my body like that. I'm his daughter. I wish he didn't touch me. I want it to be over. I want to go home. I am home. But I never feel like I am and I can't take it anymore. I want God to take me to heaven already.

[kiwinatorwaffles]

because my inbox wanted it: this is the first time in a while where i’ve posted ship art and one of the characters isn’t dead. savor the middle aged men yaoi

[rewritingcanon]

thought for the day! andromeda getting drunk one night and asking teddy to metamorph into her daughter’s face so she can see her again. but when he does it there are some parts of her face that are just slightly off and wrong, because teddy hasn’t known his mother’s face past photos of her.

[sepulchuresketchbook]

a semi-follow up to this:

He had seen those…shrines to the dead the serfs would sometimes put up when one of them had died. A portrait, surrounded by flowers and a brief obituary describing what the person had been in life.

Taharaen decided to put one up on his own. He had set up one in the hallways of the battle barge. It was a private way for him to grieve.

A lone, damaged helmet that had once belonged to his friend sat there, undisturbed even as the flowers had rotted and the candle that had been placed next to it had long since burned away.

[thatdesklamp]

January, 2011

intrinsic warmth, gojo pov. Tonally very similar to the end of 2012, Chapter 17, with similar content warnings (angst)

Satoru stares up at the ceiling.

It’s a good ceiling. It’s high, and tall, so tall that he can stretch his arms up and not even brush his fingertips on it. His old home always had high ceilings, which he thinks was a show of wealth back when it was built. His old room in high school had very low ceilings, which he understood, with the knowledge that it was made for people half a foot shorter than him. Satoru would complain about it with Suguru who, when they were still teenagers together, was the same height as him.

No. Satoru blinks at the ceiling. Suguru was taller. He was taller by exactly 0.28cm in their first year, and 0.19 in their second, and Satoru cannot remember the number from their third year.

The woman shifts in her sleep, and Satoru’s gaze is drawn from the ceiling. She is naked, but has the bedsheets bundled up to her collarbone. They drape in a way that is accidentally attractive; the white linen catches on the side of her breast, highlighting the curve, luxurious in the way that asks to be touched. Satoru does not. He doesn’t want to, for how much he touched last night.

The ceiling. This ceiling is taller than his room back in school. The woman, whose name he cannot remember, had commented on it; she had been awed, last night, at how large the rooms in his apartment were, and how expensive his furniture looked, and how high his ceiling was. She had walked around, her fingertips brushing against the back of his white couch, her eyes wide as she looked upwards and not at him. Satoru had not wanted her to wait around, or to make herself home here.

He had stepped forward. He had taken her hand from his furniture and moved it above her head, had backed her against a wall and kissed her, hard, until her breathing was frantic and her body was writhing and until she was gasping out his name.

Satoru, he had told her, in the bar, when she had asked for it. She had told him hers—Satoru can’t remember, damn, that’s not good—and he thinks that it was her first name, too, because he had told her his.

Satoru, she had moaned out, when he was fucking her. He had her on her back, her thighs wrapped tight around his hips, bracing his weight on one forearm by her head and teasing her clit with his hand between their bodies.

He had been mean, last night, making her beg for it, for his fingers and his dick and the permission to come. He had fucked her ruthlessly, until she couldn’t say his name anymore, and could only make weak gasping noises as she shuddered through another orgasm. He had left dark bruises on her neck, from his tongue and his teeth, and she had bared her throat for him like an animal trying to submit.

But in the taxi back from the bar, she had told him that she liked it, and that she always wanted guys to edge her and call her a slut and be rough, and she had giggled drunkenly and clicked on a porn video that showed him what she meant.

Satoru had paid attention, and he had become the man in the video, and afterwards, when he had kissed her and moved his hands to her waist and murmured comforting words in her ear, she had told him that she had never felt like that before, and that she had felt good, so good, and that she wanted to do this again sometime.

Satoru had been drunk too. He was probably more drunk than she was, even though he’d barely drank anything. He’s always been a lightweight; he can hide it now, but it was embarrassing when he was in school and experimenting with alcohol with Suguru and Shoko.

Satoru doesn’t like drinking. He doesn’t like the feeling of it, the fuzziness and zeroed-in vision and the waning voice in the back of his head telling him he’s doing something wrong. Satoru drinks because it’s easier to pretend with women when he’s drunk, because words fall differently and disgust falls away.

Mostly. Satoru is still drunk, even now he’s woken up. That’s another thing with alcohol: it disturbs his sleep, making it fitful instead of peaceful and deep. You would tell him—and Satoru feels the pain like a knife in his chest, searing and agonising and serrated, at the thought of you. The guilt is visceral, and he flinches away from it, instinctual, pathetic. There is the wrong woman in his bed.

He looks back at her. There are the hickeys, which seem teenage and shameful now, now he has thought of you. There is the white linen, which he wants to draw up further, until it is her face that it covers, not just her naked body. He wants to hide her from his view, and pretend she is not here, and he sees the bare skin of her hands that hold the blanket to her chest, and he knows that she is not you.

She had wanted him to call her a slut. Satoru had done it, because he had known it would put him even deeper, and because it had made her eyes roll back and her chest shake with pleasure. His stomach had twisted, revolted at the sight of it, of the words that were coming from his own mouth. He had said it, and he had fucked her, and he has done it all before so many times and he cannot remember her name.

Satoru can remember almost everything. It’s the worst thing about his Six Eyes, and the best. Satoru remembers details, details, details. The dust particles catching light in the air, the day he learnt Suguru had massacred a village of innocent people. The width of the lock of hair that fell against Suguru’s temple, the strand he never cared enough to tie back. The words of hatred you had said to him, verbatim, exact, when you told him you did not want to see him again, ever, and that he had made you cry just like your father always had. The shine of moonlight in your wide pupils, the night on the rooftop.

It is almost everything, not everything, that he remembers. Because Satoru forgets. He thinks, sometimes, that the things he forgets are more painful than the things he remembers.

How did Suguru say his name? His first name, the name you say so rarely. Satoru remembers it, and he does not. The memory has become distorted with age, has gone grey and lifeless, and Satoru cannot remember that which used to be so familiar to him.

How many times have you told him you love him? It’s not enough that he could forget; Satoru hasn’t become neglectful in their abundance, because you will not allow them to become abundant, and so has tried to capture each one in his memory. He didn’t know that he could forget things, when he was seventeen, still reeling from Suguru, still so raw from his betrayal. But, months later, Satoru had realised that he could not remember how much taller Suguru had been than him when they had last checked at the beginning of the year, and he had realised that despite his Six Eyes, Satoru Gojo was not infallible or omniscient, and that he had to try to remember the things he could not allow himself to forget.

How many times? The first, when he was seventeen, of course. Moments, later; sometimes, when he says it, you will say it back, and his heart will fill with love so much that it hurts him. Of course, sometimes you will not say it back, and will send him an exasperated look, like you think he is playing a game. This hurts more, but he will not let you realise it.

His eyes are growing tired. There is more than just the ceiling, in his vision; there always is. There is his cursed energy, both opaque and completely transparent, curling and undulating like a living being, or like fog, with tendrils like a scorpion’s tail. It surrounds him, and surrounds everyone he looks at, enveloping and encasing them and entrapping them without him being able to hold it back.

This is not his technique, which Satoru can control. This is his raw energy, powerful beyond belief, powerful enough that Satoru cannot bear to look at the ceiling anymore. His vision is clear and overwhelming, both simultaneously, and he cannot focus on one thing like normal when there is a sea of nothingness, of expensive modern lights that came with the bedroom and white plaster and nothingness, nothingness, and Satoru sees everything. His eyes sting, painfully dry.

He closes his fist around the blindfold he keeps on his bedside table, and places the material against his eyes. The room darkens, and twists, and Satoru can see again. This was the blindfold she had laughed at, before he had gotten her to cry.

The wrongness returns; that guilt, the disgust, that he feels whenever he thinks about the woman. Or the women: Satoru cannot pretend she is the first, or that she will be the last. Satoru cannot have you.

Satoru fucks the way they want him to fuck, and he will call them a slut if they want him to, and he will be the best sex they’ve had in years if he can get them to say something good, tell him something he cannot hear anywhere else. That was so good, this woman had said to him, and Satoru had lapped at it like a savage cat to curdled milk. Their words are empty and shallow, and yours are rich with time and knowledge and love. But Satoru will scavenge for what he can, now, carnivorous and desperate and empty.

The woman had laughed at the blindfold, when she had craned her neck to look around his room, and asked him whether he was going to use it on her. Satoru had shaken his head and kissed her, distracting her, and he had swallowed down the surge of loathing at the repugnant idea that he ever would.

Satoru remembers you putting on his glasses at the beach, and the innocence of it all, the way his stomach had flipped at the sight of it. And you, running your fingers over his blindfold when he had discarded it after a day at work, when you had brought it up to your eyes and told him that it was cool, really, how he could see through it like normal when to you it was just really dark.

His day had been pitiful, up until then, and he had been so tired, even if it was making him feel better to pretend that he wasn’t. But you had held up the very thing that kept him sane, and had made as if you would put it on, and Satoru had only had to watch you to feel better.

That’s all it takes, these days. Satoru only has to see you, and it’s better. You have his heart between your gloved fingers, and yet you do not squeeze it tightly enough for it to beat.  

[silentgravesdontexist]

I've come to yell about Seraphim!Ace more because you've given me the most extreme brain rot (as someone who is so far away from them even being introduced, oops)

I know the Seraphim are younger clones due to technology constraints apparently but what if Seraphim!Ace is the first they managed to clone in his prime age when he died?

And lets say Akainu got so mad when he saw S!Ace malfunction so badly due to the partner he couldn't kill at marineford. So fearing another Rouge/Roger situation Akainu suspects Ace fathered a child with his partner, so he makes it a main directive for S!Ace to hunt his own family down (with back up plans incase S!Ace malfunctions again)

Of Course S!Ace malfunctions again, memories and sensations flood to his mind overriding the mechanical brain, sending error after error message, Hes about to tear himself apart to stop it all when he hears his child cry from their nursery down the hall and suddenly his mind is silent. His heart hammering in his chest and he breaks out into a cold sweat. His child he never got to meet. He may be a cloned-cyborg but he has the Will of D. A soul so fierce can it be stopped? His memories rush, he was terrified of being a father, his own crippling fears and traumas of his childhood suffocated him, the same situation happened, he left his partner and child alone, just like his dad. He is the monster he feared. But he hears it again, the cooing of his baby. His partner is trembling with emotions they can barely process, they take a step toward the sound, hesitantly, he watches them, same panicked expression on his face. They take another, and another. His body moves on its own as he follows. The errors still silent in his mind even if he knows they are there, but a greater force is driving him now.

There in a crib, he sees it. A small bundle with a fiery motif'd blanket. His heart clenches so hard he feels like it will combust, or explode. He freezes, his heart beat is in his ear drums. He can't hear anything anymore. Until his s/o hushes and coos back to their child. S!Ace watches them scoop them up, with such tenderness, that he can't even fathom in his head anymore.

Dirty blonde hair, images of Rouge's wanted poster flash in his mind, a red Hibiscus. He stumbles backward holding his head, he feels like he is going to hyperventilate, as A curly blonde child missing a tooth flashes before his mind too.

He hears a footstep, his head snaps back up to his s/o and the bundle in their arms. The babe's cheeks are dusted in freckles, S!Ace can no longer breathe, he doesn't register that he is shaking, tears pouring from his eyes as he stares bewildered. His mouth is dry. Lips chapped.

Before he knows it his hand betrays him, fingers twitching as he raises his arm slowly, his mind is screaming at him all over again to stop, a million doubts and conflicting thoughts running through it at once.

But his finger brushes the baby's cheek. Its soft. It's the softest thing he's ever felt in his life. His Wings wrap around himself as he breaks down. His S/o wraps their free arm around him and he falls into the embrace like a feather. Terrified of everything he is feeling, he holds them shaking, speechless. But the baby looks up at him his once dark eyes staring back at his golden starbursts. They grab his finger and he bristles. Feathers standing on end gooseflesh erupting all over his body.

His s/o says something impossibly tender to him. And brushes their nose against his cheek. The sensation makes him want to break down all over again. He buries his face in their hair, tears streaming down his grief stricken face. He didn't understand anything anymore. His very DNA and soul fighting the rigid metal and wired parts of him. He wanted to burst into flames but he found he couldn't he felt incased in ice, but also as if he was being swallowed by the sun itself.

He swallows trying to find words. Any words at all. But he can't his throat was too tight. He squeezed his eyes shut and clenched his teeth, clinging to his S/O. Still feeling the tiny firm grasp his child had on his finger.

A new red alert appears in his mind and he tenses up impossibly. The back up plan is approaching. A buster call on this island, he can feel the other units growing closer. A total assault, every living being would be eradicated on this island to ensure the end his s/o and infants lives. To wipe out the cursed bloodline and those sympathetic to it once and for all.

He had a choice to make. He had to act now.

His humanity

Or

His orders

Flesh, blood and soul

Vs

Cold hard steel, calculated code, and genius technology.

What would win in the end?

I'm gonna be honest. This wasn't rlly how I imagined the 2nd part as but this too good to be left to rot in my asks. Soooooo.....

@ofoceansandtombsanew @captainportgasdace @that-student-that-has-homework @lynndt-chocolate @acesdiary

Ya'll HAVE to see this.