#the exact moment i stopped functioning and my soul left my body

[butterfliesoverfeelings]

When a Heart Breaks in Silence

There’s a peculiar kind of ache that blooms when you’re told you’re everything someone desires—but not someone they can stand by. It’s not the sharp kind of pain that pierces suddenly and leaves you gasping. No, this pain is quieter, more insidious. It settles in like a shadow, clinging to the edges of your soul. And you begin to ask yourself questions that feel endless and cruel: Why am I not enough? You comb through your every word, every flaw, every silence, searching for the exact moment you became too much or not quite enough.

And maybe the cruelest part is this: life doesn’t stop for you. Your world can shatter on an ordinary Thursday night—just three days before your final exam—and the earth keeps spinning as if nothing happened. The seconds tick forward, indifferent to the cracks spreading through your chest. I still had to show up the next morning, as if I hadn’t begged myself to focus, as if I hadn’t collapsed in tears hours before. As if my heart wasn’t quietly bleeding beneath the surface.

I swallowed a packet of instant coffee, chasing its bitterness like a lifeline, just to keep my hands steady. Every part of me screamed to collapse, to break, to stop. But I forced my body to move. I walked into the exam hall, made small talk with a hollow voice that somehow convinced even me. I smiled at friends who didn’t look close enough to see the storm raging inside me.

No one saw the weight I carried that day—the invisible burden of what-ifs and why nots, of words left unsaid and questions left unanswered. Nobody noticed the way my hands trembled as I dragged that weight into every answer I wrote. All I wanted was to scribble the truth into the margins of my exam paper: Please, someone make it stop. Take this pain away. He could’ve waited until after my exam. Why didn’t he wait? Why didn’t he care?

Instead, I wrote clinical definitions of pain and detailed the symptoms of headaches, even as my own head throbbed in ways no diagnosis could ever explain. The irony of it burned—a cruel joke, to write about physical pain while something far deeper twisted inside me, unseen and unspoken.

And that’s the hardest part: the next day arrives, and you’re expected to rise with it. To carry on as if nothing happened. To smile, to function, to exist. Like a wilted sunflower that can no longer chase the sun yet is forced to witness another sunrise. But when no one sees you fall apart, who’s to say you ever touched the ground? When no one hears your whispered prayers, who’s to say you weren’t begging?

If a heart breaks in silence, does it even make a sound?

Because some pain doesn’t scream. It doesn’t shatter like glass, demanding attention. It breaks like waves, slow and persistent, eroding you in places no one else can see. And the world moves forward, oblivious. The sun rises, and you’re expected to rise with it. But what do you do when every step forward feels like dragging the weight of a shattered heart no one will ever notice?

Yours truly,

Forever wondering through this suffering.

©butterfliesoverfeelings

[orange-plum]

So I was commissioned by @andrastesassets to write about the scene in “Satan and Me” where Satan gives his wings away for Natalie, but from his POV. This was kinda a big turning point as a wake-up call in the series for him, as you’re probably aware if you’ve read past that point and seen him be more open with his feelings and such. Anyway, it was a fun little thing to explore (yes, this is canon thoughts of his). I never expected to be commissioned to explore deeper into a canon of my stories that hasn’t been put into words before with the images alone of the updates, but I’m def open to that in the future!

Without further ado, here you go.

The looming presence behind him paled in comparison to the disorienting lurch his stomach gave as he kneeled on the unwelcoming cement floor. Keeping his gaze down, concentrating on the little tremors of his arms holding him upright, Satan struggled to properly see through the fog of stress clouding his mind. Clouding his judgement.

Fuck, this wasn’t the right thing to do, was it? Was he being too hasty? Should he spring up and sprint out the door before he followed through with something he couldn’t come back from? This was definitely one of his more impulsive and reckless decisions he’d ever committed to. Nothing could truly be worth this kind of –

Satan’s hand twitched, starting to rise as nerves got the best of him, when a blur of orange and maroon hovered on the edge of his peripheral. For a brief moment, he found himself vaguely wondering what the smudge of color was in the expanse of drab brown walls and muted trim. 

Reality came crashing against him like an unforgiving tide for what seemed like the tenth time this morning. Sweat gathered at the base of his neck and he swallowed.

Satan returned his palm flat against the cement, locking his joints and muscles into place so that he would not stand up. His stomach did another discombobulated lurch.

Right. This was for Natalie. Natalie, who had no right looking so gray, Father, she was like a corpse.

She is a corpse! His mind howled the confirmation at him, leaving his breaths shallow in his welling panic.

Yes, that was true. It had been true for hours now, yet, somehow, the complete depth of what that really entailed eluded him in his denial. How could she be dead when she had talked to him only moments ago? Human’s lives had always felt fleeting, but had any ever felt quite this temporary before? 

Less than a year they had been together . . . How had she burrowed this deeply under his skin? When? Satan tried to conjure a memory to pinpoint the exact moment Natalie had become a constant in his life as he bore his back to Death and Pestilence. In the end, it was fruitless. Between his ears remained endless static.

The tension in the air was suffocating. His arms trembled, but he kept his jaw clenched.

He would give them no further satisfaction when taking the last bit of value he still possessed of his former self. They would not see him fall apart at their feet. That could come later, when left in the privacy of this cold, dreary room, where he could lick his wounds and recover in peace.

He was still Lucifer, the Morning Star and omen of destruction to all who opposed him, wings or not.

But, fuck . . . Father, he would prefer to keep his wings.

Somehow, boneless and lightheaded from the trauma of the morning, Satan noticed, with a small sense of intrigue, that his back actually felt heavier now that it was empty. How was that possible? 

The long gashes where the trunks had been swiftly carved open spewed boiling trails of lava down his skin, soaking into the hem of his robe and pooling Great Lakes onto the floor. Energy had left in his limbs the moment the numbing kiss of Death’s blade breached his muscles.

On wobbling legs, Satan rose in his shock and joined Natalie at her side. He carefully reached toward her, gliding the tips of his fingers against her ashen cheek, almost afraid to touch, because she looked exactly the same. What the hell? She looked no different than when she had been splayed out like a weathered ragdoll amongst her bedsheets at sunrise, goddamnit. 

Before he could garner enough strength to turn on his company and spew venom and vitriol from his lips, Satan froze. Warmth wafted over his fingers under her nose as he lowered his hand. Closer inspection revealed the gentle rise and fall of her chest. The nauseating cramping in his stomach abated so suddenly, he almost keeled over right then and there.

“Give it a few minutes,” Death commented over his shoulder, as if reading his mind. There was no longer a smile in his voice, his face a neutral mask as Satan glanced at him with gritted teeth, the sight of his former pride being folded up and collected like loose laundry too much to bear. “It takes a little while for a soul to acclimate into their body after death. I assure you, her color and liveliness will rekindle when she wakes up.”

Through the haze, Satan vaguely realized he must’ve been making some type of suspicious face when Death suddenly snorted and shook his head, his eyes gleaming. “For all we’ve been acquainted, Lucifer, you should know I’m not one to break my word. Give my regards to little Natalie when she rejoins the land of the living, won’t you. As always, it’s been a pleasure. I look forward to seeing you and your brother again when the time comes for your big day.”

With the room empty, peppered only with the soft sounds of Natalie’s breaths and the distant echoes of Death’s laughter down the desolate hallway, the elephant in the room was no longer avoidable. Satan slumped against a wall, transfixed by the rise and fall of the chest beside him. Even more so as the rosiness began to fill Natalie’s cheeks the longer she breathed life into her form.

His previous adrenaline had left him a hollow puppet, now that there was no longer the turbulent cocktail of anxiety and doubt weighing on his shoulders. Satan allowed himself to drift to the floor, lying beside the only person he had ever met who had compelled him to do something so utterly foolish. Jesus, her daredevil stunts to ground him at his lowest points seemed to have rubbed off on him, and likely not for the better.

Satan’s wounds throbbed at the edges, a constant reminder of the magnitude of what he had just done.

Don’t think about it, his mind lethargically reminded. What’s done is done, so don’t start regretting it now.

“Prophecy child, huh . . . ” Satan muttered, his arm leveraged under his head like a makeshift pillow. The light cascading through the windows almost seemed to light up Natalie’s hair in its luminescence. Amongst the carnage splattered around them from his sacrifice, she was ethereal and without blemish.

He had found out about the Child of Prophecy by chance, becoming enraged at the notion of being kept in the dark so late in the game. Natalie’s existence had changed from an everyday annoyance to one of unbearable burden.

She had the power to sway him? To sway his empire and everything he worked for? A being like that, who would steal his autonomy or cast him spellbound, was too dangerous to fraternize with. There was just too much on the line to risk throwing away for some goofy, loud-mouthed human without an ounce of self-preservation.

And so Satan had done the only logical thing he could think of at the time: He ran away, leaving her with that pitiful, crumpled face as he rejected her in that inconsequential Oregon town. The less time he spent with her, the better off he’d be.

Only . . . That had not played out as he’d hoped. Watching Natalie disappear over the side of a bridge had been like a bolt of electricity coursing through his body. That she would see him as the monster that he was, a grotesque monstrosity that even Michael had recoiled from, and attempt to help him, regardless? Well . . . Perhaps there was more to Natalie McAllister than he had originally considered. He’d cradled her close and winced while he repaid her kindness by accidentally boiling her alive.

Oregon was a wake-up call.

Natalie had piqued his curiosity, her smiling reassurance that she didn’t befriend monsters jumpstarting the heart in his chest that he had presumed stopped functioning centuries ago. Not only that, but he had no way of knowing he would soon find out that running toward the very man attacking her and her cowardly little friend, despite the blatant terror in her eyes, was only the tip of the iceberg.

“Oh,” Satan muttered, something foreign flooding into his chest, emotion catching in his throat as he stared at Natalie’s slumbering form.

Silencing Hell for him at the cost of her soul . . . 

Calling him her guardian angel. Crying, not for fear of Hell, but for fear of being separated from his company . . . 

As much as he wanted to deny it, the fondness in Natalie’s eyes as she smiled at him was undoubtedly genuine. She really did seem to look at him like he hung the stars above her head.

“I love you, Lucifer. I’m glad I got to meet someone like you.”

Satan trembled, unable to properly sort through the sensations overflowing from his chest as Natalie’s eyelashes began to flutter. Champagne bubbles tickled his stomach, and though not required to breathe to live, he felt so remarkably breathless at once.

So that’s what this is, Satan distantly thought, watching pale eyelashes finally parting to reveal a cognizant gaze, blinking against the trickle of sunlight warming her cheeks. When meeting Natalie’s eyes, he couldn’t keep the smile of relief from his face.

Satan understood that he had never experienced this before, but he somehow knew what to latch onto in his jumbled mind with unquestionable conviction.

I love her.

[svnaslove]

request for tsukki with a crush who has a crackhead energy and she manages the team

this is such a fun hc, thank you for requesting! sorry i took so long on it, i’ve been really lagging on school, i still am but i had some down time hehe

Tsukishima crushing on manager with crackhead energy

genre: absolute crack, the source of where crack cracks the crack. crack. and a dash of fluff on that crack.

warnings: n/a

oh my god where do we even start

tsukishima has no idea why he likes you he hates his head for being such a simp for you or where ever da fuk this feeling is coming from

like the amount of energy that you have, jumping around and always cracking jokes and doing the upmost unbelievable shit, he doesn’t get it, why does he want to see you all the time?

the amount of crackhead energy that you have in your body can beat tanaka, nishinoya, and hinata COMBINED, bc of that you ended up being good friends with them

one time you guys were heading out in the volleyball bus to a match and nishinoya bet that you wouldn’t try to ride on top of the bus instead of going inside of it while driving to the match

YES ON TOP OF THE BUS, YOU CLIMBED THAT BITCH AND SAT ON IT😭😭

poor ukai nearly died of a heart attack when the bus started driving and noya and tanaka were dying of laughter and ukai thought something fishy was going on so he stopped the bus and went outside and saw you just sitting on top of the bus like “yo wassup ukai mah dawg”

Tsukishima was absolutely without words “why tf did you do that” “why tf did you not join me?”

bitch had no idea what to reply, just put his headphones back on bc he himself started wondering why he didn’t join you, congratulations, you broke Tsukishima Kei

and to top it all off, you can be an absolute crackhead one second and the next you’re paying the most attention ever to a match and writing mad notes on that clipboard of yours

when tsuki first saw you do that he felt like he just go slapped in the face😭

HOW TF DOES SHE DO IT

ngl he kinda tried to uncrush on you

it didn’t work😔✊

he really tried doe, f in the chat for tsuki

he was really out her trying to avoid you at all costs but you would just be EVERYWHERE

after a while tanaka and nishinoya got on that tsukishima had a crush on you, not hinata doe, he’s so clueless smh

they told you and you were like “wait dat kinda make sense doe😳” because tsuki was always weird around you and he would be ✨extra mean✨ and ✨extra stiff✨

so you, nishinoya, tanaka and hinata were plotting on how to take the upmost advantage of you situation

hinata kept suggesting to try to make tsukishima as flustered as possible just so that everytime tsuki called him short he would bring up that exact moment

“hinata how are we gonna do this, the only emotion that boi shows is 🧂salt🧂”

so you all decided upon it and the next day

poor tsuki, he was just a simp and he didn’t know how to handle his emotions and he was about to be absolutely attacked 😭

you walked in to the volleyball practice with the shortest shorts in history

the boys were practicing their spikes and daichi spiked noya in the face by accident because he noticed you first lkdfjsdlkf

“sorry guys, all of my other shorts are in the wash hehe”

u fukin liar

you looked over to tsukishima and the POOR MAN

HE JUST DROPPED EVERYTHING AND WAS JUST STANDIN STIFF AS A BOARD AND STARING AT YOU FKLJDS

tsukishima.exe has stopped functioning

you two locked eyes and you smiled at him and he legit lagged 

yamaguchi was next to him and he thought tsuki was having a heart attack LMAOO

and the entire practice long you were throwing the CHEESIEST pick-up lines ever at tsuki, the poor soul

“ hey, hEY TSUKI! Are you a parking ticket? because you got fine written all over you” 

noya literally chocked on his water because he was right next to him and heard it ldskfjs

“are you from Tennessee, because you’re the only ten i see~”

“no y/n, im Japanese.” 

“ 😐😑 ur no fun”

he’s sitting on the bench on water break and you just plop next to him and throw your head on his shoulder dramatically 

“So tsuki-man, aside from being sexy, what do you do for a living?”

at this point the poor man is done for, he is so embarrassed by the entire practice’s event of you throwing yourself all over him that he can’t even function enough to be salty

“Y/N can i ask you something?”

“mm?” your head still resting on his shoulder.

“why are you acting...weird...around me”

you giggled at his question yet still didn’t budge from his shoulder.

when you first started, you were going to see tease him just in a friendly manner, but afterwards you started noticing how cute he was whenever he would try to hide his flushed cheeks whenever you came nearby. ‘do i have a crush on him too?’ was the only sentence running over and over in your mind. and now, with your head pressed on his shoulder your stomach sending butterflies through you, your had decided that you did. what else could explain how you all of the sudden felt a little nervous as the time passed by?

“a lil birdie told me you liked me”

you felt him stiffen under you, the days events tired him so much he didn’t even know how to respond, he just,, sat there and tried to look for an answer to give you but all that came up to him was tv static.

“i think i like you too, you know” you said, holding your breath, hoping this wouldn’t end up embarrassing for you too.

tsukishima’s body relaxed a little and you could faintly hear how fast his heart was beating. 

“that’s good” was the only words he could muster out as he slightly stuttered.

you reached over and lightly held his hand, the intertwined hands of you both were semi-concealed as you just sat there and tsuki took his break, drinking water and watching the rest of the team practice.

noya, hinata, and tanaka were walking by to check up on 

Operation Fluster Tsukishima™

and noya was the first to notice your hands.

“WHAT THE HELL”

“wtf noya, what is it?” tanaka boi was confused as hell

“YOU TWO ARE HOLDING HANDS??!?(&$*(@&” poor hinata stil believed holding hands with the opposite gender could make you pregnant, bless his soul.

tsukishima literally bolted up from his seat as if his seat had those deject buttons from cartoons. 

“wtf y/n why you holding by hand” 

awkward award goes to tsukishima kei

he started walking away towards yamaguchi who was seeing everything that was going down from the beginning was nagging tsukishima to tell you that he liked you already

“what the hell tsuki-man, we were just having such a heartfelt moment”

you could see that he slightly smirked as he walked away.

and there you were.

left with these three knuckleheads

all freaking out.

“YOU ACTUALLY LIKED HIM WTF )&&^&$*#$()*#)”

________________________________________________________________

that was an absolute rollercoaster and i don’t regret a single word, thank you anon for requesting this, i didn’t know i needed this absolute ride😌✨

[soapdish290]

Harrow the Ninth may be one of the best books I’ve ever read.

Under the cut for some of the questions I need the answers to, as well as me mulling some implications / potential theories.

Harrow the Ninth is horrifically, horrifically dense, and is the first book I’ve ever read that made me take actual honest to god notes on first reading, but my entire GOD is it worth while.

I’ve never ready anything with a form / point of view quite so immensely complicated whilst still adding to and complimenting the narrative. Absolutely masterful shit.

I’m going to go hog wild with spoilers under the cut.

Edited in a probably fruitless attempt to make the formatting not The Worst on Mobile

IT WAS NEVER IN SECOND PERSON OEFHAUIOFNBaufbhAPIhbaip

It was always Gideon. I kind of jokingly wondered if it was back when I first heard it was going to be written partially in second person, but I didn’t BELIEVE it!

Things we should have known

1. There are so many clues that Harrow has inexpertly switched her cognition of the very word ‘Gideon’. I mean we know she’s wiped HER Gideon out of her head way back in Chapter 2 when John talks about Harrow’s Cav, name drops Ortus, and Harrow notices “As he spoke, his mouth looked strange.” Well yes, hearing something out of sync with what’s actually spoken will do that!

But we can actually see that it’s MORE than that way back in the Dramatis Personae. Everyone has their name, written out grammatically and normally, and then we have ORTUS. All in caps.

Obviously the real tell however is the codenames in Chapter 36. We know from Cytheria’s funeral that the Lyctors are naming themselves [Necro first name] [Cav first name]. The codename’s reflect this - apart from ‘Ortus’s’, which is G.P. P for Phyrra, G for Gideon. That’s when I got it.

What I MISSED, is that this tells us, right there and then, that he was very involved with our Gideon, who is named for her mother’s last word. Her mother whose last word was for OG Gideon.

2. Palamedes knew there was a perfect Lyctorhood and outright told us way back in chapter 33. “Tell me you [became a Lyctor] correctly. [...]Tell me you finished the work. You out of everyone could have worked out the end to the beginning I was starting to explicate”. I had to stop and stare at a wall for a bit with the implications of this one, at the time.

Things we now know

1. The thing for me, the real thing, is how goddamned casually the answer to one of the biggest mysteries is dropped. It’s an afterthought. Chapter 51:

“You clawed my face so bad that my blood ran down your hands; my face was under your fucking fingernails. When I let you go you couldn’t even stand, you just crawled away and threw up. Were you ten, Harrow? Was I eleven?

Was that the day you decided you wanted to die?”

Gideon is trying to work something out. She’s trying to parse together how Harrow opened the locked tomb. The entire opening part of this chapter is Gideon’s brain, whirling, working, following the reveal that the Necrolord Undying’s “unbreakable ward” was a blood ward. Rightfully, a ‘cell’ ward. And that Gideon is God’s blood.

So what have we learned?

In order:

We've learned that only John could open the ward. That Harrow couldn't possibly. That the latter half of her life has been a tragedy based, as is oft the case, on a misapprehension.

Then we learn that God is wrong, because he doesn't understand blood wards as well as he thinks he does.

We learn at the same time, through implication, that the locked tomb is blood warded (and think back to Gideon Prime's advice to Harrow RE warding).

Then we learn that our Gideon was birthed to be a weapon used to open the locked tomb. She is the blood of God.

And here, casually, that when Harrow decided to commit suicide by ward, she did so with our Gideon's fresh blood underneath her fingernails.The locked tomb has been open for 8 years.

(as an aside this is ‘casual’ because Gideon’s entire goddamn existence has just been torn asunder by learning her parentage and hearing what might become known, in the literary canon, as The Dad Joke Undying. It’s casual and seemingly disconnected because Gideon is dissociating to FUCK and Muir is a damn MASTER of linguistic form echoing narrative function).

2. “Alecto had your eyes from the moment any of us first saw her.” Harrow, who is in love the the body in the tomb, would have seen this, too. A 10,000 year old body with the same exact eyes as Gideon Nav. Nothing specific to add here. Just... worth noting. There are potential implications.

3. Oh yeah, Wake’s spirit was in the sword as well as Cytheria sometimes. OG Gideon probably knew this when he was macking on the corpse, seeing as both he and his Cav were fucking her. Although she ALSO very much tried to kill OG Gideon, so go figure. Wake was haunting Harrow and trying to steal her body. Apparently people were having trouble with this.

Things we do not know, but would like to.

1. ‘“Augustine”, he said, “if the man you were - the man you were before you died, before the Resurrection - could hear what you just said to me, he’d tear your throat out.” Augustine said, “Thanks for confirming that.” And then he was silent.’

So, this has some pretty legit implications right? Augustine has just told John to give up on his ‘invasion force’. So either Augustine has changed over 10,000 years and John hasn’t, or else Augustine was LITERALLY someone else before the resurrection. This leads in to the next thing that I Would Very Much Like to Know:

2. What the BALLS caused the Resurrection. What WAS the resurrection. Why was it necessary. Why does John need an invasion force? What, succinctly, the fuck is going on?

3. John says that he will forgive OG Gideon for failing to “fix or put down” Harrow. A scant page later he says that he “was trying to save her”. Save her. By ‘putting her down’. That’s not the language you use for someone you’re trying to save. That’s the language you use to minimise what you’re doing. What the fuck was John doing. Who was he manipulating. He told Harrow he wished she was his daughter. He asked OG Gideon to try and kill her. Why. What the fuck my dude.

3. The Stoma at the bottom opened for John. They’re only supposed to open for the Resurrection Beasts. “some kind of heinous underworld that only opened for the undead souls of monstrous planets”. What the fuck IS John, at this point? I can’t help remember that he had bodies and souls left from the Resurrection - he used them at the start of the book to rejuvenate the Ninth House and ‘buy’ Harrow. I’m reminded of Teacher from Gideon, who was 50 men. Of Harrow herself, who is 200 children. How many is John? Cytheria said she was doing her work on behalf of the 10 billion. The population of earth in the presents near future? of the solar system? Going back around to an earlier point, WHAT DID JOHN DO.

4. Gideon-in-Harrow is saved by the body. By Alecto, who speaks “with the wrong voice twice removed”. Whose voice? Why is it wrong? Who is she talking to when she asks for chest compressions? I assume she’s with Blood of Eden? With the Sixth and Coronabeth?

5. The Harrow who wrote the letters still knows more than we do. She knew that Camilla was around, that Corona was, that Judith was. She knew enough to know that Judith would need to be muted instantly.

6. The Epilogue. To me the implication is that they have Harrow’s body, but do not know who is driving. They give the bones and the sword, and look for a reaction.

7. Gideon’s body. Where is it. The assumption is that Blood of Eden have it. Why.

8. Oh, Gideon outright states that Ianthe was playing games with Harrow, up to and including lying about seeing Cytheria’s body under her bed (fucking nightmare fuel right there by the by). Not surprising, but oddly specific if just doing it for shits and giggles. Could just be that Ianthe assumed Harrow was doing all the made shite on her own and just egging her along, could be something else. Doubt we’ll find this one out, I’m probs overthinking.

I’m definitely missing a lot. I could also list the fucking effortlessly cool shit that keeps happening in this book, but this is long enough.

[iamnotoriginalphil]

Hotel Rooms and Early Mornings (Helena Bertinelli x f!Reader)

Synopsis: There’s only one bed

Words: 3k

Warnings: smut, swearing

**GIF not mine**

You stared down at the single bed. When you’d hastily checked in you had asked for a double room and had been reassured the two of you would be very comfortable. You had stupidly assumed that meant there would be two singles, not a single double. You had thought it was odd the way the check in clerk had emphasised the word friend but had been too focused on getting into the room to pay any attention to it.

“Well, this is a surprise.”

Helena was staring at the bed too. It was perfectly made, chocolates on the pillow, the exact kind of place you had once dreamt of being able to afford to stay in. Now you wished you were anywhere but here.

“I can go downstairs and ask for them to fix this,” you said, already turning away to go back to reception.

“No, it’s late and we can both fit in that bed,” she said, putting her hand on your arm, stilling you instantly, “lets just go to sleep. We have an early start tomorrow.”

“If you’re sure.”

“I’m going to have a shower.”

She disappeared into the bathroom, closing the door behind her with a soft click. You sunk down onto the edge of the bed, burying your head in your hands. Normally you’d be fine sharing a bed with a friend, if you weren’t hopelessly in love with said friend. You weren’t sure you’d be getting much sleep that night.

“Are you alright?”

You hadn’t noticed the door to the bathroom open, nor the puff of steam that had exited the room with her. She was looking at you, concerned. You sighed.

“Just tired. If you’re done, I’m going to shower.”

She let you pass, surrendering the bathroom to you. You shut the door, closing her away from you and the complicated feelings constricting your heart. You sighed again, squeezing your eyes shut. You ran the shower, trying not to imagine Helena in the exact position you were now standing, water streaming down her naked body, her hands running over her skin. You turned the water from hot to cold.

When you emerged from the bathroom Helena had turned the lights off, the bedside lamps throwing up a soft glow to the room. She was looking out the hotel window onto the dark night. Her face was nothing but shadows and highlights, a painfully beautiful picture of light and darkness.

“Left or right side?”

She turned, looking less interested in the outside world than the one in your little room. She gave you one of those soft smiles that made your heart skip a beat. You gave her an answering smile.

“I don’t mind. You choose.”

You slipped into the bed, the sheets soft against the bare skin of your arms. Helena turned the lights off, climbing into the bed beside you. The city lights outside the window were just enough to cast shadows in the room. You turned your head, finding dark eyes staring back at you.

“Goodnight,” she whispered.

“Goodnight.”

It was hard to relax when the scent of Helena wrapped around you. Every shift of her body was like an earthquake to you and the warmth rolling off her in waves was making it too hot for your brain to function. Given all that, it was a surprise when you eventually dropped off to sleep.

You awoke to the soft light of early morning and a pair of strong arms wrapped around you. You closed your eyes, snuggling back against the warm body pressing into your spine. Warm breath ghosted over the back of your neck. You let out a contented sigh, getting ready to go back to sleep.

“We have to get up.”

Helena’s voice was raspy first thing in the morning, managing to be both sexy and adorable at the same time. You grumbled, pulling her arms tighter around you. She chuckled, running her nose up the column of your throat.

“We have a job to do.”

“It can wait,” you mumbled.

One of her hands slipping under your shirt, her fingers stroking along the skin of your stomach. You stiffened, the niggling voice in the back of your head finally being heard. This wasn’t right. This was wrong. Helena should not be acting this was.

She sighed, drawing her arms tighter around you. You grabbed her wrist, not sure if you were trying to pull them of you or hold her tighter.

“What are you doing?” you asked.

“What do you mean?” she murmured.

Her lips brushed against the skin at the nape of your neck, sending shivers down your spine. You turned to face her, finding her face so close to yours the only way you could see her was if you crossed your eyes. You drew back a bit, one of your hands coming up to press against her shoulder. Her skin was silky under your touch, the thin strap of her tank top barely noticeable.

“Why are you touching me like this?” you asked, “we’re not…”

“Dinah told me this week would be the perfect time to tell you about my feelings,” she said.

“Helena, I know you think that explains things but it really doesn’t.”

“I am in love with you.”

Any words that you might have thought of saying in response died before they could ever formulate. You sat up, her arms falling from around you. The quilt pooled around your waist as she sat up too, drawing her knees to her chest.

“Dinah thought you felt the same. Was she wrong?”

You shook your head, still trying to wrap your head around the sudden change your life had taken. You had dreamed of this kind of confession from her but you had never thought it would happen. It had been a fantasy to fill your spare time with, not a reality you would have to face.

You turned around, putting a palm flat on the mattress to keep you from falling back. The colour had drained from her face and she was looking up at you with big eyes. You weren’t sure you had words to explain what was going on in your head.

You surged forward, pressing your lips to hers. She jerked backwards, pushing on your shoulders to get you away. You fell back, tears ready to fall at a moment’s notice. Her face had hardened, her eyes sharp. You turned away, your hands falling to your lap, your fingers twisting together.

“Don’t mock me,” she said.

“I wasn’t.”

She pushed the blankets off her, climbing out of the bed. She rooted through her bag as your tears began to fall. You bowed your head, letting them land on your hands. This was not how you thought this moment would ever go.

“Why are you crying?”

You shook your head. You didn’t need to explain your feelings, not to her after what had just happened. You climbed out of the bed, stumbling as your foot got caught in the covers. Strong arms wrapped around you, keeping you from falling on your face.

You looked up at her. She seemed worried, concerned, but closed off. You pulled out of her grip, pushing your hair behind your ear. You didn’t want to look at her anymore.

“Let’s just go finish this job.”

“(Y/N)…”

“Right now you’re not going to believe me no matter what I say,” you said, “so I’d rather we just forget all of this and move on.”

You pushed past her, getting ready to dig your clothes out of your bag. A hand closed around your wrist, stopping you before you could get away. You needed her off you, needed just a moment alone where you could get your thoughts straight. You needed to get your head on right or the rest of this trip was going to be unbearable.

“Believe you about what?” she asked.

Her voice was low, dangerous, daring you to lie to her. It sent a shiver down your spine, and it definitely wasn’t from fear. That voice had been the cause of many sleepless nights. Your tongue darted out, wetting your lips. Her eyes darken as they watched you.

“Believe. You. About. What?”

“THAT I’M IN LOVE WITH YOU!”

The only sound in the room was your ragged breathing. You tried to pull your arm from her but she held on tight. She tugged you into her body. You caught yourself, your hand landing on her shoulders. Her free hand tangled in your hair, pulling you forward.

Her lips were insistent against yours. You slid your arms around her neck, keeping her close, pressing your body against hers wantonly. Her hand pushed against your lower back as her kiss consumed you body and soul.

She picked you up, your legs wrapping around her. Your body was slammed against a wall, pinned completely. You moaned into her mouth, sliding your hands into her hair. She groaned when you tugged on it, pressing against you more insistently.

“Helena,” you moaned.

Her lips attached to the underside of your jaw, her teeth nipping at your skin. Your head fell back against the wall. She sucked on your pulse point hard enough to leave a bruise on your skin. She ran her tongue over it, nipping at your skin again before kissing you hard and intense.

“Helena,” you whispered against her lips.

She hummed, drawing back from you. Her eyes were hooded, her lips kiss swollen, her hair in disarray from your fingers. She’s never looked so gorgeous to you.

“Don’t we have a mission to finish?” you asked.

“It can wait.”

She threw you on the bed. You bounced, falling back on the bed. She climbed over you, straddling your waist. You gripped her hips, digging your fingers into her flesh. Her hands skimmed over your body, pushing your shirt up your stomach. You shivered at the skin on skin contact.

“You’re so beautiful,” she whispered.

You sat up, gently cupping her cheeks. She was looking at you like you were the answer to every problem she’d ever had. You kissed her, softly, slowly, pouring every ounce of love you had into it. She sighed into your mouth, her arms wrapping around your waist.

You slowly drew away. Her eyes were closed, smiling at nothing. You pushed her hair behind her ear. She blinked her eyes open, chuckling. She kissed you again, her fingers running up under your shirt, tripping along your spine.  

“We really should go,” you said, “if we don’t leave now we won’t manage to get to the next city today.”

“I don’t wanna.”

She kissed you again, cutting off the rest of her sentence. You laughed, pulling away again. She followed, not letting you go. You pushed on her shoulders.

“Helena, I love you, but we really do have to go.”

“I love you too.”

You couldn’t stop yourself from kissing her again, all tongue and teeth. Just hearing those four little words were enough to make your heart feel fit to bursting. You fell back on the bed, pulling her with you. She giggled into the kiss, pressing her body against yours. You didn’t want to let her go for even a second.

“If we don’t stop now I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to,” you said as her lips ran down your neck.

“You want to stop?” she murmured into your skin.

“No,” you groaned as her teeth sunk into your pulse point.

Your back arched towards her, every atom wanting to be close to her. If you could, every part of you would be touching every part of her. She ran her hands up your body, pushing your shirt up as she went. You shivered at the cool air touching your skin, chased away by the warmth of her touch.

Her thumb ran along the underside of your breast. You shivered, pressing closer to her. She hummed into the crook of your neck, her lips brushing against the sensitive skin she found there. Your fingers tangled in her hair, holding her close, a moan falling from your lips.

“Helena,” you groaned as her thumb swiped over your nipple, the bud hardening under her touch.

“Yes?” she asked, sitting back on her heels.

She watched your face as her thumb swiped over your nipple again. She looked hungry to see your reaction. Your back arched towards her, wanting more than the light touch. She pressed her other hand to your stomach, pressing down to keep you pinned to the mattress. With her other hand she pinched at the now hard bud of your nipple. You whined.

She pulled your shirt from your body, throwing it aside. Her eyes raked over your bare chest, her eyes darkening. Her tongue darted out, wetting her lips. She traced a finger down between your breasts. You shivered, straining towards her.

“Tell me what you want me to do,” she requested.

“Fuck me,” you moaned.

“How?”

You realised that this might be the first time she might have had sex. She genuinely seemed unsure what to do with you, spread out underneath her.

“Let me show you.”

You knocked her hands from your body, placing one on your breast, the other resting at the waistband of your shorts. Her eyes were hungry as they watched you. You rolled your nipple between thumb and forefinger, your back arching up into your touch. You kept your eyes trained on her, watching her reaction to you.

You pushed your other hand under the waistband of your shorts, you finger running through your folds. You moaned, your hips bucking up towards you.

Another set of hands tugged your shorts down, pulling them off your legs. You circled your clit with a finger, looking up into the dark eyes of Helena as you pinched at your nipple. She bit down on her lip, watching your hands move over your own body.

You hissed as you ground your thumb against your clit. The spring within you was beginning to tighten. Her hand knocked yours from your breast, taking over playing your body. She experimentally rolled it between her fingers, watching your face contort with pleasure. She tugged on it. You let out a strangled noise, surprised by the shot of pleasure that ran straight down to your core. She did it again. Your legs trembled.

“Do you like that?” she asked.

“God yes,” you moaned, increasing the pressure on your bundle of nerves.

She knocked your hand aside. You let out a frustrated mewl, your legs snapping together as you tried to get some friction back. She pushed her hand between them and began to circle your clit as she’d seen you do, her finger barely brushing over your bundle of nerves. Your legs fell open again, bucking up against her hand. She looked on hungrily.

“Helena,” you whined.

Your hand slipped between your legs again. You pressed your finger to your entrance, pushing into yourself. You arched your back as she pinched at your nipple again, her thumb passing over your clit. You whined again as her fingers disappeared from your clit.

She pulled your hand from between your legs. She took the fingers into her mouth, sucking on them as she pushed her own finger into you. You moaned. Her palm brushed over your clit again. Your hips jerked up, your breathing turning ragged.

“More,” you groaned.

“More?”

“Another finger.”

She pushed another finger into you, her palm pressing more insistently against your bundle of nerves. The coil within you was tightening. She bowed her head, taking one of your nippled in her mouth. You made a high keening noise, your back arching into the warmth of her mouth. Her hand began to grind against your clit as her fingers thrust in and out of you. You were panting, your fingers clutching at the sheets beneath you. You were biting down on your lip to keep quiet. You could taste the coppery tang of blood on your tongue, your teeth having broken through the skin of your lip.

“Is this good?” she asked.

“So good,” you moaned.

Her teeth scraped over your nipple. You fell over the edge, your body growing rigid as your orgasm ripped through you. She stilled above you, drawing back to watch you. Your fingers twisted in the sheets, looking right into her eyes as the pleasure coursed through your veins, slowly coming down from your high.

You sat up, kissing her again. She pressed her body against yours, her arms wrapping around your waist. You drew back, tucking her hair behind her ear.

“You were amazing,” you murmured.

Her face looked soft but she climbed off you, turning away. You followed her to the edge of the bed, wondering if you’d said something wrong.

“We should go,” she said.

“Oh, now you care about the time,” you said but didn’t argue.

She took her clothes from her bag, locking herself away in the bathroom. You sighed but pulled on your own clothes. The bathroom door opened, light spilling into the room. You glanced up as you zipped up your bag.

“Are you going to be awkward the rest of this trip?” you asked her.

“I don’t know what you mean,” she replied stiffly.

“Well, just so you know, I love you and I plan on returning the favour when we get to the next hotel,” you said.

She looked at you, wide eyed. You gave her a smile, walking up to her. You kissed her lips, softly and slowly, waiting for her to push you away. Her hands eventually landed on your shoulders, neither pulling you closer or pushing you away. You drew back with a smirk.

“Let’s go. The sooner we get there the sooner we can start having some more fun.”

She shot out of the room so quickly it was as if the devil was on her tail. You followed behind, laughing at her eagerness. Yeah, you’d be having some fun.

[tdoompoet]

Keep You: Preservation of Papyrus

Sans had snapped from the humans endless genocide routes, and so took the option away from them by killing everyone himself first. After so many times doing it on his own, he grew tired (and desparate) from the loneliness. He can't keep it up, but he can't stop, either.

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

(Full story under Keep Reading, with alt link to Ao3 in notes)

(Potentially triggering drawing at end of story)

(CW: injury, violence, genocide, decapitation, body horror)

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

Keep You:

Preservation of Papyrus

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

Not again.

He couldn't do it again.

Yet here he was, covered in dusty remains once more, the population under the mountain made silent.

It had become routine:

Wake up.

(was he really awake?)

Recognize the world had Reset.

(again. he had to do it all again. and again. and again--)

Spend an hour staring at the ceiling, bracing himself for the day's work ahead.

(--again. and again. and again. he had to--)

Slip by Papyrus, busy preparing a fresh batch for his spaghetti trap.

("Today I, The Great Papyrus, WILL capture a human! Nyeh-heh-heh!! --Brother! Don't forget to Calibrate! Your! Puzzles" --yet again--)

Murder Everyone.

After so many repeats (thousands? tens of thousands? how many by the kid's hand, how many by his own?), he was able to go about his self-appointed duty on auto-pilot. Easy enough to slip on his smile, walking alongside the townsfolk and make them laugh or groan at corny jokes as though it were any other day, until they were out of sight of anyone else. Then they couldn't react to anything anymore.

Easy enough for the first dozen or so, as he built up his first few levels of LoVe (don't think about how with his single ATK lousy damage that the only ones he could take down swiftly and quietly at first still being in stars damned stripes--). Even easier once the LoVe trickled into his Soul and what little guilt he could still feel was replaced with adrenaline and the growing reinforcement of the knowledge that he would soon be completely alone in this world once more.

But things would be different this time.

He dusted his way through Snowdin, then Waterfall, and Hotland along with the Core, and finally on his way to the Capitol, careful to keep a good distance between his brother and himself even as the population dwindled to be replaced by gusts of dust, and his growing LoVe became more and more obvious to the point that others went on the defensive as soon as they laid eyes on his on imbalanced red-tinted gaze.

No one would be allowed to stop him. He must complete this before the human arrived and destroyed everyone themself. (was he really any better than the kid, or even that damned flower?)

An encounter with the King would have been likely to end in Sans' favor even before he gained any LoVe, what with the King's own LoVe and guilt making him weak to the mercies of the Judge. This, it couldn't even be counted as a fight. Sans couldn't afford to stop and think of why, if it was because the King believed he deserved the Judgement for all his own sins when there was nothing left to lose, or if it was the shock of grief and betrayal from one of his most trusted-- No, can't think about that. There was a goal to complete.

One last task. And then..

The trip to the Room of Souls was quick. Anyone who earned a Royal title was made aware of its exact location, and given a general knowledge of how the Soul containers functioned. No point in limiting the information to the King alone if his death would also result in the loss of the six souls the Underground had managed to collect so far. No point in denying them what little HoPe was left to cling to.

Now, they were Sans' only means of preserving his own last HoPe.

Soul container collected and stashed in his inventory, a detour through New Home where he quickly found and claimed that damned knife (so many Resets since the kid was last able to hit him, and that scar-that-never-happened still fucking BURNED), and a shortcut later found him blinking a gust of dust mixed snow out of his sockets. And ahead of him on the path, same spot as every other time it had come to this point--

Deep breath. Don't get distracted yet. He was so close to finishing this.

So close to saving Papyrus from the non-existent mercies of the creature masquerading as a human.

Papyrus stood there, seemingly expecting him (as he did every time it came to this point of the timeline), the small remainder of hope being replaced with that soul wrenching mix of grief, disappointment, and ever-present Mercy once he took in the changes to his brother. Once he saw the effects of the LoVe he'd earned.

"Brother."

Sans said nothing. Time was of the essence. The human would be through the ruins soon. But--

"All the Dogi are gone. And all of our neighbors."

"..yea." There was no denying the evidence, he fully knew and accepted what he'd done, but somehow it was still a struggle to get the admission out past the sudden tightness in his non-existent throat at admitting it to his brother.

"Undyne isn't answering her phone."

Sans said nothing. The reason why was obvious. He can't think of how his actions hurt his brother just yet. He'll accept everything Papyrus has to throw at him once this is over. He deserves nothing less.

"She's never going to, is she. Nor any of our other friends." A statement. Not a question.

Every other timeline, he ended it immediately upon shortcutting here before his brother had the chance to talk him down. To allow his guilt and grief to overwhelm him before he could finish and result in his brother being left to the tender (non) mercies of the kid. But if this worked (it WOULD work) Papyrus would be able to say anything he wanted to his Soul's content. He'd be ALIVE to do so.

"..i'm sorry, Papyrus. i have to do this." He was cracking. He needed to get his shit together. He needed to finish before that door opened and everything was ruined.

"Brother, this isn't the way to solve any problem! You KNOW this! Talk to me, I don't underst--"

His barely-wavering appeal, a tangled mess of bravery, belief in his brother, and wet with tears of grief finally released when the truth could no longer be denied, was cut off by a wave of bones surging up behind him. Familiarity from years of training with his brother had him dodging forward into Sans' space without a thought. It was playing dirty, but right now that didn't matter.

Sans took advantage of the familiar routine, manipulating Papyrus into position to move under his outstretched arm, yank him down by the scarf, and within a blink the cursed knife was out of his inventory and through Papyrus' neck.

Everything stopped as quickly as it started, Papyrus never even having a chance to recover from the shock before his body started dusting away beneath him.

"W-well, that's not what I expected," Papyrus managed to say. Sans' soul damn near broke right then from hearing the familiar words usually spoken to the human all those genocide runs ago now directed at himself. But he couldn't let it affect him. Not now. No time.

With speed few would believe he possessed, the knife was dropped, the Soul container was out of his inventory, on the ground, opened, and the orange soul of Bravery tossed aside without a thought. With hands starting to shake, Papyrus' head was reverently lowered inside in its place.

The lid was quickly sealed. Sans remained crouched, staring into the jar and shaking with anticipation as the rest of Papyrus dissolved to dust beside him. The scarf caught up in a sudden gust of wind, fluttering down to catch around himself and the container holding what (HoPefully) remained of his brother. It was hard to tell whether it felt more like a threatening noose or a comforting embrace.

(It was his brothers. Of course there was only ever one option it could be, regardless of what Sans thought he deserved.)

The silence stretched on, Sans refusing to break eye contact for a moment even as a stinging mix of magic and dust dripped into his straining sockets. He couldn't look away, not even to blink. Not until he was sure it worked. Not until--

"Brother, I believe we need to have a talk. There are much better ways to solve problems than shoving people into jars! Well, parts of people! That was very rude! I was very attached to my body! And where did you even find a jar that already seemed to have people parts in it?? They--!!!"

Sans couldn't help it. The tension melted out of him, body falling into a heap between the jar containing his ranting (LIVING!) brother and the dissolving human soul. Tremors wracked him as dreaded anticipation of failure switched too quickly into hysterical laughter, the disbelief of success overwhelming.

Alive. Papyrus was still alive, and still very much himself. Well, until the shock wore off, at least. He was well aware he had a lot to make up to Papyrus for, not that he could ever make up for everything he had done. But Papyrus was safe, ALIVE. With him, and unable to needlessly sacrifice himself to the human yet again.

Sans managed to save him, and he would never have to be alone with his ghosts again.

.

.

.

At the far end of the path, through the woods and over the bridge, a stone door creaked open. The human child stepped out into the snow.

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

A.N. Wasn't sure how to do it, but had the idea of the human coming out of the ruins and being horrified out of their genocidal stupor at the image of Sans gleefully hugging the jar containing his brother's decapitated head, evidence that he'd willfully done it surrounding him. Who knows, maybe it would be enough of a shock to get them to reconsider their choices up to now.

Alternatively, there was the idea that Sans would manage to evade the human while keeping the Papyrus jar close to him at all times (perhaps he even did this early on before killing everyone else), and.. just enjoying what he can of his brother's company before using him as a last resort EXP boost, even going so far as to break the jar and finish dusting his brother in front of the human for the extra shock factor.

But I couldn't bring myself to go that route. With Papyrus having the chance to natter on and chip away at his brother's mental walls while trapped in the soul container, I don't think Sans could have brought himself to murder Papyrus a second time in one run.

[caretaker-au]

The Right Thing 

INTERLUDE: JUSTICE

Certain aspects of Chara's job were... unpleasant. Unenjoyable, even. Perhaps they even felt a little bit bad. But. In the end, it was all for the best. It was the right thing to do. It was just.

Blood ran from the many wounds impaled through the late teenager. The more Chara lifted the body, the more of a mess it made. It wasn’t until Chara’s arms were slick with red that they began to second guess their approach. With a grunt they released the body, stepping back and attempting to shake excess blood from their hands. Hadn’t they hired Muffet to avoid this exact kind of situation?

No, they didn’t want to test Muffet’s patience so soon after the deal had been struck. It was a matter of courtesy to at least make the corpse accessible to her small minions. "This would not be an issue,” Chara muttered to themself, “If only I realised this device needed regular maintenance.” The retract switch on the spikes platform was not functioning today, perhaps having been broken for months or even years. All the switches would need to be tested tomorrow.

The human’s soul had settled above the body, flickering with a soft green light. Chara sighed. One more. One more attempt before they’d return to a previous time, take the soul home, and come up with a new strategy. Chara wrapped their arms under the corpse, and with a heave, began to lift it from where it had settled.

The body was nearly clear of the spikes when they heard the soft crunch of movement on the stone floor just above. Chara released the perforated human and jumped back, looking up. It was quiet now, but lavender dust swirled around the broken edge of the hole in the ceiling. Recently disturbed.

It was probably nothing.

Chara scrambled up the ladder to the upper floor, biting back thrumming panic. 

If it was something, it will be fine.

After all, Chara had created a return point after the child had fallen, and they had even scanned the area to ensure no one had seen. If someone had just arrived now, Chara could always go back and prevent the witness from arriving on the scene. It didn’t matter if it was a monster or even Asriel.

They reached the last rung of the ladder, pulling themself onto the main floor. It was going to be fine. Chara had accounted for everything.

Everything except for the trembling creature curled up against the wall, only a few feet from the hole. 

Another human. Two in one day. The caretaker could hardly believe their eyes. 

Like the last one, it was a female adolescent, perhaps even around the same age. Thankfully, not as tall. Clad predominantly in black, its straight brunette locks were bleached with two ridiculous horizontal stripes of blonde at the bottom. Chara might have described the style as punk or goth, if not for the cowboy boots and hat disrupting the look. It seemed that embarrassing alternative fashion persisted with every generation.

Even so, there was something familiar about its wide-eyed stare and knitted brows. The child staggered to its feet, hat swinging against its backpack by a drawstring around its neck. The child’s fingers clung to the wall as if its legs could give way at any moment. Its body was partially turned away as if to run, but between Chara and the gaping hole in the cracked floor, there was nowhere to go. After a moment, a small voice choked out, "What have you... What have you…?"

Chara did not have the patience or the interest to hear the rest. They swept their arm in a grand gesture before giving a small bow, “Greetings. I am the caretaker of these ruins. My name is…” As they leaned forward, Chara caught sight of the expanse of blood on their tunic. In all the excitement, they had somehow forgotten; the jig was up before it had even begun.

“Ah. Well then...” Chara gave a half shrug, “I suppose we can skip introductions.” 

Chara withdrew their knife with a flourish and descended on the child. While not as simple, stabbing would prove a cleaner alternative to the spike pit. Instead of flinching away, the child squared its shoulders and reached for the holster slung around its waist. It withdrew a revolver. 

There was no warning shot. The child screamed with primal rage, firing only a few feet from their target.

No chance to avoid it. The bullet shot through Chara’s forehead and crashed out the back of their cranium. Little was left of it.

***

Chara grabbed their face, patted it down. It was all there. They were standing in front of the cracked floor puzzle, the green soul and the impaled corpse resting below. Robe clean. They had gone back. 

How could this have happened? If not for their power, everything Chara had worked towards could have been lost thanks to one brat. What kind of child carried a firearm? How could they combat such a thing? They had not seen a weapon like that since... 

No. This was not the time for reminiscing. Where was the human now? It could not have witnessed the fate of the last victim, for it surely would have tried to intervene. That would put the gunslinger a few rooms away at least. 

There was still time to fix things. Unsheathing their knife, Chara took a deep breath and marched towards fate. 

Working their way deeper into the ruins, Chara crept through each empty room until they found themselves at the end: the large sanctuary where all humans came crashing into the Underground. There Chara found their latest guest, back pressed against a pillar and gun in hand. The teenager gasped at the sight of the caretaker’s silhouette through the stone arch. Its eyes, swimming with confusion and fear, narrowed into deep hatred. 

There it was again. Where had they seen that look before?

The human raised its weapon towards the caretaker once more. Chara clenched their fists. Indignant. Wide-eyed. Smiling. In the tense silence, Chara spoke. "What's this? Are you surprised to see me?" 

"The devil never went down easily."

Chara chose to ignore this.

"I see that humans haven't changed," chided Chara, gesturing towards the gun. Disgust held captive their visage. "My father was obsessed with the vulgar things." 

Chara continued forward, reminding themself they had faced plenty of dangerous situations before. Staring down the barrel of a gun was new, but nothing to be afraid of. It didn't stop their palms from sweating. 

The brazen child scoffed. "Sounds like your dad had the right idea."

Chara remained unimpressed. "You are a criminal," they said. "A murderer. Vermin."

"Criminal...?" the child repeated, voice rasping. Stepping forward, it shook its head: "No. I'm justice!"

The teen shot twice. The first bullet pierced Chara's throat, and the second, their brain.

***

Chara grasped their neck, stumbling back from the edge of the cracked floor. It was worse that time. The pain was now only a memory, but it rang through their mind like a high pitched squeal following a deafening sound. This time, the intruder would be the one to bleed.

Chara rushed towards the back of the ruins to meet their prey. As they rounded a corner, a bullet cracked the stone wall inches away from their head. They pulled back to stay behind cover, glimpsing the teenager before it fired the second shot.

“W-W-We—” Chara cut themself short, disgusted by the shaking in their voice. They could hear the muffled steps of its boots approaching their hiding place. Chara tried to swallow, but their throat was dry, “We can do this all day if you want to.”

“I’ll kill you as many times as it takes.”

“That seems a little excessive,” Chara held their knife in front of them, angling it to try and see the human in the blade’s reflection. It didn’t work. “I haven’t even done anything to you.”

“You—!” the child’s voice cracked, raising to a shriek, “You killed my friend!”

Realization washed over Chara. “So you’re the friend,” they leaned over, picking up some dead leaves scattered at their feet, “If I remember correctly, your friend said it wanted to spend more time here. I did it a favor.”

“Shut up! Don’t you dare talk about—”

Chara tossed the leaves out of cover, and the child fired through them, its finger wrapped tight around the trigger. Taking advantage of the gap between shots, Chara leapt towards the human, knife raised high.

They had miscalculated. 

The child was a few paces out of reach. The gunslinger adjusted, firing three more times in rapid succession. Two shots missed, but one tore through Chara’s elbow. Chara collapsed, the knife skittering out of their hand as they grasped the joint with their other arm. Pain ripped through their body, their scream drowning out the click-click-click of the shooter’s empty gun. 

Right, the screaming. How undignified. Chara stifled their voice, struggling to raise their head to their assailant. The child had backed away, searching the room for something to replace the now useless gun. Its eyes settled on Chara’s knife.

Chara wouldn’t give it the satisfaction. They gripped their ruined arm and pooled their willpower. They needed...

***

Another fresh start. Chara grabbed their knife and stormed into the ruins ablaze with fury. The child may have firepower, but they were immortal. 

Immortal but not invulnerable. Chara slowed and looked down at their renewed arm. There had to be another way to do this.

A plan began to formulate in their head.

Chara sheathed their weapon and continued, cautiously checking each corner. “Child, enough of this! I would like to call a truce.” Chara called out, their voice echoing. No response. They continued forward, calling out again, “I have a proposal that will benefit us both.”

Chara felt a bullet fire past their head, the gunshot reverberating throughout the chamber. Chara flinched but caught a glimpse of the gunslinger hiding themselves behind the doorway of the next room. They fought the urge to chase them, and instead smoothed their robe and ran a hand through their hair. There were broken strands where the bullet had passed by.

“Do you not tire of this game, human? Surrender and I will reunite you with your friend.”

“I don’t make deals with the devil,” the child scoffed from behind cover.

Chara chuckled, “You would throw away this chance for such a trifling matter?”

“You killed her.”

“And you killed me. Yet I still live.”

The human stepped into the open, lining up Chara’s skull with the revolver barrel. Its eyes flashed with a familiar menace.

“Wait,” Chara said, raising their hands, “You have witnessed my power. You would be a fool not to use it to your advantage. Killing me means losing your chance to be with them again.”

The child’s gun began to lower before it snapped back on target. “I’m not going to kill you. I’m going to execute you.”

The human’s grip tightened around the trigger and Chara threw themself to the side as the shot grazed their arm. Chara stumbled, backing around the doorway for cover just as another shot chipped the wall. They grabbed their arm where the skin had been broken. Nothing serious.

“Have it your way then!” Chara shouted back, “I will let your friend know you chose to abandon them.” Chara broke out in a sprint, towards where they had left the body.

“What? Wait! Come back!” The gunslinger made chase, boots pounding against the stone floor, “Don’t touch her!” 

The human chased Chara down a hallway and raised the gun, firing two more times. Both missed. Chara disappeared around another corner of the labyrinth and the shooter barreled forward in hot pursuit.

The child entered the next room revolver first and Chara, waiting in ambush, slashed their knife across its raised hand. The child screamed, the gun dropping from their hand along with two severed fingers. Blood gushed from the wound and the disarmed creature fell to the floor shrieking.

Chara stood dumbfounded. They looked from the dismembered fingers to the bloodied edge of their blade, then started to laugh. “Would you look at that,” they crooned, “This thing is rather sharp, is it not?”

Doubled over, its bleeding hand pressed against its belly, the human was reaching for the dropped gun with its intact hand. Chara collected it before the shooter could reclaim it. The revolver was well taken care of. Other than the fresh blood, it was sparkling clean with a pearl inlay in the handle. The kind of gun Chara could imagine hung above the mantle of a dead-end suburban home.

“If I have been counting correctly,” Chara placed a finger on the trigger, “There is one bullet remaining.” They leveled the barrel with the child’s head. Tears ran down its face as it glowered up at Chara.

“You said—” it choked, “You said you could reunite us. Was it true?”

Chara smiled, “Yes. You will be together forever.”

***

After picking a spot in the room that was clear of any blood, Chara shook the contents of their victim’s backpack to the floor. A lightweight jacket, compass, some sort of flashlight, rope, miscellaneous makeup, and two rectangular bottles of soda made from a paper-like material. There was a small flat metal square that looked like a compact mirror, but when Chara tried to open it, the current time and words requesting credentials showed up on the top. Some sort of watch or communication device? Chara placed it in the discard pile. 

They opened up a black wallet with a spiderweb design on the front, where some loose cash and a couple punch cards fell out. Punch cards in this day and age? Ridiculous. Tucked in the back was a physical ID, with the name of a high school printed on it and the year 2076. The thumbnail-sized picture showed the human with an awkward grin and blue marbled background, its hair not quite as atrocious as it was currently. Chara stilled.

The child’s family name—it was their last name. 

Chara dropped the wallet, taking the card with both hands, and read the word over and over. What was it that the apron-wearing human had said? That there was a familiarity—a resemblance—between Chara and its friend?

“Coincidence,” Chara murmured, flicking the ID into the discard pile. They paused to glance at the two soul containers they had brought with them. They sat side by side, a green soul in one, yellow in the other.

“Or maybe... it's destiny.”

interlude: justice // end

[ ✧ START ] [ « BACK ] [ NEXT CHAPTER » ]

[delicatelyherdreams]

Pragma(tic) 24: She Mends a Body and a Heart

Pairing: Persephone!Bucky Barnes x Hades!Reader

Summary: In a world where the old gods never truly died, you must learn to navigate your way through the ups and downs of immortality. And if living forever wasn’t hard enough, an ancient evil is now threatening to break free after centuries of silence. And as if that still wasn’t hard enough for you, now a pesky and infuriatingly handsome god is trying to wedge his way into your life. Gods, work, love, and conflict—what more could a goddess need? [Hades & Persephone AU]

Word Count: 4016

Warnings: Language, mention of wounds

Pragma(tic) Masterlist

Previous 23: Her Heart Betrays Her

The fires of Hell seemed dull compared to the fires of the forge. 

They were hot. They made you tired. They cast a ghastly glow over the walls.

But there was no place you’d rather be. 

Tony was right; having complete control over your own project was therapeutic. And the project you were working on was even more so.

You were constructing Bucky’s prosthetic arm. 

As an amateur builder, you didn’t know if it was such a good idea to be responsible for such a major task, but Tony had assured and reassured you time and time again that you could do it. He told you that he was confident in your ability and that he would be there to help you if you needed it. 

You worked day and night on your project, sculpting the arm and embedding it with nerve endings and mechanics to make it function properly. Tony helped you with the exact operations to make it like a real arm, but the whole thing was crafted by you. You took the measurements Tony had taken and used them to build his arm. It was surprising how easy it was for you, but you had a feeling that Tony was giving his divine blessing to you to make you more adept and capable. You appreciated this.

You made Bucky’s arm out of vibranium—the rarest metal on earth—and embedded it with rivers of gold. You crafted it with tender care and love, each detail added painstakingly to make it perfect. You would settle for nothing less than perfection. He deserved nothing less than perfection.

You spent a month and a half working. Peggy took over running the Underworld and Clint volunteered to lead all of the dead mortal souls to the afterlife for you while you were in the forge which allowed you to devote all your time and energy to your project. You appreciated them immensely. You needed this break.

You found that Tony was right: working on something you controlled entirely allowed you to cope. With every passing day, you found yourself losing tension in your body. A weight was being lifted from your shoulders.

You accepted your father’s death, finding the strength to move on. It was surprising how easy it was to push past his death, but, then again, you did hate his guts. You’d spent the majority of your life keeping him in the corner of your mind, letting him plague you always. You let the trauma he’d inflicted fester without fully forgiving it and healing. But now that he was dead, you were able to let it go, and, as the month came to a close and your project neared its completion, you felt lighter than ever.

It was liberating.

“Hey, kid!”

You looked up from the arm you were working on. You’d been polishing the metal and buffing out the blemishes with heat. Your hand glowed hot with hellfire embedded in your skin and you pulled it off as you looked at Tony. “Yeah?”

He had his bag slung over his shoulder and a lopsided grin on his face. “I’m calling it quits early tonight. I’m taking Pepper out for a date.”

“Alright.”

“Will you lock up if you leave? I trust you in my forge, but I don’t like it open if it’s unattended.”

You understood this so you nodded. “We both know I’m not leaving, but yes I will if I do go.”

“Thanks! You’re the greatest!”

You heard the heavy forge door slam shut behind him and you were left alone. You almost preferred it like this. 

Left to your own devices, you warmed your hands again and began to even out the rougher parts of the surface. This was the finishing touch, really. It had already been tested for flexibility and function and, after one simple procedure, the arm would be a perfect replacement for the one that Bucky had lost in the battle.

You just hoped he’d accept it. It was crafted to be your apology to him. It was an offering to say “I’m sorry for getting you hurt. I’m sorry you lost your arm because of me. I’m sorry if I’m not worth it.” You hoped that the love you’d put into this gift would be enough to earn his forgiveness and show him that you still cared.

The creaking of the heavy forge door pulled you from your thoughts, but you didn’t look up. “Forget something, Tony?” you called out as you took your hands off it and allowed them to cool. Taking a soft cloth from the work table, you used it to polish the surface of the metal.

There was a pause before a voice that definitely wasn’t Tony’s responded, “No. I have come to talk to you.”

Your hands stilled and you slowly brought your eyes up to meet Winnifred’s.

She looked dressed for gardening in a pair of simple jeans and a green blouse. Her dark hair was tied back in a loose bun. She was pale and dark circles rimmed her eyes. She looked exhausted. She met your eyes without delay, though you could see the slight anxiety in her posture. She was nervous about something, though you couldn’t tell what.

Perhaps it was because your hands were glowing with heat.

You stood up straighter, taking your hands off your project. “Winnifred,” you said, your voice adopting formal diplomacy, “to what do I owe this pleasure?”

She looked uncomfortable under your gaze as she shifted her weight from side to side. “I… I wanted to talk to you. Privately.” She was quick to add on that last part as her eyes darted around.

“Well, we are the only ones in the whole forge. This is about as private as it gets.” You weren’t going to leave. You were still working and leaving would just disrupt your progress. You looked back down at your project and continued to polish the arm’s surface. “What is it that you need?”

“It’s about my son.”

Your motion faltered for only a second. Anxiety began to bubble up in your chest. “Wh-What about him? Is he alright?” you asked, your voice fighting to stay calm and even. 

“Yes! Yes, he’s fine. Everything is progressing well in his recovery. He’s doing well.”

“Then why have you come?” You didn’t understand why she would come all this way to visit a person she loathed.

Winnifred hung her head as if she weren’t quite sure of the answer herself. “I wanted to thank you!” she finally blurted after a short pause. The suddenness of the claim startled you both and she looked taken aback by her own words. She hung her head.

It was… odd to see her like this, all submissive and repentant. There had been a time when Winnifred was nothing but snarky with you at council meetings or in the streets. She hated you with a burning passion and was never afraid to let you know it. But now she was almost reverent for once. She was tiptoeing around her words and choosing them carefully. She was watching her tongue and actions and keeping them in check. It unnerved you to be treated with such respect by her. You supposed that this was a result of your explosion on her after the council meeting despite it being months ago.

You frowned at her. “For what? I haven’t done anything for you.”

“For saving my son’s life.” She took a deep breath and glanced up. “I… I watched him try to fight the titan to save you, but you dove in front of him in time to stop the blow and when he… when he…” Her voice cracked and she pressed her lips together tightly. Her eyes found the ceiling and stayed there for moments on end. You could see her eyes reddening. “When he lost his arm… You were there to stop the bleeding. You saved his life and I… I know we’ve had our differences and I really don’t like you, but I have to thank you for that. You saved my son and for that, I owe you everything.”

“You owe me nothing.” You sighed and hung your head. “I would’ve saved him regardless. I couldn’t bear it if Bucky were killed because of me. He’s too precious to me.” You breathed a laugh and shook your head. “You don’t have to thank me for something I would’ve done anyways. Besides…” You shrugged and placed your hand on the prosthetic once more. Dragging it against the vibranium before you, you watched your reflection become clearer. “My life wouldn’t be complete if he wasn’t a part of it.”

Winnifred fell silent, her expression conflicted. “You love him, don’t you?” she asked, her voice as quiet as a whisper.

You nodded. “Yeah. I do. With all my heart.”

“I should’ve guessed.” She sounded resigned by your confession as if she expected this. “I really don’t like it, but I suppose I don’t have much of a choice. My son is grown; he can make his own decisions on who he loves.”

“And you really don’t have the power to stop me,” you added nonchalantly.

“Don’t remind me.” She pursed her lips. “You should go to him.”

You paused. “I’m sorry?”

“Go to him. In the hospital. He asks for you every day, wondering if you’d gone to see him. He’ll never ask me, but one of the nymphs brought it to my attention after the tenth time he’d asked for you. He’s quite confused as to why you haven’t gone to see him yet.”

“I did see him… Once…” And he was sleeping. You hung your head. “I can’t face him yet. Knowing what I’ve done to hurt him, I don’t deserve to see him—not until I’ve finished.” 

Winnifred’s eyes trailed down to the prosthetic you were working on. “Is that for him?”

“To replace the one that was stolen by my father,” you confirmed. “I can’t leave until it’s complete.”

“When will that be?”

“Soon.” You paused in your work and looked up at her again, your gaze unsure. “Do you really think I should go to him?”

“I do. I know he loves you more than he’s ever loved another. He needs you, (y/n). Please, don’t keep away from him too long—for both your sakes.”

You frowned at her. “Why are you doing this?”

She shrugged as she took a step back, beginning to make her way to the door once more. “I’m not sure myself. Maybe it’s because I’ve finally accepted that my little boy has grown up. He’s going to love you whether I approve or not. I’d rather not lose him over something silly like this. Just… Promise me you’ll take care of him? He’s still so young and I fear for him every day. But… If he had the Queen of Hell protecting him, then I might just sleep a little better.”

You smiled softly at her and nodded. “I promise.”

An understanding between you was forged in that moment—one where she finally accepted you as a part of her son’s life and where you vowed to love him. After years of bickering and animosity, you finally found it in yourselves to tolerate each other.

———

Your heart hammered in your chest as you stood in the white halls of the hospital. You felt out of place in your dark clothes and a large prosthetic wrapped in cloth in your arms. It’d been a while since you’d last been here and you wanted nothing more than to get out.

But you had to be here. He was calling you—pulling you to his side.

Behind the door, inside room 107, your love lay in wait for you. He didn’t know you were here, but you figured that he could sense you. Your aura had grown stronger since the execution when you took on another domain and you reeked of death. It was not a good omen for a hospital, but you had to be here all the same. You only wondered how Bucky would react to you after being apart for so long.

You knew you didn’t have to be nervous; this was Bucky after all. You loved him and he loved you. But you still feared the worst. What if he was disgusted by the very sight of you? Appalled by what you had become? Would he send you away? Would he ask to never see you again?

Logically you knew that each situation was more unlikely than the last, but you were still afraid. You were afraid of being rejected by the only man you truly loved. 

You glanced down at the white cloth that covered the arm you’d built for him. Would he accept it? Would it even fit him? You’d done your best to make it exactly like the left arm he’d lost, but was it enough? Was it suitable for a god?

There was only one way to find out.

Steeling your nerves and shifting the prosthetic to one side, you slowly raised your fist and knocked on the door of his room.

“Come in!” urged the voice of a god and you stopped for only a second. Gods… How you’d missed his voice…

You swallowed the lump in your throat and slowly opened the door. 

The room had taken on Bucky’s personality over the weeks he’d been here. When you first visited, it’d been bare and sterile. There’d been no color. But now it was lively. Bouquets of flowers filled almost every available surface and the room was bright. The colors made you dizzy, there were so many and so vibrant.

The only occupant in the room was sitting on the bed and your eyes found him immediately. He wasn’t looking at you yet and this gave you time to appreciate him. 

His hair had grown out a considerable amount. At least two inches had sprouted, giving length and volume to those locks you loved. He’d grown a short stubble of a beard as well. You could only imagine how prickly it was. He looked good. His skin was tan and warm and he had a small smile on his face as he looked down at the book that was opened in his lap. His hand fondled the page, rubbing the paper between his thumb and forefinger. His other hand… His other hand wasn’t there nor was his arm. The hospital gown covered the stump that remained, but you could see the bandages peeking out from under the short sleeve. It was pure white and haunting—a chilling reminder of what had provided it. 

Bucky’s eyes stayed on his book as he turned the page. “Is it time for my meds again?” he asked, his voice even and expectant.

You forced your voice to work as you set the prosthetic arm down on a side table that had a bit of spare space. “I… I don’t know. Do you usually take medicine at,” you paused to look at the clock, “1:30 in the afternoon?” You crossed your arms and hugged your body anxiously.

His head snapped up as he heard your voice, his blue eyes going wide with disbelief. His lips parted in a silent gasp. His gaze was filled with wonder as he looked at you like you were the only thing in the room. He whispered your name like a desperate prayer. “You came…”

“I came.” You offered him a weak smile as you took a step into the room. “I’m sorry it took me so long, but I—”

He was out of the bed in an instant, his legs making wide strides over to you. You had to drop your arms as he engulfed you in a tight hug. His arm clutched you tightly, his fingers digging into your back as he buried his face in your neck. “You came,” he repeated, his breath warming your skin.

You shivered beneath him as you wrapped your arms around his torso, holding him just as tightly if not more. Oh, how you’d missed this—missed him. You clung to him desperately, taking in every inch of him. Your face was wet. Tears streamed down your face, dampening his hospital gown. But you didn’t care. You just wanted to hold him and be held by him.

His shoulders shook with silent sobs as he held you tight like he couldn’t believe you were there. You could only imagine what was running through his mind.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, your voice breaking on the second syllable. “I’m so, so sorry for everything. For all the pain—”

“Shh…” He shook his head in your neck. “You don’t have to apologize, Doll.” He pulled away ever so slightly, letting his hand fall from your back and rise to cup your cheek. His thumb brushed your tears away and he gave you a watery smile. Tears of his own were starting to fall from his eyes as he gazed at you. “There’s nothing to forgive.”

Your lips trembled as you looked him over your eyes falling on his left shoulder. “But… I hurt you.” Your shaky hand reached out to what remained of his left arm but you stopped before you actually touched him.

“You didn’t do this to me, (y/n),” he said taking your hand and guiding it to his arm. He let your hand linger on his wound, not even flinching. You figured that it had mostly—if not fully—healed by now with immortality helping him. “You are not responsible for this. Your father is. But, from what I heard, he’s gone now.”

“He is. I made sure of that.” 

“I’m sorry.” he inhaled sharply and leaned forward to press his lips against your forehead. “I’m so sorry you had to go through that. I… I wish I could’ve been there for you, but I wasn’t. Now, for that, you will need to forgive me.”

You stared up at him, a soft smile covering your lips. “There’s nothing to forgive.”

He chuckled. “I guess not.” He reached down and took your hand. “Come. Let’s sit down and talk. I haven’t seen you in two months. I missed you.”

You went willingly, smiling at him as you brushed lingering tears away. “I missed you too.”

He climbed back into the bed and slid under the thin hospital blanket before lifting it up for you to join him.

You felt a little squished as you squeezed into the bed meant for one, but it was cozy. With your body pressed against his right side, he was able to wrap his arm around you and pull you in close. You turned into him, resting your head on his chest and wrapping your arms around his torso. He’d lost some weight. He was thinner around the middle.

He pulled you in close and buried his nose in your hair, taking a moment to simply breathe you in. His body relaxed more and more with every passing second, soaking in the comfort of your presence that only you could give.

In all honesty, you felt more at peace in this moment than you had in months. Being with him had some effect on you that you couldn’t explain. It was lovely and you never wanted it to end.

“Where have you been?” he asked after a while, his voice husky with longing.

“Working,” you mumbled into his chest. “I’ve been in the forges working… I needed to be able to do something productive to get into a better headspace.”

“Is that why you didn’t come to see me?” His voice was hurt but sympathetic. You could tell that it had pained him that you didn’t come to visit him, but he understood needing space. You appreciated him for that.

You nodded. “I couldn’t come until I was done… Until I had something to offer you as my apology for everything I’ve put you through.” Your eyes flickered up at the cloth-wrapped arm still sitting on the table. “I brought it with me.”

“Oh?”

“Mhmm. I wasn’t sure if I should even come, but then your mother visited me and—”

“My mother?” He was astonished. “You mean the woman that hates you went to see you willingly?”

You couldn’t refrain from giggling. “Yeah. She came in to tell me that I should see you and she gave us her blessing in a weird way. She’s not happy with it, but she finally realized that she can’t really stop us if we want to be together. Anyways, she was the one who really convinced me to come. I wasn’t sure I should until she told me to. But, again, I couldn’t come empty-handed.”

“What did you bring me?”

You smiled softly at him. “Let me show you.” You pressed a quick kiss to his cheek before pulling away from him and sliding off the bed. You made quick steps to the table where you’d left your creation waiting. You could see a small sliver of gold shimmering through a gap in the cloth. “It’s not much,” you said, wrapping your arms around the metallic prosthetic, “but it’s all I have to offer.” You took a deep breath and turned to him. “I worked on it for about a month and a half to make it perfect for you. We tried to get all the measurements right.” You carried it over and deposited it on the bed beside him. Taking great care, you unwrapped it slowly. The black metal shimmered in the light and the gold was as radiant as the sun. You heard Bucky’s sharp intake of breath but you couldn’t look up. “It’s not much, but I figured it’s a suitable replacement. Tony helped me with the wiring.” You could feel your nerves growing and you looked down. “A-A simple surgery will attach it to your body and nerves and it’ll be just like the old one only—you know—metal. But you’ll be able to feel things and move it just like you did your arm and I made it from vibranium so it’s indestructible and—”

“(y/n).” He took your hand to pause your rambling.

You swallowed and looked up at him. “Yes?” Did he hate it? Did he not want it? Had you made it for nothing? Your heart pounded in your chest.

His smile was soft as he gazed at you, his eyes dancing with light. “Thank you… This… This is more than I ever could’ve asked from you.” He moved his hand from yours and placed it on the metal prosthetic. His fingers traced over the embedded gold with a tenderness you’d only seen him use with you. “You made this for me… You made a new part of me…” He let out a breathy laugh and shook his head. “Why?”

“Because I love you.”

His head snapped up as the words poured out of your mouth.

It took you a moment to realize why they’d shocked him.

You’d finally said it.

I love you.

After all this time, you finally told him. 

His lips were parted in quiet wonder. “You love me?” he whispered softly.

You could only nod. “With all my heart.” It was relieving to tell him. It’d felt like a secret lying heavy on your shoulders and, now that you’d finally told him, you were free of the burden. Because you did love him. You loved him more than you’d loved any other being. You loved him with every fiber of yourself and with everything you had. Why you hadn’t said it earlier, you didn’t know. But you were glad you’d said it now. Now it meant something.

He opened his arms to embrace you and you found a home in him once more. He held you close and hummed. “I love you too.” He pulled away just slightly to place a kiss on your lips.

A kiss that said, “I love you.”

A kiss that said, “I need you.”

A kiss that said, “I won’t ever let you go again.”

And that made you love him even more.

Next 25: She Almost Murders Someone (Again)

[atlantisaurum]

Lifetime

At 11pm he was digging up a hole in his own garden. Raindrops shattered on his face, mixing themselves under the tears, not to be distinguished here in the rain some February night in a year preceded by restless hours of isolation and pens in his hands, writing unspoken eulogies whenever he could not sleep. It´s hard to keep track of the order of all the deaths that happened throughout the last decade, all of his life.

Roots as thick as his forearms tormented his way down to a depth to lower the casket in, which he built, hoping it would make him feel less helpless, now, that another soul passed his still young being by. A flash light and an umbrella, held by his only remaining relative, kept him company next to a raging emptiness subsided by inner cries and screams. He had to keep digging otherwise it would be to late to do something, to help, to have a positive part in this inconvenient event in a row of even more inconvenient months.

Hope, first a stranger then a part of his family for 16 years, gone. Wryly and bitterly, he thought: “At least he doesn´t have to endure this anymore.” She cried night and day, crying for someone to give her love and company. His father gave it to her. Is there a place for humans and dogs next to the gods somewhere, anywhere that is not this place? Eternal solace and purity after one injection of sleep? Maybe they will find themselves together at a heavenly equivalent of north shore beaches of Germany in Spring and Autumn. “It doesn´t matter.” Nothing could sooth this loss, this last connection to his father. Sure, there still was the house, three times as old as him, built by his father blood, sweat and tears. It´s just not the same – empty, lonelier even more after his grandmother´s passing. Occupying her old room simply made him colder and his heart more cynical.

Hours passed before he was done digging this testimony of a lost cause, a withered away duo of a family. They lowered the baby-sized casket into the hole. He was silent, only muttering abbreviations of sentences and words as answers in the general direction of his blabbering mother. There are more than two ways to cope with situations like these. He and his mother lingered on opposite sites of the spectrum. One either turns into their parents or into the complete opposite. Both of his parents, marvellous in their own ways, imperfect as every other being as well. He feared to turn out like either of them. Where does one find the balance between obnoxiously loud and forever shut inside ones own head?

Fear and a promise urged his life forward for an unbearable amount of time. Stretched so thin he wasn´t even a person anymore. If one isn´t a person one will forget how to cry.

But he cried, at least he thought so or hoped so. Not crying meant it would kill him at some other point further in the future. He couldn´t bear it. When does it ever stop?

Continuously, every other week or month, he asked himself why he was the person he turned out to be. For these questions, bitter and melancholy answers are at hand but never satisfying enough to keep the doubts and hate from lurking back into his mind. Why couldn´t he accept a shoulder to cry on? It is simply easier to be quite than to explain anything at all. Every book, every last poem, piece of prose has its origins and its far fetched interpretations and general analysis but nothing that is not an exact copy of the authors mind can never fully explain the words felt and written.

Nothing ever will have enough matter to fill a black hole. It will suck in everything surrounding it, turning it into lifeless, non-existent, meaningless and fleeting occurrences. “It doesn´t matter”, he thought again. “My body is real, so is this soon to be covered in unwanted weeds and white wild flowers now filled up hole.” This existentialistic thought scratched at the walls of his head, ripping the wallpaper off and leaving behind but a white space once touched but now an unlovable place for non-permanent acquaintances of his life. Nothing stays, nothing lasts. `This too shall pass.´ But it never really seems that way in these awfully long lasting moments. Tomorrow he would still be existing and had to live the life given to him unasked for and unwillingly lead from crisis to crisis.

Soon, he knows, he would forget the tone of his dogs voice and the vibrancy of her fur in winter. So many memories repressed so he was able to breathe.

At 3am he opened the door of his car, leather gloves on his hands, but he knew his knuckles turned white by the way his hands started cramping after uncountable minutes of just holding onto the steering wheel, not even driving, just sitting, trying not to break down into even smaller pieces. His life was spread all over the globe, one chipped piece at a time. America, France, Spain, Italy, Germany - an endless list of places covered in blood only he could see. There was nowhere to go.

He turned the key around and starting driving. No specific aim, goal or place to end up at – driving simply so he wouldn´t be anywhere any time at all. Constantly moving in order not to linger.

A lightning struck above his head, enlightening the hardened lines of his face. He knew the roads, where they would eventually lead him. Every path has its end, every turn he made unconsciously brought him closer to where his heart needed to be in that very moment, after all of this morbid digging and the cries of his mother still ringing in his ears. A trip he had taken one too many times that led him to the grim realisation that he made a crucial mistake at being a person befriending another one. Taking anything, anyone in particular, for granted. Nothing ever is granted. Everything is temporary, time is fleeting and the air passing every single being by is only a recollection of what had been, could have been and something of what may never be.

The car seemed to shiver as he turned left and drove up the agricultural road, opening the scenery up to see a horizon waiting for the sun to touch its colours and tint it with its warm beams. He turned off the car. The breath he took did not help his lungs to steady themselves. Heavy was the weight sitting on his chest as the tried to open the door and begged his legs and feet to move him out of the car, onto the mushy and dirty field, awaiting the light of the new day to come.

His feet sunk into the dirt, covering his shoes in mud and torn off grass. “It doesn´t matter”, he thought again. “No one ever profited off of Nihilism.” He moved to the front of the car and leaned again the it, feet still on the ground. He needed to feel the ground beneath him, needed to feel the connection to something that wouldn´t die on him. “We´re killing this planet.” But the earth always had the remarkable ability to recover from any form of human interference. Chernobyl, only 30 years later nature recovered, animals repopulated themselves and it is now a fully functional and living place for nature and its inhabitants. But who is a boy compared to the wonders of the earth? Everyone can only ever endure and hope the pain eases. What is the last straw?

Miserable to his core, sinking deeper into the mud, the sun started to rise. Fog appeared at the horizon behind the trees in the forest that was before him. He couldn´t even count anymore how many girls he had taken to this place. He didn´t even know why he had taken them in the first place. To impress, to share, to show sparks of depth that he usually would not let anyone see? He was fooling himself. He took them them just so didn´t feel as lonely as he did now seeing this astonishing view all by himself, wondering why no one stayed long enough to see the sun set again with him. He could never to honest with himself. Lies followed lies followed lies followed by a dead end. So many things had ended when he had tried to fix them. “You cannot keep lying to everyone just because it seems like it is more convenient for you. If you keep lying, you´ll get lost in your lies and might never find your way back to the truth and to those who are sincere”, she had said to him once. “I´m sick of being treated like a secret. Stand for what you do, whom you´re with and why.” How was he supposed to tell the truth if he did not even knew it himself?

Truth is simple once one acknowledges that anything that differs from its pure form will ultimately lead one into a false perception of reality. Reality, just as time, is relative. Factual reality and emotional reality are two completely different things. “I cannot stay here”, he muttered, got back into his car and took off.

[thanksjro]

“Bullets”, a Last Stand of the Wreckers prose story- Ironfist Solves a Murder Mystery

Now that Overlord and Rewind have been exploded horribly in the vacuum of space, multiple people have died, and Chromedome’s horrifically single, let’s take a look at all those Last Stand of the Wreckers extras, yeah?

We more or less start with a Furmanism, as is tradition.

One day Furmanisms won’t be nearly as prevalent within the comic publications, and that is a day that I cannot wait to see. Forget politics, forget misogyny, forget basically NEEDING Death of the Author in effect to enjoy anything the man’s done- Furmanisms are a crutch that everybody in this franchise uses, but nobody needs. They never feel natural, in my opinion. It’s like a literary obligation at this point, and you can tell, because it never quite meshes with any writer’s style.

Anyway, this is the setup for what would happen on Pova- the Wreckers have been watching Squadron X fix up their ship, and now that the thing’s airborne again they’ve gotten itchy trigger fingers. Well, some of them, anyway. Rack n Ruin aren’t so sure about this whole thing, seeing as there are eight of them and an entire battalion up there. Impactor’s working the crowd though, as a leader of such a high turnover rate group is required to do, and that’s the point where First Aid stops reading.

Yep, this is one of Fisitron’s datalog entries, of which First Aid is a fan.

This isn’t First Aid’s first appearance within the IDW continuity- he played a role in Spotlight: Jazz, where he lived up to his name, and in Transformers: Ironhide #1, where he was in the background. This IS his premiere as a major player in a story, however, and it’s here that he’s revealed to be a bit of a slacker- he should be making the rounds at Delphi right now, but instead he’s reading entry logs about the wartime equivalent of a boyband.

He hits a key to quicktab to something at least somewhat medically-related as he feels someone approaching from behind. It’s the CMO, and he is in no way fooled by First Aid’s attempt to hide his shame. He gets back to work, but that particular entry- 113, because of course it is- is still on his mind. Hope he never finds out it’s a load of bunk.

I REALLY hope he never finds out this is all bunk. We all need something, you know?

Of course, First Aid- y’know, not to brag or anything- personally met one of the Wreckers. Roughly five years ago, Springer had approached him at a medical conference on Kimia. Why a medical conference was being held on Kimia of all places isn’t addressed, but it was probably because half the folks stationed there are doctors. First Aid, being a classy guy, fucking ogles Springer the entire time they’re talking.

You’ve heard of “Men Writing Women”, now it’s time for “Roberts Writing Robots”. Yes, this is THAT scene, and it’s on the first goddamn page.

First Aid, wanting to be of use to his idol, offers his medical expertise, completely willing to fix Springer’s nose, give him a breast reduction, and even update the circuit dampeners he doesn’t have. Springer, while flattered, isn’t looking for that sort of help. He’s looking for folks who have a lot to give.

The phrasing he uses makes First Aid think that he’s about to be recruited to the Wreckers- in other words, about to be put in line for a slow and awful death- but Springer clarifies that he’s looking more for eyes and ears to help him, not so much bodies. He hands First Aid a card with his number, and says to give him a call sometime.

Cutting back to the present, First Aid is walking through the rows of patient slabs, where we see an honestly horrifying practice in play- every patient in Delphi has their non-essential functions turned off to conserve power. This includes things like the ability to move, and speak.

Because that couldn’t possibly have any negative repercussions.

He checks in on the Fader he’s been assigned, confirms that, yes, his head IS still missing from his neck, then makes to walk out of the room, only to be startled by the sudden entry of a stretcher and Ambulon. Here, Ambulon is identified as a chief paramedic, as opposed to being a ward manager. Whether this is early installment weirdness or a simple mistake isn’t clear.

Ambulon is quickly followed by Dogfight, Dodger, and Backstreet(’s back, alright!) First Aid gets to work, by checking the three of them for injuries, paying special attention to their Autobot badges.

This is the reason Rung had to call in at the beginning of MTMTE #4, though it might be more because First Aid can’t act like a professional of five friggin’ minutes.

Oh, Delphi’s HR department is getting a call for sure.

First Aid, while a known fondler of badges, has never had this exact reaction. He runs off to make a phone call, leaving the injured Dodger to wait for the surgery he’s going to undergo the moment First Aid gets back.

Meanwhile, somewhere else- I’m guessing Kimia- Rung has an appointment underway with a dude named Flattop.

Flattop’s TFWiki article is one of the most depressing on the entire site, and it’s completely “Bullets”’s fault.

You see, Flattop’s attempting to talk through his trauma, but it’s difficult.

This level of insight is why they pay Rung the big bucks.

The war, while terrible for everyone’s mental health, has given Rung a slew of patients to handle.

Gee, wonder who that medic was.

Anyway, so Flattop’s deal- he was at Babu Yar, which was an event that was apparently so terrible, everyone involved was offered brand new bodies as compensation. He’s currently hiding underneath a table, which Rung identifies as “playing to type”. Flattop isn’t even here to talk about Babu Yar, but it’s good to know that war is still hell.

The reason Flattop’s actually here is this: he was serving under Silverstreak- another one of Rung’s patients, and someone who I’m convinced might actually be a Warrior cat given the name- and was going to check something out when he saw something utterly terrifying.

Rung gets Flattop out from under the table, and they talk about what the Shimmer means. Flattop is convinced that since he’s seen the thing, he’s going to die. You see, folklore in space is very similar to its counterpart on Earth, in that it’s a warning swathed in story to make it easily digestible.

Rung, who tries to keep things rational, offers to give Flattop a few possible explanations for what he saw. Because Flattop had only recently gotten his hot new bod a short while before he saw the Shimmer, it’s completely possible he had had a hallucination due to the adjustment period. Another theory is that Flattop has PTSD. Which, I mean, yeah.

While Rung was busy trying to explain what had happened, Flattop friggin’ died.

Awkward.

Over with Ironfist- because “Bullets” is a prequel- we’re in the middle of a meeting with the Ethics Committee. Xaaron, Animus, and Trailbreaker of all people, have come together to pass judgement on Ironfist’s cerebro-sensitive bullets. There’s a lot of hemming and hawing, and Ironfist reflects on how they got to this moment, while fiddling with a data slug to burn off the nerves.

This is just after the Surge happened, an event kicked off by the betrayal of the Autobot cause allowed Megatron to seize a majority of the Autobot outposts. It was a huge deal, a lot of shit was stolen, including the Weak Anthropic Principle, and it left everyone a little twitchy towards one another. Trust is not in vogue at present.

Kimia’s in a mess of trouble anyway, however, due to the events of Babu Yar, where Gideon’s Glue had rained down on the Autobot troops under Flame’s command, eaten to Swiss cheese by something eerily similar to something being developed on the station.

So an investigation was established. Brainstorm, who’s apparently big man on campus here at Kimia, is questioned, as is everyone else. Of course, no one cops to having invented Gideon’s Glue, because that’s a big ol’ war crime, so the questioning goes nowhere, but now there’s a precedent for mistrust on this science station.

Anyway, back to the bullet thing.

Ironfist’s cerebro-sensitive bullets are designed to hit the head, every single time, ignoring trajectory, ballistic physics, what you think is possible, and the Geneva Convention. It’s fired, it hits the first brain it identifies. Brutal stuff. Effective, but brutal.

Trailbreaker’s not a fan.

I mean, maybe? I guess it depends how gray your morality is. I bet Prowl would like them.

After telling Trailbreaker to keep it professional, Xaaron tells Ironfist that using these bullets would be a literal war crime, and he’s got a little over a day to hand them over to the Committee for destruction. Meeting adjourned!

Ironfist is left standing there until his good buddy Skyfall checks in on him. Ironfist is kind of bummed out, but Skyfall knows how to cheer him up- by comparing him to Impactor, former leader of the Wreckers, and one of Ironfist’s fan-crushes.

Man, this makes the Pova reveal a little harsher in hindsight, huh?

Skyfall invites Ironfist to the Exit Rooms, a place where the Kimia employees can drink and no one will give a shit, and as they make their way over they run into Brainstorm.

Brainstorm gets some interesting development in this story.

That’s right, not only are his weapons completely insane, and in some cases literally abstract, they’re apparently often so incredibly dangerous that the Ethics Committee loses sleep over the fact that they exist.

And Brainstorm loves it.

No wonder Trailbreaker was so annoyed in his Spotlight.

Skyfall asks about what’s in Brainstorm’s briefcase, gets an answer that’s likely a lie, then the boys head over to the Exit Rooms.

Over on Hydrus 5, it’s raining cats and dogs, and this is somehow the Transformers fault. I guess the universe bends to the will of what would be the most dramatic, as everyone takes a break from warmongering to soul-search.

Or ego-stroking. That works too.

Here is our dear Pyro, reveling in the aftermath of a battle that destroyed the natural ecosystem of the land, but at least they kicked those ‘Cons’ asses!

Pyro, who’s revealed to be maybe perhaps not the best at coming up with one-liners, is left alone for a bit as Afterburner goes to check on the rest of their men. As he tries to piece together a speech to deliver, he sees a green something- they’re always green, aren’t they?- and that something is the Shimmer.

Well, heck.

Over on the dilapidated space station of Debris (wow, that’s even less subtle than usual for this franchise) Springer’s holding a bullet. I mean, it’s not really a bullet, and the Decepticon who fired it wasn’t really a Decepticon.

I want you to know that I keep track of how many times 113 comes up in these stories, and for “Bullets" it’s a LOT.

Today’s letter from Agent 113 foreshadows/hindshadows the events of Last Stand, claiming that the DJD hasn’t heard anything from Garrus-9 since the Surge happened. Prowl’s concerned that Fortress Maximus is still alive in there and fighting off the Decepticons while waiting for backup, so he recently called Springer and invited the Wreckers on a mission.

All Springer has to do is pick some sorry sons of guns to die.

Over with Guzzle, who is romanticizing a weapon, comparing his gun to a religious artifact, our dear little bastard man has realized that he does, in fact, have emotions, and is in mourning over his lost comrades, who died rescuing Kup from Tsiehshi. Guzzle doesn’t much appreciate this whole “feeling” thing, and would rather it didn’t get in the way of him shooting statues for no other reason than him wanting to. Then he sees the Shimmer, and feels fear. He doesn’t much care for that, either.

Even Nick Roche is powerless to stop this madness.

We reconfirm the fact that Ironfist is a massive nerd, then are shown that the bullet accident that will have killed him by the end of Last Stand #5 has already happened. Ever so slowly, the bullet is heading for Ironfist’s brain. Every time it hits a new layer of his noggin, he blacks out.

Ironfist is going to leave on his super-fun, not-at-all-traumatizing Wrecker adventure soon, and he’s promised Skyfall his workshop. Skyfall was at Grindcore for a while, and that kind of gave him PTSD, so when Ironfist had gotten accepted to Kimia, he’d brought him along for the ride.

I like to call Grindcore Eugenesis-lite.

Because Skyfall is a reckless son of a gun with access to Ironfist’s workshop, he inadvertently caused a major incident with something called Black Phosphex, which resulted in the deaths of several Autobots because it wasn’t properly tested. This landed him in Garrus-9 for a bit, in a temporary career-path deviation, until it was time to come home to Kimia, just in time for the Inquiry.

Are stans always this intense? Because good lord, Ironfist.

Over at Karashi Delta, in the aftermath of a fierce battle, Rotorstorm is hyping himself the fuck up.

But does he buy it himself?

Hmm, survey says no.

Of course, verbal abuse isn’t the only thing we’ll be getting here. No, things begin to escalate pretty rapidly with Jetstream, who moves from shoving to almost beating Rotorstorm to death in a matter of months, before disappearing from the station forever.

Dang, this Jetstream fella kinda sucks. What’s his friggin’ problem?

Ah.

Again, I can’t stress this enough, Whirl’s awful flipper claws from back during his time as a cop do not make a nice fist. He was basically stabbing Rotorstorm. Who let this man be a teacher?

Rotorstorm is snapped out of his self-deprecating flashbacks by the sight of something on the canyon lip up ahead. It’s the gotdang Shimmer. Rotorstorm books it, not wanting to be caught by a harbinger of death. It doesn’t work, but points for trying.

Back on Debris, Springer’s picked his new recruits. Now all he has to do is call them up. Hey, isn’t Springer green? Green like the Shimmer? How about that.

Back on Kimia, Skyfall’s wandered into Ironfist’s workshop to share the gossip on Fisitron’s latest Wreckers: Declassified. Folks are a bit critical of his writing style, it would seem.

Of course Swerve knows what fan-fiction is. He seems like exactly the type to make fun of it, then read a 43,000 word fic in a single sitting, under cover of darkness, burning with shame all the while.

After making a note on his current Wreckers: Declassified document to ease up on the adverbs, Ironfist switches gears and gets busy on his other project: an Unofficial Wreckers’ Training Guide. I wonder when the switch from Primal Vanguard to Wreckers as a hyperfixation happened for him.

Ironfist asks Skyfall what entry he’s currently on, and the answer is a ways away from the latest one. Skyfall’s a slow reader, but he doesn’t want to just beam it all into his brain because it feels like cheating. He asks Ironfist when he’s going to cover the Wreckers’ mission to Garrus-9, the one that happened while he was there being not-imprisoned. Ironfist gives a non-answer, then asks if Skyfall wants to help with packing up the war-crime guns. Skyfall most certainly does not.

Ironfist starts breaking everything down when he gets a call from Prowl, as happened in Last Stand #4.

Back with Springer, we’re giving our dad a hug, as he greets Kup. It’s here we find out who Ironfist replaced on the Wrecker team for Operation: Retrieval- it was Skyfall. Skyfall had impressed Springer during their last Garrus-9 excursion, and thought that he’d be a good fit for the team, despite the Black Phosphex incident.

Kup goes full old man story time mode about how insanely boring Prowl is, while Springer gets the door. On the other side is Twin Twist, Top Spin, and Perceptor. They hold the vote, Ironfist given immunity due to unmentioned Prowl reasons, and Springer gets ready to call all their new pals.

Back at Ironfist’s workshop, Ironfist reflects on just how his life got to this point. He’s going to join the Wreckers! Never mind the fact that he’ll be going to die, and that’s if the bullet crawling around in his skull doesn’t get him first. Never mind the very likely possibility that he’s being exploited by Prowl. Nah, he’s gonna go on an adventure! It’s gonna be awesome! Yaaaaay!

It doesn’t pay to be blue and naive when Roberts is handling the story. Just ask Pipes.

Or don’t. You won’t get an answer.

Called it.

Ironfist, starstruck, bumbles his way through the conversation we saw in the Mosaic, and so it was that he became a Wrecker. All he has to do is pop on over to Rung’s office, get his head examined, then get his butt on over to Babu Yar.

Telecon work completed, Springer reflects on the fact that Guzzle turned him down. It’s not often someone turns down the chance to be a Wrecker.

Oh, well, never mind then.

Ironfist immediately tells Skyfall about what’s happened, because he’s just so jazzed to be a Wrecker. Skyfall isn’t quite as thrilled, but does his best to be supportive.

And by that I mean he’s not listening in the slightest as he’s already planning out the interior design for the workshop once Ironfist is gone. I bet he’ll get Atomizer to help him, the tacky bastard.

Skyfall runs off to go look at paint swatches or whatever, and Ironfist finalizes the stuff for the Ethics Committee pickup.

Oh, so that appointment wasn’t on Kimia after all. Can we please get some sort of fast-track program for the mental health specific degrees? We can’t keep using Rung for everybody, he’s only one person.

Oh heavens, Ironfist, be careful.

Ironfist gets another call, and we jump scenes before we can figure out just who rang or why.

Brief timeskip, and we find ourselves at Babu Yar, as Ironfist introduces himself to Guzzle and his gun.

Ironfist is about as smooth as coarse-grit sandpaper.

While Ironfist is busy revealing his nerd shame to Guzzle, someone’s decided to be a cocky little asshole.

Oh, dramatic irony. Always a delightful sort of pain.

Rotorstorm cranks up the “I’m hot shit” act to 11.5, doing completely unnecessary flips and talking himself up like he will literally die if he doesn’t.

Off in the distance, something disingenuously impressive comes up over the hill.

Of course, it’s not Optimus Prime, but it is someone who would very much like to be him. Such is the nature of primus apotheosis. Gang’s all here!

This is going to turn out fan-fucking-tastic.

Rotorstorm and Guzzle want to play with the big gun Ironfist brought along, and since Ironfist is going to die anyway, he lets them go for it. This would be why everything was on fire at the start of the miniseries.

Yep. Just gotta make it hurt just a little more, doncha Roberts? Just gotta twist the knife.

Nine months after the events of the Garrus-9 mission, Skyfall is upset. He’s gone and played himself by not attending the Ethics Committee hearings, and they’ve taken all his toys away as a result. He tries to mask his lack of concern for safety precautions behind a facade of missing Ironfist, but it doesn’t get him the weapons back.

Feeling cross, he decides it’s about time he made a visit to the Exit Rooms to blow off a little steam.

Later, he gets a call. Worried that his lack of ethics and/or his drunken squabbling has gotten him in trouble yet again, he’s loathe to answer, but does anyway.

Ghost call!

No, it’s actually a prerecorded message, one that claims that Skyfall killed Ironfist. Ironfist had asked Brainstorm to take a gander at the gun after he got shot, and found that it had been tampered with, set to go off on its own when held a certain way. That’s who was calling before he left for his Wrecker mission. 

Skyfall starts to panic, expecting the security detail for Kimia to bust into the workshop at any second. 

Ironfist knows that only Skyfall could have done this to him, but he doesn’t know the exact motive. Was it because he was jealous of how good a weapons expert he was? A chip on his shoulder about Grindcore? Whatever the reason, Ironfist isn’t terribly concerned at the time of the recording. What he is concerned about is Gideon’s Glue.

Ironfist had, in fact, invented Gideon’s Glue, but he’d been so horrified by what the shit actually did, he flushed it into space and destroyed all research before the Ethics Committee even knew about it. It still got to the Decepticons, though, didn’t it? How could such a thing happen?

Probably not, considering what happens next.

Ironfist is a smart guy, but more importantly, he knows how to reach his audience. Literally, in this case, as Skyfall finds out, when the Enforcement Squad starts trying to break down the door. Ironfist had the message that Skyfall is currently listening to primed for beaming into all of Fisitron’s reader’s brains. Everyone knows what happened. Swerve. Atomizer. Ratchet, who’s over on Earth right now. First Aid, who has enough bullshit to worry about on Delphi without this nonsense. You. Me. Everyone.

Skyfall, in a mad attempt to save himself, throws some of Ironfist’s Wrecker memorabilia at the door, and out pops that last tube of Gideon’s Glue.

There’s only one way out of this one.

This got really intense at the end, didn’t it?

[capriccio-con-espressione]

N(oona) C(raving) T(endencies)

This is my 3k words of analysis of NCT members who I think are likely to have a noona kink based on the ask. Enjoy!

Disclaimer:

By this I am not saying that other members not mentioned here don't have any possibility to date an older female/enjoys referring to their dommes as noona, it's just like the tendency/preference isn't that clear or obvious in my opinion. Do not send in rude comments just because you disagree though I will appreciate some feedback.

Warning: Sub!Taeyong, Sub!Jungwoo, Sub!Mark, Sub!Xiaojun, Sub!Jaemin, Domme!Reader, Femdom, Noona kink, Degradation, Whipping, Spanking, Pegging, Public humiliation, Role-play, Oral sex, Sex toys, Dry humping, Dildo riding, Mentions of mental health issues/negative emotions

Taeyong

This boi is insufferably kinky and subby

In Baby Don't Like It he stated he likes it rough

In Whiplash he literally emphasized again how much of a painslut he is

And his ideal type is “Someone who can teach me, lead me, and make up for my flaws.”

To conclude this, Tyongie may be craving for a strong, mature female's guidance when he's lost and insecure, a noona domme who can heal all the anxiety, stress and inner guilt he's been through by her ruthless discipline, plus, the age hierarchy implied in the title will allow him to sink into his headspace even more.

He's such a sucker for this torment that, with one stern look from you, he will automatically strip naked and ready himself in the humiliating positions assigned by you before without any spoken command, and obediently waits for the first slap/whip while trembling in both anticipation and thrill

I can totally picture him begging his noona for more punishment, though already red, sore and sobbing

"...Ahhh noona I'm sorry... *sniffles* please punish me more for being a bad, ill-mannered boy...don't stop mmmff-"

However, that being said, if that noona domme is actually younger than him, he may be down for the added humiliation due to the role reversal

Imagine that younger domme dismissively orders him to call her "noona" in public, and commands him to use honorifics to speak to her, the exact type and wording that make him sound humbled…

He will be turned on by that while people around you shoot puzzled gazes toward you as they wonder why the hierarchy dynamics aren’t in the right place, making Taeyong feel embarrassed as well as aroused

By the way, some role-plays can be added to spice up your sex lives as well, e.g. CEO x employee, professor x student, guard x prisoner, to name a few, as long as you are in power and makes sure to beat the naughtiness and disobedience out of him

Though being intensely kinky during the session, aftercare for this precious boy has to be really fulfilling as well

So you have to be able to play an attentive caring role just like a noona (a little bit maternal figure as well, I have to admit)

Make sure the process is all intimate and brimming with praises, reassuring the broken figure that the "bad boy" is "forgiven" to thoroughly sew up his wounds

Bubble bath, scented candles with calming aroma, sensual massage with essential oils of his favorite scent and texture, or having some good quality snacks while cuddling, are all good options for aftercare because all of them can reinforce the idea that he’s “worthy” of anyone’s love and attention due to the physical contact and interactions allowed in them 

So steamy and sensual that if done correctly, Taeyong may be in the mood for another round of vanilla sex to get an extra gratifying orgasm again

Jungwoo

A clingy little pup that will follow you around and will cutely pout when not given enough attention or skinship

Loves to be babied and taken care of, so he would love the accompany of a sweet caring noona to make him feel at ease (borderline mommy kink as well)

Remember that Valentine's Day Facetime vid where he just referred to the viewer insert as "noona"? That probably implied his preference for an older female figure

Will do anything to please you since he's very love-starved and doesn't want you to feel uncared for because he knows too well how much that sucks, he will shower you with the same amount of affection he expects from you as well

Anxious and always worries about if he's still "needed", so that's why he will opt for a perspicacious noona to counsel him for his delicate soul to rely on, and shower him with the adequate amount of love then pamper him 

Melts at cute pet names such as pup, angel, prince, little fairy, snoopy or any endearing terms because they make intimacy upgrade to another level

May act a bit playful or even borderline bratty from time to time, mainly to spice things up and get some sexy punishment to release his excess nervousness

But hardcore stuff definitely isn't for him, since the soft boy can't tolerate much pain. 

Light impact play on his erogenous zones is fine, but he enjoys the feelings of vulnerability and exposure more rather than the pain itself

The type to let out loud moans even when just getting his underwear peeled down because the instant when the air hits his flesh is a huge turn-on for him, so much to the extent he is yearning to beg you to fuck him just from getting naked

Very sensitive, literally gasps, squirms and grinds every time when you caress or slap his sweet zones and will beg you to stop though you know he's enjoying it too much

Will repeat your title like a mantra as if it's the only thing that can keep him sane

Be wailing like "Hnnngh noona pretty pleeaase stop spanking me ahhh noona no I'll be a good boy pleaseee it stings noona I'm sorryyy hahhh" but the way how his hips rock against your lap will betray his words, giving you more reason to torture him

Loves being pegged and used, or getting his all possible sensitive spots stimulated and stuffed at once because he just lusts after every inch of his body being thoroughly pleasured inside-out, and drown in the depths of overstimulation and hedonistic ecstasy to feel completely loved and secured

Edging is really suitable for this delicate boy because of the enhanced experience after prolonged denial, which makes the orgasm more earth-shattering than ever

Though he will be a teary puddle and begs you to end the ordeal, the uncertainty and feebleness associated with edging will turn his mind into a soaring frenzy state even more, enabling him to release all his pent-up frustrations and negativity while finally allowed to empty his balls

Likely to get emotional and will hold on to you very tight during post-climax aftercare due to the intense sensation that just washed through his mind and body, feeling extra fragile and really needs to be thoroughly cared for

Petting his head, kissing his tears away with "I love you"s constantly coming out of your lips is a must, as he drifts to sleep like a fallen angel nestled in his safe space, which is the warm spot between your chest and your arms

Mark

An easily flustered mess when it comes to straightforward proactive girls 

Having left his family and devoted himself to the industry at such a tender age, he may want to be the more passive, dependent one in a relationship to make up for his lost adolescence

So he's probably looking for someone who he can rely on and takes the initiative in bed, while all he has to do is to close his eyes and enjoy himself

When he finds you, to whom he trusts enough to pour his doubts and perplexion about life, and is always guaranteed to receive some really thoughtful response, he sees you as someone very valuable.

But more than that, you are a woman who seems to have endless fuel of passion, the exact type with whom Mark can replenish his strength when he got engulfed by the abyss of stress

Also, you are notably witty with words that sometimes aids his lyric writing process, but that means he can never win against you in any friendly bickers as well, especially when you cite some of his lyrics to roast him that renders him speechless.

Yet somehow, he gets hooked to the feeling of being a powerless flustered bundle in front of you

Gradually it develops into dirty imagination of you manipulating him into a mindless mess

And you are exactly the burning blaze that will scorch his body with vehement desires, make him so depraved yet still internally demand more

Never did he realize that being obedient for a noona figure will feel this good until he met you, his ideal match

You will guide him how to touch himself properly like a big sis, then demonstrate it yourself followed by some edging, as he whimpers at the sense of loss every time his build-up is ruined, pleading you with those big puppy eyes

And when you get to peg him, he will love the feeling that he's completely owned by you, getting his ass spanked while fucked also serves as a good reminder of who he belongs to

Doesn't talk much during sex to indulge fully. Expect some incoherent moans and weak chants of your title from him instead

But the boy also knows how to reciprocate when he's ordered to. He knows how to work that rapper tongue too well even if his brain is not fully functioning

His tongue can do wonders to your folds and is guaranteed to perform great with your strap in his mouth, looking up at you with those pretty doe eyes all the time to see if you like how he's doing

Will probably require some time and space for himself to just chill and cool down during aftercare instead of being very clingy, all you need to do is to make sure he’s comfy, or place a glass of drink he likes beside him while he’s organizing his thoughts or doing anything that fits his mood. 

No extra words or skinship is needed at this moment because based on your understanding and observations of him, he’ll be fully recharged when you decide he is most of the time

Xiaojun

A sensitive, sentimental bub that ponders a lot about lots of things

Passionate about music, and perhaps some classic literature or philosophy

So he may want his partner to share the same interests so he can love the way she wanna talk even more

Likely to crumble for a woman who’s sophisticated, cultured and speaks in a refined manner, and is often willing to discuss some profound matters with him, to the extent sometimes Xiaojun cannot keep up easily and may feel a bit flustered, but is secretly admiring her wits deep down while she’s patiently explaining some new art concepts or ideas to him

Hence, when he finds you, who is capable of playing that role and opening up new worlds to him, he is not only delighted but also excited and intrigued, anticipating every chance to talk to you more but when he finally seizes the opportunity, he will appear to smile shyly, avoiding your gaze all the time but whenever he slightly peeks at you, his eyes will be glittering with dreamy haze of enchantment

Because to him, knowledgeable women seem to have boundless potential that makes them distinctively mysterious as well as alluring, and he’s all about succumbing to that vast endearing wilderness, with you being the compass controlling his every move (lowkey sapiosexual I guess)

The fact that you are the embodiment of versatility, artistic grace, and mellow charisma, yet all cordial to him just like a jiě jie (noona in Mandarin) next door will flutter his heart as he falls for you even more

So once you finally end up in bed, he will be very enthralled and eager to please, and will literally subserviently worship every inch of your body as if you are a Goddess while complimenting you all the time

Yet not long after he will be amazed by another fact about you, that is, you are the definition of the saying “Sweet in the streets, freak in the sheets”

Xiaojun will soon find himself restrained while bent in compromising positions, with toys he never imagined a sweet person like you will ever own torturing his body and lust-crazed soul, as you whisper nasty degrading things to him, skewing and corrupting some classic literary works during the process, which makes him intoxicated in another sinfully imaginative aspect of your mind

Since he’s a sucker for anything about you, neglect play is a perfect way to torment him. 

Chain him up and place a toy on him, which can be either a vibrator or a prostate massager, before leaving him untouched, and watch him writhe and moan helplessly in unsatisfied heat, with his distinctive brows furrowed, eyes glossy with plead and need, a beautiful image perfect to be ruined

Open to lots of kinks since you are able to make them gratifying and mind-blowing every time as he becomes closer to your ideal notion of subby boy toy with every progress

Will still remain a blushy mess when ordered to beg or admit something humiliating even after getting fucked multiple times, though he likes it so much 

Something simple and lewd like “jiě jie please come in and fuck my slutty hole” “My pathetic dick only exists to be ravished by jiě jie” works well for him as he finally climaxes

This precious pretty boy is not all passive when receiving aftercare. Instead, he will sensually plant kisses all over your body while telling you how good you made him feel and how deeply he loves you

Melts and buries his face into the crook of your neck or sheets later on when you say the same back to him and praise him for taking you so well

Few moments of silent bliss will pass between you before you guide him back to reality again 

Jaemin

Another little painslut that wishes to be tamed and roughed up

His tolerance of pain may not be as high as Taeyong, but he likes the humiliation as much as the older does

Being an idol is stressful and suppressing, so he desperately needs to find some release through some pleasurable pain for the endorphin rush

Preferably receiving it from a noona-like figure who definitely knows what she’s doing, and again the hierarchy from her title will enable him to feel floaty and more deserving of the punishment

He’s the type to be horny really often and does barely anything to hide it, qualifying him as a very communicative, responsive and expressive sub

So he acts up all flirty and bratty in front of females who he deems as potential targets, to evaluate who’s probably sadistic enough to cater to his needs judging from their reactions, and of course, your dismissive attitude and sharp chastisement on his behavior intrigue him

Then he will make a further approach to gain your attention, from unsolicited winks and aegyo to cheesy pick-up lines, even going as far as some skinship that you are smart enough to know how intentional it is, all screaming brat demeanor that gets you irritated and riled up

Once he finally successfully gets you to bare his bottom and bend him over your lap, he’s a mesmerized moaning mess while enjoying basking in your tauntingly degrading words, admitting he’s noona’s dimwitted slut even before you ask him that

But of course, a sound spanking is still not enough to quench his submissive needs, he will literally shamelessly beg for more

In a provocative way

He will blatantly seduce you, from inappropriately touching you to straight-up humping you until you lose it to punish him for being obnoxiously needy, tying him up and dishing out toys or other implements that can deliver even more intense pain

At first, he will feign reluctance by pouting or complaining how much it hurts even though it’s still far from what he is able to take, in order to infuriate you and provoke more out of what you can give him

Being insatiable as he is, after some pain inflicted on him, he will reveal his true masochistic self and directly asks you to punish him harder just like Taeyong will do, but Jaemin’s self-degradation will be much more hardcore and a bit creative

“Noona please do it harder! Ahh- I’ve been badder than that! Make your naughty indecent-minded whore cum just by paddling me because I’m that pathetic mmmff-”

When you are dicking him down, he will beg you to destroy his hole and be really graphic about it, making his intentions of wanting you to abuse him like a fucktoy utterly clear to drive you wilder, with that iconic blissful smile plastered on his pretty features

He will be obsessed with your powerful strength while ramming into him so much that he will masturbate by riding a dildo while moaning loud enough for you to take notice and break into the room

After you are pissed that he’s playing with himself without your permission, he will be all like “But I missed noona’s big mighty cock so much that I can’t wait hnnnghh noona please come punish my horny hole and make it so swollen and sore that it won’t whore up ever again pleeaaseeeee”

You will definitely be so sexually active and satisfied with him as your sub because of his neediness and salacious talk to ignite your dominant desires

Even though he enjoys getting fucked all over to earn some revival to his work-drained soul, and appears to recover really quickly after orgasms, even capable of engaging in some playful conversations with you, it’s still likely for him to feel hollow and internally worn out due to the drastic neurochemical change but he won’t make it obvious

So you will need to be really observant and keep reassuring him for his well-being because all the excessive stress he’s been struggling through that makes him this submissive is stemmed from his desperate needs for praise and recognition

That’s also one of the reasons why I think he will be into a noona domme because approval from superiors is relatively more rewarding

But with proper aftercare, he’ll stay hooked to you and continue to pleasure both himself and you with matching kinky desires

[thatlongspringnight]

As Sweet as Your Joy (Jimin/Reader)

⏤ Pairing: Siren!Jimin/Reader

⏤ Genre: Angst, some fluff, fantasy, mythology

⏤ Word Count: Around 3.7k

⏤ Warnings: Suicide, discussion of blood, mentions of drowning, death, angst, Jimin is a siren and sirens kill people. Death is discussed and sometimes in a very cavalier way.

Rating: Mature themes, but not 18 +

Summary: You’ve been alive long enough to know what you want, and he can see it in your eyes from the moment you meet. Still, he refuses to give it to you.

Italics is flashback.

Thank you @wwilloww for beta-ing, and being a supportive Queen, @jamaiskook same to you, my confidence needs you both to function.

Tagging: @ezralia-writes @ladyartemesia @dreamystuffers​

They say dangerous things lurk in those waters. In the darkest depths just off the reef, out by the light house. A place only fools like you dare to venture.

Dangerous, but beautiful things. Things with skin so thin you can see the odd blue-green of their veins and sugar-spun smiles that reveal teeth that are just a little too sharp.

Dangerous things with luminous, haunting faces and voices that tune to the melody of your soul, pulling you closer and closer to madness, that will promise you your heart’s desire, calling you further, further away from shore, till your toes don’t touch the bottom and you can no longer see land.

Dangerous things that steal your breath from your mouth and leave you washed up on shore days later, skin mottled with bruises like flowers. A lilac, lavender, deep tyrian warning to anyone who sees, a warning...don’t come too close, don’t be tempted as these fools were.

But unfortunately, you yourself have never been good at heeding warnings. You would wade waist deep into trouble if it meant brushing your hand against the shining scales just below, captivated by the swirling rainbows just beyond your grasp. Nary a storm or murky water could stop you, venturing out a little further each day, undeterred by the steady stream of bodies that appeared on shore.

Some would say you had no sense of self preservation. A foolish little thing, others would echo in the town, tutting their tongues and shaking their heads. A girl without parents to guide her or husband for counsel.

It was a surprise to everyone you weren’t dead already.

Still, the day came that you pulled yourself onto a rock several meters from the shore, an ugly jutted pillar that smoothed out on the side facing the water, ignoring the ache in your bones as you stood to full height -

And you waited.

Waited for the deadly creature who could grant you your heart’s desire. Longing for just a moment, wanting to see his face as you had that one night.

The choppy water did nothing to stop you, reaching your waist as you dove in. The sea was a clear green, an unnatural emerald that you could see through, that you could get lost in, and getting lost was just what you wanted to do.  The setting sun’s reflection was lost on you as you swam further from shore, deeper in. The darkness grew with every yard you conquered.  

It wasn’t that you wanted to die, it was just that on that day you had nothing to live for. The persistent, unnatural pound of the heart in your chest, and the curiosity for the unknown - it was enough.

Your gasping breath was muffled as you submerged your head again, swimming further into the depths till your lungs cried out.Then, like a flash, something caught your eye, a flittering of scales, pearlescent rainbow. You turned your head sharply, hand brushing the bottom of the murky depth.

And meeting the smoothness of bone.

Your gaze lingered, a sort of horror in your bones, contorting your features into fear as you realized what you had stumbled upon, the settling silt revealing a field of skeletons. A siren’s graveyard. Clothes decaying, but bright gold still shining, precious jewels capturing what was left of the light.

And just to your left, the glittering creature.

A strong hand gripped your wrist as you stupidly gasped, sending water pouring into your throat, a choked sound following.

The creature tugged you to his chest, lavender eyes capturing yours, flaxen hair a shade of sickening green underwater.

He smiled, and all you could remember were his too-sharp teeth

______________________________________________________________________

“I know you’re here!” You crowed, no sound but the waves against the rock responding. It was sunset. The same time you had seen the creature that first time. “Why won’t you come out?”

You groaned, glad that the sun was no longer beating down on you, but frustrated nonetheless. “Please?”

“Pretty birds like you shouldn’t beg.” A melodic voice cut through, sending you almost teetering off the rock. “Nor should they try to tempt fate” You stared at him, those beautiful blue eyes of his, eyes that seemed to fade and shift to purple with the light, drawing you in. Unconsciously you leaned closer to the water, closer to him, perching precariously on the edge.

He was beautiful now, in a different way from before, his blonde hair hanging about his shoulders, muscles glistening with seawater.

He flicked his tail, the bottom fin breaching the water, revealing his rainbow scales dancing in the light. You stared as though in a trance, the world slowing down as you saw yourself reflected in his eyes. Feeling lightheaded you shut your eyes, the feeling ending as you met the darkness of your lids.

“Closing your eyes won’t hide you from me.” You heard the shift of the water, felt the coldness of his skin against yours as he brought his hands to your face. “You came out here to die, didn’t you?”

“N-No.” You tried to pull away, but he was strong, his nails sharp against your face. “No I don’t want to die.” He chuckled, a low sound that contrasted dreadfully with his sweet face.

“My dear, if that is really the case, why all but throw yourself at me, here to kill you.”

“Because you won’t kill me.” Your voice was a whisper, lost on the salty breeze. He tensed, the truth of your words catching him off guard.

“I won’t kill you.” The siren affirmed, his touch weakening till it was nothing but a gentle caress. “But I won’t give you what you want either. No, my beautiful bird, you won’t get that from me.”

______________________________________________________________________

His name was Jimin.

Jimin liked shiny things, baubles, bracelets, trinkets. He especially liked the silver necklace you always wore, trailing down reveal a locket set with a single shining sapphire. He liked flowers, and he liked to braid those flowers into your hair, soft pinks to the darkest shades of blood. His nimble fingers wove them thickly into your hair, till the heady scent made you lightheaded.

“You are as bright as a Starling.” He said, his voice soft and sweet against your skin. “A beautiful thing. A fairy, even.”

“You lie.” You mumbled, the blush on your cheeks hidden by the flush placed there by the hot sun. “Only one of us is that beautiful.”  You reached over, tucking the last rose into his own hair. “And it’s you.”

“You only feel that way because you refuse to see me as I am.” His tone turned dark, eyes shining unnaturally in the sun. “For what I am really.”

“Jimin-“

“A monster. A monster who kills you a little more each time I touch you.” His fingers squeezed yours in affection, in pain. “I won’t give you what you want. You have to know.”

“You don’t know what I want.” You challenge, the proud tilt of your features almost makes him smile...almost.

“I do know, I’ve known since the moment you sought me out. Day after day, your wish has always been there.”

“Please, don’t say it.” You begged him, tears brimming in your eyes. “Don’t break this spell just yet.”

“This has to stop.”

___________________________________________________________________

“Do you know how sirens are born?” He had asked you one day, before you knew his name. You had shaken your head, unsure of the exact mythology behind his existence, only really knowing that he was there and that somewhere in the great expanse of the oceans there were more like him.

“How are creatures like you created?”

“We are born in death. Unjustly killed in the very waters we haunt. Doomed to drag others to their deaths as revenge against the humanity that wronged us.” He was perched on the edge of the rock, his chest exposed down to his waist, where his scales just began to peek out from the water.

“Who wronged you, then?” Your first question, perhaps callous in the face of the agony in his tone. Yet, your hands swiped the skin of his cheeks, attempting to sooth his ills, marveling at the coolness of his skin even in high summer. “Why do you hunt these waters, siren?”

“A friend. With hair as red as blood and eyes I learned to trust. Trust didn’t come easy to us, in our line of work.”

“What sort of work?”

“Oh, my little starling. I was a pirate.” Though his eyes were dark, his smile was sweet and soft, masking those teeth that haunted your dark dreams. “A savage of the seas, but that was many years ago, long before now.”

“You don’t look savage.”

“Trust nothing that you see.” He sighed, a sound so sad your heart broke for him all over. “Trust nothing of my face. I am still just as savage as I was then. Only a little more refined.”

“Refined?”

“See, little bird, you don’t even realize that with every moment that you let me touch you, I’m killing you.” His breath was in your ear, his face at the crook of your neck. You felt them, the teeth, sharp and jagged, lingering just above your pulse point. Your breath hitched, terror bleeding into your veins. He wouldn’t kill you, would he?

“The fear is delicious.” He murmured, tongue laving over your skin. “I can smell it in your blood.”

“P-Please-“

“Have you come to your senses about me? Do you see what I can do?” His smooth voice was harsh now, and you wanted to flinch.

“I see that you can do many things, but you still…won’t kill me.” He tensed at your words, and you could feel the tremor that traveled up his body.

“Why did you die, siren?”

“Jimin.” He breathed, eyes glassy. “My name is Jimin.”

“Okay. Jimin.” You tried your best to keep your voice a soothing, dulcet tone.

“I died because of love.”

“Love?” Quiet as a mouse you whispered the word back to him.

“Love for the man who killed me.” The chasm between you in that moment seemed insurmountable, and only a step, all at once.

“You loved him?” You prompted, uncomfortable in the silence.

“Loved him. Some would say, madly. I killed for him. I bathed in blood to satiate his desires. I grew honed like a knife to please him. Then, when power was just in our grasp, he decided that only his grasp was worthy.” You followed every word, eyes wide with sadness. “Love means nothing. That’s what he said when he plunged a sword in my belly.”

“Jimin…”

“I took my final breath as a man drifting to the bottom of the sea floor, eyes wide open, choking on seawater and blood, the sting of betrayal burned into my heart.”

“And?” You gripped at his hands, entwining your fingers with his. This- This feeling in your stomach never seemed to fade when you were with him. Even if you knew he could kill you.

Even if you hoped he would.

“And I awoke at the bottom of the sea floor, hungry for the souls of the damned who should lurk in those waters.” Damned like you? Still you smiled at his seriousness, shaking your head as you reached over, hand finding his - rewarded when he squeezed your fingers.

“And without any legs.” You couldn’t stop the laughter in your throat, even as his eyes widened, an abashed look on his face. Till he too was laughing, a sound as clear and beautiful as bells that sent a rush of feelings into your chest.

___________________________________________________________________

One afternoon, about a month after he told you that he wouldn’t see you again, he breaks his promise. Or perhaps you forced his hand.

You couldn’t lie to yourself now, the trek to the rock made your lungs ache like it hadn’t before. It took you a moment to catch your breath, your chest burning as coughs wracked your body.

There were some truths better left unspoken. Not by you, not by the people in your small little town who covered their mouths with kerchiefs as you walked by, not even by the gentle sea breezes that whispered secrets into your ears and lulled you to sleep at night.

This was one of them.

You settled yourself on the warm rock, wishing that it could remain summer here forever. Winter brought icy winds that curled up inside of you and wouldn’t leave. With winter came chopping firewood with chapped hands and gasping breaths, praying that you made it home.

With winter came water that was too cold for you to touch, choppy and biting.

You heard a familiar splash, a smile forming on your face.  You knew he would come today. Knew that he was like you, unable to stay away.

Because he knew too, with winter you wouldn’t see him again.

“Starling.” His smile was free of the annoyance of before, a soft look of melancholy on his features. “You don’t look well.”

“Ah, well, it’s just the heat.” You smiled back, patting the hard surface next to you. “Come sit.”

He didn’t, choosing instead to rest his head on the warm stone, his lower body hidden in the water. You frowned, leaning over till your stomach was resting on the rock, your nose almost touching his.  “Don’t be difficult.”

“Oh, my darling one.” Those lilac eyes, tender and solemn, pulled you in so easily, your heart rate rising, fingers clenching against the rough stone. You could see galaxies in his eyes, swirling shades of blue fading into purple. Unnatural pools that tugged you closer to the edge… to the end. Looking into them left you feeling breathless, dazed...liable to succumb to madness every time you saw them.

You felt your breath quickening, an unnatural sound leaving your lips as his eyes widened, his hands coming up to clutch your shoulders. “Not now.” There was an edge to his voice as he clutched you, his nails digging into your skin painfully, reminding you where you were. “Don’t succumb like this.”

‘Why won’t you let me?” You demanded, voice hoarse. “Please, just let me.” A tear slipped down your cheek and you felt his tongue drag a rough trail up your skin.

“Your despair doesn’t taste as sweet as your joy.”

__________________________________________________________________

You loved him. The easy confession did not startle you, didn’t frighten you. It was like waking up after a long sleep, feeling refreshed and new.

Of course, you also knew there was no future for the two of you.

No future for you at all.

Still, you made the trip, until summer began to fade again and autumn took its place.

Until the rattle in your throat grew too hard to ignore.

“There was one like you before.” He confessed one day, hand resting in yours, letting you nestle your tired body against his chest. It was daringly intimate, shocking in its kindness. “A man, hardworking and diligent.”

“Why like me?”

“He wanted me to take his burdens from him.” Jimin curled a piece of your hair around his finger, humming lowly. “Day after day he would come out to me, and day after day, I refused.”

“What burdens did he have?” You were sleepy, barely awake, there was a chill in the air, and it made your bones ache.

“He lost his wife and child, sickness had worked its way through your tiny little village, and left him with nothing.”

“Why didn’t he take his own life?”

“Why don’t you take yours?”

“I don’t- I don’t want to die.” You murmur softly, burying your face into his chest.

“Neither did he.”

“But he did die?”

“All mortals die.” The implication that he was not in that category was not lost on you.

“Did you kill him?”

“He gave me no other choice.”

“And if I gave you no other choice?”

“Starling, killing you would be the end of me.” You didn’t dare ask why.

______________________________________________________________________

The graveyard that lurked just below your feet had stopped frightening you. You got braver each day, bolder with him, more brazen.

It was hard to ignore how seeing his soft smile as you stared down at him from your perch made you feel.

Perhaps also you had started coming to terms with the truth.

The truth he had known from the moment he had seen you, months earlier, first standing on the beach, staring for hours at the vast expanse before you. The truth you knew he had felt as you caught sight of those luminous scales just below the surface.

That is why you kept going, to the point that you spent your afternoons there more often than at home.

Not that you had anyone at home to wait for you.

You never asked him about it though, about the skeletons, the precious jewels. They felt detached from his beautiful face. Even at his most sullen, they seemed too dirty to be any fault of his.

Even if you knew that wasn’t true.

____________________________________________________________________

People, often enough, don’t throw themselves off lighthouses, you mused, the winter wind beating at your skin. But, people often enough weren’t you.

Standing at the top of the ancient building, you glanced out at the angry waters below.

It felt like it had taken you hours to climb the steps, and just as long to hoist yourself onto the edge, teetering back and forth like a scarf caught on a windy day.

You didn’t want to die.

You used to be afraid of heights. Memories of clutching at your mother’s skirts every time you had to walk across the tall, swaying bridge that took you to the mainland swirled in your head.

It wasn’t so bad now.

You couldn’t swim, your body wouldn’t be able to take the water, the cold would seep into your bones too quickly, and surely, you’d drown before you ever even reached the rock.

But this, this would negate that altogether. You could effortlessly fall, let the icy water envelope you, and know he would come to you, like he always had.

And even if he didn’t, the prospect of seeing him again was enough to make you take that breath, letting the wind sway you naturally, closing your eyes as you leaped —

____________________________________________________________________

“I’ll never be able to live again if I have to see you die. If I have to be the one to do it.” Jimin’s voice was a harsh, tear soaked whisper, and you could only smile, reaching up to brush his cheek lovingly.

“Then die with me.” You coaxed, the ultimate act of cruelty. You were selfish, you knew, if you had to die, and you were going to die, you wanted to keep him with you. “Neither of us has to be alone anymore.”

“Would that make you happy?”

“I wanted to see you one last time, and I did. So I’m already happy.”

“What a darling little bird you are.” His voice is so distraught, for a moment you let yourself feel bad for what you’ve set in motion. Just for a moment.

“Don’t you trust me?” You coughed. “I trust you.”

“Don’t say it.” He was begging. You kept the smile on your face.

“Don’t worry, my dearest, I won’t say it.” You didn’t say it. Didn’t say it even if it burned in the back of your throat.

I love you. I love you. I love you.

There was black along your vision, and one last thing you needed to do. You weakly held on to him, clinging like you so wanted to cling to life. You pressed your lips to his, sealing your fate, embracing the swirl of warmth that fell around you, as your hands went lax, falling away limply from his form, you knew that you had all but thrust the sword of fate into his belly this time.

Maybe you were sorry he trusted you.

_____________________________________________________________________

Growing up, you heard the myths, tales woven into your childhood of the danger of sirens. Beautiful creatures that lured the unsuspecting to their deaths with the promise of their hearts desire.

Heart’s desire…

You rested on the rock, the height of summer beating down on you.

Was this a memory?

You took a breath, feeling no ache, no pain. A soft bark of laughter leaving your throat.

Two summers ago maybe? Back when you were still healthy. Back when-

“My little bird, my Starling.” A soothing, peaceful voice broke your thoughts. He was smiling like the sunshine itself, beautiful and clear.

“My love!” You called back, reaching out to him, letting him tug you into the warm water.

Love? Your thoughts became fuzzy, trailing off as the scene progressed.

His hot mouth on yours, the feeling of his taut skin, his sharp teeth. His whispered sweet nothings.

“Come with me.” You grinned against his mouth. “Lets go to shore.”

“I love you.” He pulled you closer, farther away from the life you knew.

“I love you too, I”-

_____________________________________________________________________

The girl was mad. It’s all the village whispers about.

Mad enough to drag her dying body to the top of a lighthouse. Mad enough to jump into the sea in midwinter.

When they finally find her, a week later, her body lying still in a small cove almost a mile from where she jumped, there is more to talk about.

She looks peaceful. More so than most can ever remember seeing her.

How content she rests! With her arms folded at her chest. Her clothing perfectly draped. Her skin so cold it seems almost like porcelain.

The men who find her, spend weeks in the church afterwards, praying to whatever spirits they are worried they angered when they disturbed her. Praying for absolution, when there is no real forgiveness to be sought.

But there is one thing no one talks about.

The one thing no one even dares to whisper about is the single rainbow scale that she clutches to her chest, her fingers frozen in death around it for eternity.

[thatsadorbsyo]

Lucas - Threads

((this post references the events of the fall, a mission in the heartless ffxiv roleplay campaign. quoted sections were written by @way-to-the-future. cw: character death. art credit: papa ibra tall, seamstress of the stars, wool tapestry, 1970s.))

“I admire how much warmth you give. Like a furnace. Like you've got a blaze rolling at your heart, and you let it all out through your skin. I see it in your eyes, the way they glow when the lamplight hits it just right.”

I’ve got nothing but white static in my head when I try to remember the Rovers’ faces, and if that isn’t creepy as fuck, I don’t know what is. I can’t recall a single thing about them. No noses, no mouths, not a sliver of kohl smudged under an eye or a lock of hair curling out from under a helmet. It’s easier to hate them when I can’t see any facets of their identity, but I don’t wanna fall prey to this lazy fallacy, either. There must have been real men under all that armor. One of many, sure, but individuals all -- just like I had been, once upon a time. So why don’t I remember?

My memory is unfortunately selfish and selective. It picks up the threads of the things closest to my heart and weaves the best story it can with the loose ends. So here’s the stupid little details that stuck with me, where more pertinent information might have been written instead:

I can still tell you with absolute clarity the exact gem tones of the light reflecting off of Cheche’s upturned face, when the Allagan facility erupted in spells and gunfire all around us. Sapphire blues, emerald greens, and amethyst purples against her shining black scales at every obsidian facet, like a raven feather catching the light.

I can map with exacting precision the arc of Castor’s white braid when he whipped his head around at the commotion, taking the tactical measure of our situation the way only a forged-in-the-blood knight like him can. Even after turning away from him, I could still feel the bulwark of Castor behind me, a solid presence that I didn’t need to see to be able to sense, like an extension of my arm, a phantom limb.

To turn around and suddenly find them both gone, ushered down a different corridor in all the clusterfuck of our allies splintering when the Rovers betrayed us?

It felt like amputation.

If I could, I would keep them both in my heart, keep them like puppets suspended by vermilion strings that extend from their every joint to the cavernous arches of my beating muscle. With threads that absorb the shock of my mortal body and every twin hammer of blood, so that all my loves can feel is the gentle warmth of my fire, the spark of creation that burns in me to keep them, cradle them, shelter them close and alive.

Keep them, and I guess, in so doing, preserve them exactly as I want them to be. Is that fair? It doesn’t seem so, does it? I may love them, but they aren’t mine. They aren’t toys or dolls; not mine to keep. See, Castor has taught me that to love someone is to swap my puppeteer’s strings for the Spinner’s threads, and let them weave their own way through my story. Cheche has shown me that the beauty in anything -- in anyone -- is that they might evaporate at any moment. But if I let them, they both might even decide, all on their own, to stay with me for as long as they can. A stronger path, freely chosen and written in royal blue and bright fern green, threading in a perfect braid around my brilliant gold.

No, I couldn’t keep them -- and in the moment of amputation, it didn’t fucking matter anyway, because they’d already gone beyond my reach. My heart was alone, but still it burned for them; burned fit to melt straight through the iced Malbolge of all the hells, a judgement which I still believed must have been waiting for me just beyond the next door of this Allagan tomb, to welcome me to the justice that I'm owed for my crimes. This door, or the next door. The next one.

Amputation wouldn’t stop me. Hell wouldn’t stop me. I would have burned through that whole building like a live coal, if that was what it had taken to find the exit and bring us all back home.

“It's hardly poetic, love. I'm just telling you exactly how you are. How anyone could see you. Even if they weren't a poet. Maybe even if they didn't care for you like I do. Just, if they - stopped to watch you.”

I don’t think I’ve mentioned it, but I had a brother once, before I torched the evidence of the life I used to live. Augustin looked so much like me even when we were young, but moreso now than ever before. We have the same bronze eyes, the same nose; I’ve grown into the size of our chin with time. He’s a beefier motherfucker than I am, and he’d always preferred braids, but even still you’d be hard pressed to tell us apart if you stood us back to back. Where do you think is he now?

Does he wonder what’s become of my punk ass? Surely the reports tell the truth about how I left. They wouldn’t keep secrets, not from a... fuck, he’s probably a Centurio now, isn’t he?

Shit... I bet he is. He always wanted to follow Mom’s path, even though every day that passes causes me to doubt her just a little bit more. I’ve learned too much about family not to begin questioning her motives for doing what she did, but I guess that’s neither here nor there.

But it was Augustin who first taught me how to shoot, you know? He took me behind our home and put a gunblade in my hands, adjusting my twiggy little twelve-turn limbs into the approximate shape of proper posture even when the weight of it threatened to topple me over like a top-heavy weed. He drilled firearm etiquette into me until I could recite its tenets by memory. For such a little bitch, he molded me into a decent shot.

I haven’t felt that kind of brotherly guidance in a long time, but I think I felt Augustin’s ghost behind me when I stood shoulder to shoulder with Sister Lux in that facility, fighting our way out.

Do you remember that door, the one I had thought stood between me and the hells? It was really just another hungry bulkhead between us and freedom; a sun and moon puzzle that should have been, might have been harder to solve if I couldn’t feel the juxtaposition of her fire right next to me. Sun and moon. Astral and umbral. It was so simple; this was a test. I had let my aether lay fallow, and in order to progress I had to reach inside and drag all the burning potential straight out of my mouth. Furious, destructive, so obscenely fucking alive.

Hungry, that’s the key word. The door had to feed -- on us. I don’t know how, or why, but somehow she and I put our hands to the door at the same time and knew exactly what to do. It was time for me to shit or get off the proverbial pot, and all she had to do was correct my posture a little bit, just like old times in the backyard with my brother and a weapon I didn’t know how to hold.

I picked up my brass and ruby cudgel, and she told me how to feel the fire of my aether and let it simmer in controlled brilliance, and how to sit back and watch, patient and observant, as an umbral reckoning blazed all the way up into my nose, through my nostrils, eventually bubbling out in an oozing black ichor like tar. Until we were both painted with blood and the door finally gave way after growing fat on our offerings. Freedom, and not a moment too soon.

It’s funny. It’s funny in that way where I have to laugh to keep from considering all of the circumstantial leaps that had to happen to get me there, in that moment, with that exact mentor and the tools available to me. Did you know that I bought my thaumaturge focus the same day -- at the same damn merchant stall -- that I bought the bracelet that Lux still wears? The cudgel was a leap of faith (I thought maybe, someday, I would use it), and the bracelet was a tithe for her attention, but I gotta fucking wonder if that wasn’t the Spinner herself cinching an amethyst purple thread, until two distant ends of a rich black fabric pleated and bunched together, suddenly close, in a moment of coordinated function.

Like this had been the plan all along.

“They treat you differently because of it. Everyone on this ship - they know they can talk to you, Lucas. That you'll hear them.”

I started this mission as an empty vessel, asking everyone I came across to pour their faith into me so that I might taste it and gradually build a competence in teasing apart the flavors of the gods. The truth is that I was searching for the one most likely to offer me forgiveness, or at the very least the god who might hand me a penitence that I felt like I could swallow. I thought I deserved it, you see. That’s how all this started. On bad days, I still do.

Asking about faith isn’t just a window to the spiritual soul -- it��s also a mainline straight into the source of everyone’s irreconcilable fucking damage. Picking your god is a perilous choice, but mostly because it ultimately determines what kind of personality malfunction you’re going to have down the road. I already know why I’m awful: Delusions of grandeur and megalomania, with a curious tendency to self-flagellate. I’m the smartest, most impressive architect you’ll ever meet. I’m the greasiest, grimiest hunk of motor oil in the gutter.

The only way to reach the middle road between glorifying and hating myself, I’ve found, is to count the threads that wrap themselves around my ribs when I recount the conversations that I’ve had on the Salemtaza’s Voyage.

Here’s a taste: I’ve got Caelrin in deep ochre around my midriff where my abs are just starting to take shape. Ignera sits in flaming orange around the hollow of my throat, slapping my hand away every time I try to choke on my own self-loathing. Captain Kharn wraps in garnet around my face, shielding me from unwanted eyes when I don’t feel quite how I should in my skin. W'kana and W'buki in yellow and black, swaddling me so tight around the chest I fear for my next fucking breath. Reinette, a gentle evening blue curling in petals around my fingertips. Rizzo, a shining onyx black stitching up my lungs telling me to breathe, just breathe, don’t stop breathing until it gets easier.

More even than that. Staelufre in neon magenta, Fugetsu in an unknowable shade of grey, Killian in sunset orange, Strelec in obscuring maroon, Hikari in daisy yellow, Camille in cloudy crimson, Jancis in healing olive, Lune in jumpsuit orange, Jeanne in oil-slick purple, Hanako in fresh lavender, even Kat, yeah, even her, in that same royal blue as Castor.

Nathaniel threading in loops around every one of my fingers in a dazzling gold that fades into the electric yellow of potent aethersand.

I could go on. I could list twice as many names and colors as I already have, and I must ask myself: How do I carry them all? How could I possibly hold them all, without attaching them directly to my meat, my bones, this hideous and imprecise flesh that rightly should be cogs and metal? All that thread would just gum up the whole works, wouldn’t it? Maybe it’s better that I am man, then, and not machine.

For all my flaws, I can still stretch my arms and accommodate all these dangling ends.

“They see it in you, in the way you carry yourself. You're curious. Empathetic. You want to understand people, not just love them or hate them or think nothing of them at all.”

Sui tried to warn me about all this, back at the pumpkin patch at Cloudtop. It was raining, weighing down all my sashes on my brand new armor, and Sui had laughed when the skies parted to reveal the sun setting in a field of rose gold and the softest lavender. It seems like she and I can never properly talk if we aren’t both looking at the sky, like this is the only way we can perceive each other. Never head on -- only in the periphery. Or maybe it’s just easier to talk about certain things when you aren’t looking someone in the eye. Maybe it’s that.

She was so startled by the questions I needed to ask her, like she hadn’t thought it was possible that anyone had been watching her reaction to Nathaniel’s speech, like she didn’t think anyone would have noticed that she was upset. Is she so used to passing under the radar?

But I’ll give her credit. Sui tried to warn me that my friends would die. I watched the sunset fizzle out on the horizon from its soft pastels into a creeping ceruleum and a deeper indigo while she told me every horror that had befallen her family before, and what she knew would happen to us again. Sui could feel the same threads of fate starting to twine around our edges, and she wanted me to be prepared. I listened. I let those fibers stitch themselves into my lungs in the golden rose of a cloudless twilight sky.

I just never thought it would come down on us so quickly, and with such brutal force. I’ve never had to pray for another person before, and out of nowhere I found it necessary to summon the script to beg for twelve of my friends’ lives.

The truth is that I never learned how, and I’ve been too afraid to seek the answer. I know how to make wishes; I know how to toss gold coins into a running fountain and watch the sunlight flicker off the scattered mess of them along the bottom of the pool. But I don’t know how to pray.

I know who I would ask. It was Tieve who introduced me to Gridania, and if Sui and I speak most openly under a yawning sky, you might say that Tieve and I communicate best among the trees, under a cathedral of roots. The memory of the hearer’s chapel is stitched in bark brown and moss green bracelets around my wrists, reminding me that while I may have been invited to someone’s sacred space, I have to mind my boundaries, too. I am not the infallible creator of my own conceit, but nor am I outcast from Spoken kindness and community. To know temperance is to know yourself, to dig into the well of your Spoken dignity and grant the same to others.

I still have this embroidered Gridanian sachet of wood chips and herbs that she gave me, telling me it was for luck, and I didn’t know back then how much I would come to rely on Nymeia for hope. That I would need to believe that she’s writing me into a greater tapestry, that I need that grandeur to feel like my dumbass mistakes have meaning and purpose. And even with Tieve beyond my reach, it occurred to me that she might have already given me everything I needed to weave my own prayer. A level head. A god. A talisman.

I’m just fumbling through this. We all are, but I made my own prayer by pulling that sachet out of my pocket and spinning it over and over in my hands as I remembered the names of those our enemies had taken from us. Who better to beg than the god of fate? Keep their lines anchored to me. Keep them in the tapestry. Keep them safe.

“It's the most noble thing about you. It's - It's more than just what you do, it's who you are. It's what I love about you.”

I recite their names:

Aidan, the hound with apologetic eyes who slinks around the edges the crowd until someone notices him, at which point he deflects attention from himself with a self-deprecating joke straight out of my own fucking toolbox. He could be a brother to me, if he let himself be; if he told me the truth about who he is and where he’s been. I can smell it on him. The stench of ceruleum doesn’t fade as quickly as any of us would like, but I wait for him to tell me on his own terms. Aidan weaves around the periphery of my eyelids in a shadowy kohl black.

Izar, the mercurial seer who obscures themselves in riddles like a smug sphinx playing at being a whimsical faerie. They have never passed up the opportunity to toy with me like a blind white kitten with an oversized brown moth, but the teeth of their humor has never once felt like a cage to me. They are kind, and curious, and helpful even as they delight in your confusion. They dangle at my elbow in marble white, furiously tickling my arm like a loose hair caught in a sleeve.

Adhi, the wandering sage of Dalmasca who the gods had to gift with such big fuzzy ears so that she could better capture every single story that ever came her way. I don’t know how to even begin to thank her for what she’s done for me; she’s returned things to me that by all means should have been my birthright but were taken from me before I was even aware that they were being stolen. Her thread spirals in a shell around my ear in an entire spectrum of colors, one for every tale she carries with her.

Still, there’s more: Tieve, the witch of the wolves (mossy green); Percy, the son of a shadow (cobalt blue); Bride, the bashful goldsmith (periwinkle blue); Swozbhar, the towering cook (mint green); Valeriaux, the scarred philanthropist (leather brown); Silya and Livia, the sunniest Fists I’ve ever met (pale pink and soft teal); Farid, the most visibly haunted man I know (muted purple); and Iron Deer, the entrepreneurial engineer (metallic steel) -- all of them familiar faces, all of them colleagues, all of them threaded through the chambers of the same priceless Heart that gives our mission purpose.

The same Heart that we traded away just to get them back.

You know what? Fuck it. I’ll string them all to my own heart. I’ll suspend them all in cocoons deep in the burning hearth of me -- I will fight my way out of this facility that wants desperately to become our tomb -- until those that still live can crawl back out, fragile but alive and free to keep fighting for whatever comes next.

But one of them is gone, beyond the veil and permanently out of my reach. Just like Sui tried to warn me about, and all of Tieve’s lucky charms were not enough to protect me from this single ungentle truth. The Spinner does not stop the march of destruction -- she merely directs it. She cuts the threads of our fallen friends when they begin to fray and weaves new ones in their place; a different color, a fresh fate.

One of them is gone, their thread knotted off in a sudden stop on the tapestry of our story. But who?

Who did we lose?

“I've seen it. I've heard it. I've bloody felt it. Everyone I speak to says the same. Every one of them knows what a great heart you have.”

Percy and I first met at that bonfire by the chocobo stables. I was shivering, fresh off the fucking ship and completely unprepared for the weather, and he stood next to me and promised me everything I could ever possibly want, if only I made a promise in return to be a loyal friend to the Family. I was so desperate for a place to belong, I would have signed anything, done anything -- what had mattered was that he would have me. In this brave new world, I had people looking out for me. A place to call home. Structure. An institutionalized, freshly liberated fuckhead like me desperately needed structure.

So what if it came with a little price? The list of my sins is long, and breaking and entering is pretty far down at the bottom. Bar brawls are inconsequential, when you’ve already essentially aided and abetted war crimes. So, I’m wanted by both House Desrosiers and House Beaumarchais for stealing a thing or two from their daughters’ manse. So fucking what. Percy and I -- There are bonds that can only be forged at three in the morning, sitting on a crows’ perch halfway across the city under the moonlight, doing pre-job surveillance on some fart-sniffing nobles through their window. I’m not saying we kissed. I’m not saying we didn’t, either.

This is what I’m thinking about, when I look down at Percy’s lifeless face, drained of the rosy pink that always sat on his cheeks during those cold-ass stakeouts, huddled together at the shoulders for warmth. If I touched him now, he would be so cold, so unnaturally fucking cold, so I don’t. I can’t bring myself to touch him; to do anything but stare with my mouth half-open and a sob dying somewhere between my sternum and my throat, turning into just another burning pit to fizzle and die in my stomach.

Except it doesn’t have the good sense to die. It turns to steam, turns to pressure, backs up the entire clockwork machine that keeps me chugging along, and it must be vented or else I’m going to fucking explode, but I can’t. I can’t. I can’t. It stutters inside me like a hitched gear. The whine seems to come from my chest, high-pitched, like a kettle about to scream. Is that me? Am I screaming? I don’t know myself. I am not me, in this moment. I don’t know who I am. I don’t know who is on the cot below me, whose silver close-cropped hair sits on this head, whose too-round spectacles reflect the light in the room too thoroughly for me to be able to see if their dead fucking eyes are open or closed. I don’t know which is more terrifying.

I leave. I run. My boots scream against the floor of the ship, clap against the dirt outside, and I don’t stop running until I can drop to my knees and bellow to the impassive clouds. This is my fault. Judgement rings in my head in a cacophony of voices. My fault. My fault he’s dead.

What am I doing here? What have I done?

Percy’s line, cobalt blue, is so cleanly snipped from my fabric that all I can do is finger the empty spot where it might have kept going. Maybe one day we could have found compromise; a future where the three of us could get along without jealousy, without miscommunication or hurt feelings. I’ll never fucking know.

I have always thought of myself in big terms. I am man, I am machine, I am god. I’m the architect of my own form, and I have crafted myself in my own image. Nothing makes me feel more powerful than looking in the mirror and seeing my face look back at me; the face that I sculpted, the body that I shaped. The people that I’ve been in the past are not dead, but rather they have been stitched into my organs. The girl that I was lives in my marrow and feeds my blood, and I am never alone in the cathedral of my body. I am holy. I am enduring. I will move beyond the ghosts at my heels and continue forging a forward path, with those I love woven into the never-ending project that I call my self.

But even a god looks puny as shit, crying into the dirt over a fallen friend. I need to feel this. I need how small this makes me, how insignificant I am in this moment. I gotta remember how crippled it makes me feel. This humility -- it needs to be sown into me, too. So I don’t make the same mistake again. It’s the least I can do.

I can’t forget. I won’t forget his face.

“What a precious, precious thing we've gained.”

[anangelicday-mrwolf]

Wolfsbane : Noblesse Fanfic (post-ending)

(previous chapter)

Chapter 30 – Wrong Start

“I give you 10 seconds for you to confess, whoever it is.”

Muzaka’s statement resonated in the air, left unanswered by his closest and most trusted warriors.

None of the four warriors could fancy what was in their lord’s head, and they were busy exchanging looks among themselves, until Garda, as the most experienced of all warriors, decided to be the vanguard.

“Pardon me, my lord, but... I am afraid we have no idea what you want to discuss with us.”

“Isn’t it obvious? I mean, can I make it any more obvious?”

Muzaka sighed from the bottom of his guts, as if he just encountered the gravest tragedy he has ever witnessed.

“Don’t you hear that? Our little girl throwing a raging, hissy fit as we speak.”

Oh.

No mouth in the area ever moved, but an identical sound rang in their heads in synchronization.

In fact, questions had been ringing in their heads even before Muzaka summoned them.

‘What on earth had happened to Lunark?’

‘Why is she so mad?’

‘Shouldn’t we stop her? At this rate, she’ll blow up at least 10% of our land.’

By the time damages caused by Union’s biological weapons were almost as good as gone, out of the blue thundered new cacophony undeniably from a work of destruction.

It turned out Lunark was to blame, slashing and trashing like a bull that has spotted a red flag, as reported by two rookie warriors that were dispatched to find out the cause of it.

And she was doing one hell of a job, so vicious that they could not even get close, let alone ask her what was wrong.

“But it seems her reasons are still functioning. She’s wreaking havoc at that infamous forest. But really, does anybody have any idea what’s gotten into the girl? Whether it is condolence or understanding or reprimand that she needs, I’ll be able to choose one only when I find out why she’s doing... All that. Anybody? Please?”

Nobody moved a muscle to Muzaka’s inquiry-slash-request, for they were just as clueless as he was.

That is, all except one.

Garda learned about Lunark’s rampage from new warriors, who were already throwing a talk party of their own regarding the grey-haired warrior’s behavior, and she ran to the spot right away to check what was going on.

And she could pick up Lunark’s voice even before reaching the forest, from which the former usually stays away.

“Aaaaaaaaaagh!!”

She managed to catch a glimpse of the younger warrior from afar, who was screeching an array of unrecognizable vowels and syllables, with her hands shifted into battle stance as she was hurling towards whatever she could reach, air, trees, or leaves afloat.

Garda had no choice but to retreat, partially because she got scared for her own life, and partially because she was beyond puzzled, never having seen Lunark so unbridled.

Luckily, she could spot Lunark’s face right before she turned away, which left a concerning impression in her head.

‘It looks to me she isn’t mad. She’s whipping up embarrassment from the depth of her soul. Just what could mortify and set her off like that?’

*****

Few days later, Frankenstein’s island

‘Just what did he do?’

The white-haired man had been asking himself ever since the lord of the island returned at last.

He did remember that Frankenstein said he would be visiting wolfkind; however, he was wondering whether he ate the Dark Spear on his way.

Because the atmosphere from the blonde human was so dark, so violent.

That was when 3rd Elder’s experience with mind games from Union kicked in, and he attempted to analyze Frankenstein’s mental state based on what he could make out of his islemate’s facial expressions.

As a result, he could identify a number of emotions: extreme irritation, fury just as extreme, remorse greater than either of the two, and, most importantly, self-hate.

Because of which, 3rd got highly conscious of his every breath and step, despite the fact that he was lodging on this island upon Frankenstein’s permission and consent.

On the other hand, unbeknownst to the scientist, he terrified that the former could have noticed his alliance with Helga.

So he ended up asking Frankenstein if there was something troubling him, ready for a lethal slap in the face.

It’s nothing.

Came a reply with a face that THERE IS DEFINITELY SOMETHING, before the speaker fled the scene.

That did not do any good to relieve 3rd Elder of his fear, but at least he was convinced that the reason behind Frankenstein’s foul mood lay not with him.

When he walked away, Frankenstein’s steps were immediate, rushed as if he never wanted to talk about it ever again.

‘That just made it more curious for me, but I guess it’s none of my business, whatever it is. What matters is that Frankenstein knows nothing about my deal. Speaking of which, looks like the recorder and tracker in me really didn’t work.’

He already knew the answer; had they worked properly, upon his return Frankenstein would have cornered him almost as if he were going for a round of a full torture.

So all in all, regardless of what had taken place with the wielder of Dark Spear, 3rd Elder could not deny that it was all good for him.

It was so good to know Helga’s promise came with a reason.

It was very good to find out her accomplice was truly talented.

‘And I’d say she’s also talented, having discovered and won over such competence, especially considering the original alliance of the said competence.’

Though Helga did relay to him the course through which her accomplice had agreed to act as an accomplice, 3rd Elder was still mystified.

‘Anyways, I’d say nobody knows about my ‘betrayal.’ Which means I should focus on my job and do it right, on the day she mentioned.’

*****

Time never stopped its magic, and at last came the day marked on everyone’s calendar.

<I was wondering whether we could make it...>

<But here we are.>

“Haha, amen to both of you.”

Tao, who had found himself in front of computers for once, laughed at the screens hosting virtual conversation with four recipients at once.

Nonetheless, the man’s face held a hint of anxiety, and Adne somehow detected it like an X-ray.

<Mr. Tao, was it...? There’s no need to be so anxious.>

“Haha, was it that obvious? How embarrassing. And I have been calling myself an expert, with tons and variety of experience when it comes to computers.”

Tao laughed, scratching a side of his head, when Adne offered a word of comfort.

<Experiences does not really grow on par with poise. Besides, anxiety is not so bad, although this is from someone who just told you not to be so anxious. It’s a proof that you are responsible and conscious of the weight of your task.>

“My, I’m starting to feel small in your presence. We should be calling you the real expert.”

<An expert? Me? That’s preposterous. I am no expert.>

But I wanted to be one.

Tao blinked, wondering if he had just heard the werewolf doctor whispering.

Before he could ask if he had said something, however, Adne beamed in satisfaction.

<Most importantly, Mr. Frankenstein recommended you. And that’s more than enough reason for me to trust you.>

“Aww, come on, boss! You should really stop being a proud daddy.”

<I dare you to shout that in my face one more time.>

Tao felt his body turning rigid as a biting voice speared his eardrums.

So did Takio and M-21, watching the scene right next to his chair.

Frankenstein’s face, lighting up an entire monitor that was assigned to him, was brimming with annoyance.

<Thanks a lot, Tao. I’m already starting to think that I really shouldn’t have volunteered as an audience.>

“Aww, don’t be so mean, boss. There’s no way we’re leaving you out for the grand premiere of the event.”

<I would like to second that.>

Said Lascrea, who had been listening like a rock until then.

Because she was standing next to Yuhyung, who decided to be the operator for Lukedonia, only part of her face was visible.

The only one who has not spoken was the doctor from KSA.

Or rather, he decided not to speak, overwhelmed by the presence of werewolves, nobles, Frankenstein, and a group of people who had shared with him blood and sweat in battles.

But of course, that did not mean KSA would be left unspoken for the duration of the event, though it was because Tao directed a word to everyone at the scene.

“So, are we all ready? Status report, please.”

<Yep! All set!>

<Uh, same here...>

<...I believe we are ready as well.>

Adne was the last to send an okay, after a bit of delay, to which Tao responded with a nod completely void of a smile.

“So, shall we begin?”

Right on cue, Yuhyung took the invisible mike from Tao.

<Now, please follow the instructions I had left for you. First, run the program I installed for you.>

Tao’s fingers danced across the keyboard, for he had fully memorized Yuhyung’s instruction manual; and Adne and KSA’s doctor followed suit.

The two humans provided feedback whenever things were lost or stuck in the middle, and they reached step by step closer to the initiation of the QuadraNet.

By then M-21, Takio, and even Lascrea were having a hard time hiding their excitement.

“Okay, we’re almost there! Just a little bit more!”

Tao’s encouragement fueled everybody to the last stage.

<Now, once this file is activated, all four servers will be linked. And like I told you a number of times, we must activate the file at the exact same moment.>

“On a count of three. One... Two...”

Three.

Four fingers stabbed the enter key in unison, and not long after they held their breath in waiting, pleasing hum of machines and blue light began their duet.

<...Well? It looks like things went okay here.>

Asked a voice from monitor connected to the KSA’s headquarter, somewhere between anticipation and concern.

<W-w-we’re okay!>

<Uh, same here...>

Came voices wild with wonder, and Tao was about to laugh in reply, when an eerie whirring noise, pitched so high and so ominous, began to bore through everyone’s ears.

The fact that it took place just when they were literally less than an inch away from completion was horrifying enough, but they had yet to realize the real horror was yet to reveal itself.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

Beep-beep-beep-beep.

BEEEEEEEEEP!!!!!!

Monitors linking Lukedonia, KSA, and wolfkind also emitted similar noises, and soon Tao found his screens being painted with tiny numbers and alphabets one by one.

“Tao? What is it?”

“What’s going on?”

Barked Takio and M-21 in alarm; they did not define themselves as computer-friendly type, but they had enough knowledge to tell that such phenomenon takes place usually when there is a technical issue or its sort.

Not to mention Tao’s face was all they needed to see that something has gone terribly wrong.

“No, no, no...! Our server...!”

Tao yelled as he was slamming the keyboard with his entire fingers.

And right then Murphy’s Law decided to spit in their faces.

Pzzt...!

Everyone’s face blinked off as if promised, and instead the monitors were refilled with noises that made the RK’s eyes bleed just by staring.

“What the heck is going on...?!”

*****

“Tao? Mr. Jang? Doctor? Dr. Adne?”

Frankenstein was almost wailing for everyone’s name as well.

To no avail, of course.

“What is it? Just tell me what the hell it is!”

Frankenstein’s cry scattered into an echo unreciprocated, as he was clutching onto his monitor.

So he had no idea there was a pair of blue eyes watching him from his back.

‘Stage 1 is complete.’

Cause disturbance with everyone’s server the moment QuadraNet comes alive.

Therefore, make sure no one can pay attention to anything other than the sudden technical chaos, including what he and Helga will stir up in the future.

It was not an easy task, but they made it.

The 3rd Elder silently removed himself from the back of the stage, his mind winding back to the face of their accomplice, who happened to be featuring on one of Frankenstein’s monitors just a while ago.

(next chapter)

Perhaps it would feel a little rushed to bring about trouble so soon, when the previous chapter featured Frankenstein and Lunark’s first kiss, but now things will start taking the wrong turns. I mean, it’s no fun if there are no troubles or challenges in a fic lol. By the way, I started adding links on each chapter that can take you to previous/next chapter (you can find the link to previous chapter at the top, and the link to the next chapter at the bottom). I’ll add the links to all previous chapters very soon!

[alittlebitgoofy]

i really really really like you (lemonjuice)

Lemon is exhausted from touring and travelling and just wants to sleep, maybe also kiss her girlfriend. Juice happily lets her do both and she's everything she could want in a girlfriend.

ao3 link

Lemon sighed, her body felt heavier the more she walked. Hearing the excited chatter of people around her was exhausting and she only wanted to find her way to her bed and sleep in it. Mind fogged by tiredness, she almost didn’t notice Tynomi nudging her, a knowing expression on her friend’s face. 

“You look dead. Haven’t you got a girl you’re minutes away for seeing for the first time in a month?” Tynomi laughed as Lemon blinked, slowly processing what was said to her. The blonde nodded slowly, as if unsure if she had heard correctly or was just too tired for her hearing to function properly. 

“Juice is waiting, you’re right.” Lemon perked up, fully realising what was happening. She hadn’t thought it would be this hard, they hadn’t been dating for that long, only 4 months but every day had left her craving the small blonde to be by her side, cuddling into her in a way that she would never let another soul do. They called daily by the end of the tour, Lemon was gushing about how kind and pretty her girlfriend was a little too much for most people. It never stopped her, but Tynomi would tease her if she went too far, keeping it balanced. 

A few more minutes of light chatter between herself and Tynomi, Lemon saw pink hair, her face lighting up into a grin as the girl charged at her. 

“Lem!” The blonde stumbled back as Juice jumped, tackling her in a hug, lifting herself, and wrapping her legs around Lemon’s waist for a brief moment before returning to the floor but not letting go. She didn’t let her girlfriend respond, peppering soft kisses across her face before pulling her into a tighter hug. 

“I missed you,” Lemon spoke softly, muffled from where she had burrowed her head into Juice’s shoulder, still audible to the girl. Her first response was another kiss which she eagerly accepted. Juice lifted her face to make eye contact before speaking. 

“I missed you too, Lemmy.” The utterly loving look in Juice’s eyes was enough to make Lemon melt. No one had looked at her quite like that before and it sent a shockwave of feelings through her. Juice truly was perfect, she was the sweetest girlfriend Lemon could imagine. She paused, pulling Juice into a long-overdue kiss on the lips that was everything she had been craving up until that moment. She let the kiss communicate her feelings, knowing any verbal attempt would end up nonsensical at best.  

“Oh my god you two, get a room,” Tynomi spoke with a shake of her head, laughing as Lemon pouted, before dramatically grimacing when Juice pressed another kiss to her girlfriend’s cheek. 

“Oh, you’re just annoyed because your girlfriend is late.”  Lemon giggled, relishing in the irked look Tynomi shot her. Just as she spoke, Priyanka ran up to the trio, spouting some apology for being late before pulling Tynomi into a tight embrace. 

They talked for a few minutes before Lemon felt her energy fall, drowsily leaning against Juice’s shoulder, feeling like she wouldn’t be able to keep her eyes open for much longer. Juice noticed, nudging Lemon and saying goodbye to Priyanka and Tynomi. She managed to assist Lemon and grab her suitcases, throwing them into the car before putting lemon in the front and plugging in her seatbelt. The blonde had only gotten worse, immediately leaning against the window, eyelids fluttering shut. 

“Sleep Lem, I’ll wake you up when we get there,” Juice said, barely able to hold back a noise at how adorable Lemon was, attempting to nod but barely able to respond. Her head leant to the side, leant against the window, and asleep before Juice could start the car. 

The drive back was quiet, Lemon slept peacefully through any bumps in the road while Juice kept her eye’s focused ahead, drifting to glance at how cute the blonde looked whenever she hit a red light. She always counted herself lucky to have someone like Lemon in her life. No one understood her as Lemon did, things went unspoken between them in a way Juice could only have dreamed of a few months prior.  Nothing had fallen into place this quick before, four short months and they had every part of the other memorised, Lemon knew how to deal with Juice’s anxiety no matter what the cause as Juice understood what she wanted and when she wanted it without having to ask. 

There was a struggle, the blonde not being very touchy and Juice being the exact opposite, always wanting to hug someone she liked. That was when Lemon knew the girl was something. When Lemon made her boundaries clear, Juice never overstepped them and asked before any contact, clearly trying to figure out what was and wasn’t liked. She’d quickly figured out that Lemon preferred verbal attention to physical, although she would always enjoy a kiss. The knowledge kept Lemon happy, it was easy to be around Juice, how she could read her so well was a mystery but it was as if they had fit together. Understanding and knowing the other before even meeting. Juice didn’t know if she believed in soulmates or love at first sight but Lemon made her believe in them and so much more. 

Lemon stirred as they entered the driveway to her apartment building, drowsily staring up at her girlfriends as she got out the car and gathered the suitcases from the car boot. By the time Lemon got out of the car, Juice stood waiting for her, holding both of her suitcases, a soft smile gracing her features as Lemon walked to her. 

Wordlessly, Lemon took one of the cases before following Juice into the building, leaning against the pink-haired girl as they got into the elevator. Lemon vaguely wondered if her prior nap had left her more tired than she started. Although she was walking just fine, her mind was still hazy with a lack of sleep. 

“Lem, your keys baby.” Juice nudged her, holding back a laugh as she watched the fumbling of the keys, unfocused eyes struggling to get them into the lock, letting out a small triumphant fist pump as she got the door unlocked.

“Juicy, ‘m still sleepy,” Lemon murmured, flopping herself onto her bed without a second thought and beginning to curl up for another nap. Juice left her to sleep more but not before pulling the duvet over Lemon. Before she could leave to let the girl sleep, a soft noise came from the bed. 

“Juice. Cuddle?” Her words were muffled against the pillow but Lemon turned to Juice, making grabby hands at her until she cuddled up next to her. Lemon pressed her body into Juice’s, burrowing her head into her shoulder. She let out a content sigh as she got comfortable, breath quickly evening out as she fell asleep. 

She’d wake up an hour or so later, surprised to find Juice peacefully sleeping next to her before smiling about it, one thought would ring through her mind, one she would have been scared to say to anyone in this position, but not Juice. She would say it later, softer than her usual loving words, more vulnerable but quietly confident in her feelings. Juice would echo it, smiling brighter than Lemon had ever seen, leaving her heart stuttering in her chest.

I love you. 

[renzu-valra]

Prompt #30: Splinter

Character: Shinza Chousokabe ♦ Region: Doma ♦ Time: 17 years ago

hosted by: @sea-wolf-coast-to-coast​​

“What would you have done had you taken his place that night? To that girl…”

Trailing my hand across the marble shelf, I maneuvered through the darkness. Making my way slowly towards the dark figure seated near the window. The corridor itself was lacking in colour. Naught in that deep midnight blue caught mine eye. Naught save what laid at the very end of it. A woman. Dressed in black. Seated on her legs, and staring out yonder a blaring white window letting in the sun.

“…Yes. You will suffice for now.”

I felt words gripping my throat, begging to be spoken. Yet my voice was missing. Sacrificed a fortnight ago. Even so, I felt as if they were still being spoken aloud. That the woman ahead of me heard each and every question. For when she turned her head, she bore her intense gaze into my skull. Answering every one.

However, I would not stumble here. I would press on with the selfsame tenacity of which I started down this oppressive path. Though the room in which we faced each other was but a dreamscape within my mind, the woman before me was a very real presence which threatened all who came into her view. She could easily pin me down and strangle my neck—choking out all life from my lungs; rendering my waking body paralyzed and without mind. Even so, I was not scared. She would not win.

When I finally stood within arm’s reach of her, she lifted her head upwards and smiled. Extending to me her hand. I humbly accepted and sat down by her side. The wood beneath my legs was cold—the soul inside each plank extracted and lifeless. She had killed it, just by sitting here. And inevitably, one day, she would claim my soul as well.

Resting my head against hers. Leaning my body against hers.

There was nothing loving in this.

“I wonder what she felt. The girl you watched for summers on end from your windowsill. Just like this.”

Her voice directed my eyes forward. The once blinding light shining through the paper dulled—emptied out—and in its place shone something far more brilliant. ‘Shaiwase.’ The gardener’s daughter.

 She was a child in this picture. Barely lived through five springs, and yet she already carried such grace. Her hair was long and black, and skin white as snow. I heard that she was born with a weak body, yet when I first saw her from this window, she seemed so very alive. Her gown was a simple cyan, and it flowed in great length behind her.

I was studying my calligraphy at the time. My teachers would expect nothing less than professional, first-class work despite my young age, and until then I had strived endlessly to meet those expectations. The moment I saw her trying to climb the cherry tree outside, my brush suddenly swirled in my hand. She was beautiful. More beautiful than the meaningless phrase I was recreating onto papyrus. Her small pale hands gripping at the thick wood—tiny nails digging into the flakes until she was high enough to sit inside the base. Looking up and waving to the birds chirping in the branches.

Birds… I don’t think I ever noticed how charming they were until then. Their harmonious song brought a smile to her cheeks, as well as to mine.

Truly, the sight itself appeared to be taken straight out of a painter’s canvas. A tranquil girl seated in-between the separating branches of a sakura tree, her long hanfu billowing in the breeze. The clouds a misty haze of white surrounding her. Except, this wasn’t a mere painting. It had true, genuine life to it, and it could be heard through the birdsong, and the warm breeze wallowing through the pink petals above, causing them to dance. This…feeling that was now blooming in my breast. It wasn’t love. It was marvel. Admiration. A wish that I could keep watching this scene forever.

“I wonder what she felt.”

The woman’s question resurfaced again. ‘What she felt..’

In the years to come, that’s all Shaiwase was. A sight to look forward to when I sat down at my desk to study during the day. And as she aged, she eventually took to learning how to tend the garden. As far as I reckoned, she never spotted me watching her as she worked. She was still frail of body, however that wouldn’t stop her strong spirit from giving life to the flowers she loved.

And yet…

The last time I saw her.

The very last time.

It was still through this very window.

My attendants had arrived in a hurry once the smoke flooded the skies past our estate. The attack on our city had just begun—yet the fires burned high and the sky blazed red. And Shaiwase. She was still tending the garden. Her back turned to the disasters directly behind her. Without a care in the world. Until the caw of a crow caught her attention, and she turned back and screamed. No one would go to her and take her into hiding with the rest of the family. She would be left to fend for herself, as would the rest of the hired staff.

And when the nightmare had ended, and a brief moment of calm was allowed to transpire.. I learned about what happened to her. To those who couldn’t escape. They were killed. Maimed and tortured in a man’s violent need to rage against his cruel fate. Apparently they hadn’t left a singular armed guard to watch over the estate in their absence—and it wasn’t a Garlean soldier who stole into their land and caused such horrific havoc…it was someone born and raised in Othard. A normal man. A crazed, terrible man. I wasn’t allowed to see the bodies.

 “We are the same, you and I.”

The woman by my side spoke—and when I turned my gaze to meet her ruby eyes, I suddenly felt an overpowering dizziness. The dream was ending… and with it.. –

  I awoke in sweat. A cruel nausea swelled within my gut that tasted of black rage. Its bile dripped on my tongue and foamed out onto my lips. I remember this. This bleak poison reminded me of that night naught but a few days past. Although the memory itself remained blurry and unspecified, I knew what occurred, whether I wanted to repress the entirety of it or not. ‘His’ instructions were precise.

Love her. Use her. Take her heart. She is but a woman of the night, and none should mourn her. For our purposes, she will suffice.

Yet mourned her I had. This sensation that swelled inside my veins as I was urged to take her life—I mourned that raw flood of emotions I had never quite experienced before. And I mourned the fact that I’d never be able to feel it with the one person who I wanted to most. The sickening tempest lurking within my bowels that was both unsatisfied and satisfied.

My heart was splintering apart—rending itself in two, and I had to fight desperately against its tearing muscle to keep it whole. There was a blade at my side. A white sword which begged to be grabbed at. I could see the shimmer of raw sharpness glare through the darkness. If I could but reach for it, I could use it to cut open my chest—rip out whatever foul curse rotted away from within.

Ah…but my arms would not function. I could hardly remember the scene which took place before this tormenting strife. I had been drugged, for my own safety. Yet still my hand twitched with need. If I was unable to supress these problematic urges, I would eventually will myself into taking that sharp sword in hand and take my life with it.

She was singing. Calling out for me…to join her in everlasting ‘–———‘

And then, before my eyes, I saw a man I had never seen before.

He touched at my hand…and as if our very souls intertwined together at that exact moment…I felt his voice reach my soul through my very veins.

It…quieted the rage which threatened to destroy me. My limbs eased and I found a resplendent calm drifting through my body—taking the drug which stilled me with it. I felt the hilt of the beating white sword throb within my palm. And I did what I knew needed to be done from the first.

Rend it clean through my heart. Give way for her spirit.

Become as one with who she is. Who I was. Who will come after.