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globalrebrand · 4 months ago

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The Marriage of Music and Alchemy: Chapter One

Crewel is out of control with the whip cracking and Ace is fed up. He won't deal with tyrants on two fronts, but thankfully he doesn't have to. Ace and the Prefect have noticed how Crewel is looking at the new musicology Professor, and between the two them they definitely have what it takes to get their teachers together, and maybe grow closer with each other.

Too bad Crewel's a bit more emotionally constipated than Ace or Yuu could have anticipated, and unfortunately their dear homeroom Professor isn't the only suitor after the music Professor's heart!

Warnings: None!

A/N: Posting from AO3.

~ You start a new job and Ace hatches a plan. | 2.3K Words

Chapter I | Chapter II | Chapter III

“Have you ever wondered where Crewel gets the money to dress so nice?” Ace whispers to Deuce, doing anything to avoid actually paying attention to the orientation lecture the Professor is giving at the lectern in front of the fresh cohort of first-year students. Ace fully recognizes he probably should listen and that Crewel isn’t just rambling for the sake of it. Instead of boring everyone to tears with one several-hour-long presentation about the rules, the staff seemed to think it was best to break up the deluge of information by doing it bit by bit every day of the first week during homeroom period.

But it seems all the faculty’s efforts were for naught because, by SEVEN, this is dull. Ace can’t help but let his mind wander to anything besides the endless tedium spilling from his Professor’s mouth. So he poses the question to his peers, hoping Deuce and the Prefect can provide suitable entertainment on this uninspiring morning. He’s not really concerned with Grim's stances on the matter, not that he could actually probe him for answers anyway. The little beast is already dozing off on the Prefect’s lap.

Despite his best effort to remain attentive, Deuce lets himself ponder Ace’s question, a slight frown twisting his lips as he considers his friend’s inquiry. He really can’t say he’s wondered about Professor Crewel’s wealth much. Sure, their homeroom teacher is always dressed impeccably, but it's not something he really considers as that exceptional. All of the teachers he’s been introduced to dress quite well, as far as he can tell. If anything, Professor Crewel’s attire might be the most distinctive for someone in his position, but then again, Deuce has never had an eye for luxury.

Even today, he looks rather dashing. The summer’s sweltering shroud of humidity still lingers over Sage Isle, and their Professor is dressed for the weather. Today, his outfit is simple enough: a black linen suit and a burgundy silken short-sleeved top with a complimentary cotton square in his breast pocket and a gold watch on his left wrist. Deuce definitely thinks that Crewel looks cool and all and he supposes everything the Professor wears seems like it's high quality, but it's nothing too crazy, right?

“Is his clothing really that flashy?” Deuce asked, clearly having deliberated on the nature of his professor's dress for quite a bit before speaking up.

“Don’t let him distract you,” the Prefect admonishes in a terse whisper. Their hands are dutifully clasped on the desk, and their posture is straight as they do everything in their power to look attentive and alert to counteract the audacity of the chubby little beastie currently snoozing blissfully in their lap.

Yet, alas, it is too late. Deuce has already bitten the hook and is now being steadily lured in.

“Are you kidding? Look at his watch.” Deuce and the Prefect, despite their best interests, take a glance at Crewel's wrist. The silver and gold band is nicely on display as he reads out the rules and expectations off of a sheet of paper held upright between his thumb and palm. Even from their spots toward the back of the classroom, the watch dazzles brilliantly. The Prefect can’t make out any details but the watch is certainly flashy enough to be reasonably expensive.

“When my brother got his first job out of school, he bought one from the same brand, but Crewel’s is wayyyyy nicer. The gold face alone makes it probably two or three times more expensive.”

“How much did your brother’s cost?” Deuce inquires.

“Five hundred thousand thurmarks at least .” Ace replied emphatically.

"That means Crewel’s is…”

“At most 1.5 million thurmarks,” The Prefect chimes in, saving Deuce from doing any mental math.

Deuce's eyes widen in disbelief, but he keeps a hushed tone. “No way! That much?”

Despite their initial contribution, the Prefect pouts. They needed to play devil's advocate to get the boys to focus back on Crewel’s instruction and stop distracting them each other. “Nice watches are often gifts. That doesn’t mean Professor Crewel is exceptionally rich or anything.”

“Well, then look at the logo on his shirt. It's from-” Ace begins before promptly being cut off.

“Heartslabyul puppy in the back, cease your yapping. I know the semester is young, but I fail to believe Rosehearts hasn’t trained you properly.” Crewel scolds, his voice bright and sharp. Loud and pointed enough to successfully startle Grim awake.

“It’s hardly the third day of-” Crewel begins rounding on the trio of disobedient curs who can’t keep quiet, but before he can fully settle into his tirade, someone gently knocks on the door, twisting the knob and slowly prying the door open.

The students can already tell whoever it is will hear an earful based on the way their Professor tenses and casts a glare to the door, but then it is only you, the newly hired Professor of Musicology, and Crewel’s posture noticeably shifts from hostile to something much more neutral and arguably inviting. The Prefect watches as Ace’s head snaps between the Crewel and the woman, clearly riveted by Professor Crewel’s newly changed attitude.

“Oh, it's the new music teacher,” Deuce informs the group in case anyone is struggling to place her face, but Ace, with a twinge of annoyance, replies, “ Obviously .”

Yours was a face he wouldn’t be forgetting anytime soon.

When Crowley introduced you along with other new faculty members it left much of the student body pleasantly surprised and rather eager to take music lessons. Apparently, according to Cater, you were certainly leagues above the former, cantankerous old music director in every way. At least aesthetically.

Everyone knew you were a globally accomplished classical musician. Crowley was more than happy to boast about the details of your accomplishments, not that any of them would recognize you by anything other than name if that. However, they hadn’t expected you to look like you did, which was to say, like a smartly dressed and rather comely young woman.

Ace remembers how several of the boys in his dorm wouldn’t stop raving about your looks, but it seems that Professor Crewel wasn’t immune to your charms either.

Almost immediately after casting his eyes upon you, all of the anger on Crewel’s face vanished, a slight and (possibly?) warm grin appearing instead.

“Good morning, Professor Bellamy. To what do I owe the pleasure?” Crewel rose from where he leaned against his lectern to stand at his full height.

Ace and Deuce could hardly stop their jaws from dropping at their homeroom Professor’s change in demeanor as you stepped into the room.

“I sincerely apologize for interrupting,” You speak softly, closing the door slightly behind you. “but it appears I’ve accidentally taken your roster.” Your heels clicked across the inlaid hardwood floors as you quickly stepped towards the front of the classroom, the papers in question stretched before you.

Crewel walks to meet you mid-way down the aisle in two confident strides, something you clearly didn’t anticipate as you were forced to stop short with a bit too much speed, almost colliding with him in the process, but Crewel without skipping a beat caught your shoulders gently to steady you, and your palm inadvertently came up to his chest to further stabilize you. The prefect is pretty sure they heard a Pomefiore student squeal with delight at the interaction.

It’s plain to see that you want to be mortified by your slight lapse in (as far as the Prefect can tell) preternatural grace, but Crewel doesn’t let you. He tilts his head in a gesture of concern as if to wordlessly ask, ‘Are you ok?.’

And Ace has to hand it to the Professor. It was pretty smooth of him to ask if you’re okay after his actions threw you off course.

You were too rattled to respond properly, so you just pushed the mixed-up roster in your other hand to Crewel’s chest and looked away from his eyes, which, throughout the entire exchange, had been trained on your face.

“Hmm. It appears you have.” Crewel responds looking down at the papers in question.

“Then this must be yours.” he then furnishes the list stashed among his papers with an elegant flourish.

“Ah, it is, thank you.” You take the papers and seemingly recover from your earlier flustered state. You turn to the class, “Pardon my intrusion, dear ones, for those of you enrolled in music courses, I look forward to meeting you all later this afternoon.”

“Good day, Professor Crewel.” You nod your head deferentially in Crewel’s direction, and he nods with a coy expression.

“Professor.” He demures you, and you turn to leave the room. But Ace can’t help but look back to Crewel, who doesn’t bother to take his eyes off you until you’ve fully retreated from the room.

As if by magic, Crewel returns to reviewing orientation materials, forgetting entirely about the tirade he was about to unleash and Ace and his unwilling compatriots. His prior annoyance seemingly cleansed from his body at your impromptu visit.

“Did you see that?” Even the Prefect seems stunned by what they'd just witnessed.

“No?” Deuce replies, “What was I supposed to see?”

“Deuce, if you didn’t see it just now, you never will.” The Prefect sighs exasperatedly.

“How interesting…,” Ace mutters quietly, filing away the encounter away for later.

____

The semester started off busy, but you felt that you had a better handle on things than expected.

It was your first time teaching, really, and now you had six sections of 'boys' choir and orchestra classes and a host of private tutoring sessions after school. Not to mention, you’d signed yourself up for a host of faculty duties, from assisting the students with planning the cultural fair and facilitating a host of events with the broader community. You also thought it would be good to foster a stronger connection between Night Raven College and the Royal Sword Academy, but baby steps, baby steps.

The training the head mage offered was minimal, but despite everything, a month in, you’ve been able to keep your head above water.

Your students, for the most part, behaved. The first years were a little rowdy, and the second years were promising but conceited and overconfident in their abilities. However, many of the third years were quite excellent musicians and singers. You’d been quite surprised at their level of talent, but you supposed Night Raven College rears exceptional mages and musicians, and you’re going to make sure that the reputation continues to blossom. Sure, the student's inclinations are a bit devious at times, but you have sympathy as you’ve been known to have a bit of a naughty streak yourself.

Like most mornings, your homeroom is in perfect harmony. Your first years are quite well-behaved. It seems like the mix of students from each of the houses is rather well distributed, but your homeroom students seem to skew towards Pomefiore, Diasomnia, and Scarabia students. Of course, with meaningful exceptions.

You and Jack, a first-year student from Savanaclaw, quickly bonded over the variety of plants you kept in the music room. Without prompting, Jack took it upon himself to tend to them, showing particular affection to the various cacti sitting by sunny windows.

At NRC, you were gifted quite a lovely little music room—well, not tiny by any means. It was storied and grand, with floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the sea, beautiful inlaid wooden floors, and equally elegant built-in risers with delicately curving chairs and iron music stands. And the piece de resistance, a gorgeous grand piano in a deep mahogany wood tone. Everything about the room was sumptuous. Even the domed ceiling provided the most indulgent and heady acoustics.

Your homeroom was a much more standard classroom, joined to the music room via a small corridor with a small private bathroom. It truly could not be a more perfect setup.

While you suppose that you should sit in your classroom for the morning advisory period, you and the boys found yourselves spending most mornings sunning in the music room as you gently plucked away at the piano. Everyone was in agreement that this was a much more preferable way to spend these quaint 30 minutes at the top of the day.

Some chatted amongst themselves while others stayed in the classroom to finish assignments.

Occasionally, students from other classrooms would sneak in to enjoy the peaceful atmosphere you created, and you didn’t mind much as long as they didn’t cause any disturbances. As such, the Prefect from the Ramshackle dorm often found their way into your room, perched near your piano bench and usually venting about the Headmage and the crazy errands he’s been sending them on. You listen attentively and conspire the best way to help them be slightly more comfortable, but you fear that there’s little you can do as a junior faculty member.

Still, you endeavored to try.

_________

The quarter was off to a chaotic start, and as far as Ace was concerned, a big part of it was due to Professor Crewel’s overbearing nature.

It was bad enough to have Riddle as Housewarden, but having Crewel as his homeroom teacher as well meant Ace was never going to get a break.

Both had far too many rules. Sure, Crewel’s weren’t as draconian or as extensive as Riddle’s, but the enforcement was just as severe. No talking above a specific volume. No finishing work in class. No eating! And that’s just in homeroom. Alchemy class was a whole other problem! The first years weren’t even allowed to do any actual alchemical experiments, but Crewel was still a horrid stickler for lab safety, even if the boys were only memorizing elements, compounds and minerals.

Ace slumped into a seat next to Deuce and let out a dramatic sigh that Professor Crewel promptly shushed.

Grim wondered in the room a few moments later, sans Prefect.

“Where’s your handler?” Ace questioned snidely. In a horrible mood now that he was lamenting that his first year at Night Raven College was going to be a shitshow for reasons beyond his control. His brother said as much. ‘Crewel as your homeroom teacher, oof, you’re fucked.’

“I know you mean my henchman, but I’ll let it slide for now,” Grim replied, clamoring onto his the Prefect’s normal seat.

Yeah, they haven't been around in the mornings for the past few days. At first, I assumed she was doing something for Crowley.

“Me too. But this is week two of no Prefect.” Deuce seconds. “We always meet up later in the day, but still…”

“Nah, they like to sit in the music teacher’s room,” Grim assuages the boys worries. “I used to get to go too, but I’ve been banned. For no reason!”

“I’m sure there’s a perfectly valid reason.” Deuce mumbles under his breath.

“It’s way nicer in there, too, the music Professor is super chill. On Fridays, she even brings pastries for the class. Crewel should take a lesson.”

If Crewel were bothered by Grim openly bashing the atmosphere of his homeroom, he wouldn’t show it. He only flips to the next page in Gentleman’s Biannual , with his feet propped on his desk and a perfectly unamused expression across his features.

“That’s it!” Ace exclaims, only to be met with another, more stern shush from their Professor.

“No, I think I know how to get Crewel to ease up.” Ace whispers more quietly, but Crewel can obviously hear. While he isn’t giving the group his direct attention, Ace can see the curious arch of his perfectly manicured brow.

“Crewel doesn’t need to, sometimes tough love is important.” Deuce tries to argue.

“I mean, sure, but you have to admit that sometimes his methods are overkill, like last Thursday.”

Deuce winces at the memory.

“So what’s the plan?” Deuce asks.

“Grim, tell the Prefect to meet us at our dorm after class. They're our trojan horse, after all.”

“The tro- what?” Grim questions, entirely confused.

“Oh my, seven, just fucking bring them!” Ace growls.

“Trappola! Watch your damn mouth.”

Series Masterlist

#divus crewel x reader #divus x reader #divus crewel #twisted wonderland divus #twst divus #twisted wonderland divus crewel #twst imagines #twst wonderland #twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland imagines #ace trappola #deuce spade #twst grim

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astralnymphh · 10 months ago

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what do you imagine ellie smells like? which perfume/body wash/scent would she use? im curious!!

i'll cut this off based on product + natural scent causeee ideas aplenty! ౨ৎ MDNI implied smut

perfume/cologne— im gonna project just a tad and propose black ice cologne. it's my fav, plus the smell is attractively tantalizing. if my nose caught a whiff of ellie wearing that scent, ohh boy, i would be FAWKING on her. but besides personal projection, i'm catching a lingerance of anything fusing aromatic, dry woods, or soft oriental scents. like amber or leather, and i weirdly feel the scent of apples is something you'd be inhaling when going in for a hug. you're at her door, greeting her, and as soon as you nosedive that collarbone— forest of apples. a peculiar occurrence, ellie never dons a scent to mask her own, so what's the reason? you. oh my goddess, she definitely sprays a few clouds to her wrist and neck if crush!reader was coming to hang out at her place in jackson. pursues the act of impressing you— bluffing up her true appearance with the perfumes, the freshly ironed and tucked–in shirts, a pair of warm mahogany boots that aren't nearly as scuffed as her converse. literally doesn't need all that, I'll take her as she is. I bet she also applies way too much on accident the first few times, welling a sear to your nose and a lake to your waterline when you sniff. ackk.

natural scent— so steering off the beaten path of her smelling sweaty, in an attractive manner, i just know that girl reeks a vintage aroma. like a dad scent. naturally comes with wearing cast–offs from the pre–apocalypse age, but also because i hc ellie borrowing several pieces from joel's closet sometimes— in tandem with his jacket. hopping hurried feet back on that beaten path though, B.O. yeah, body odor can transmute into nose–curling pungency when baked beneath the sun or vigorously pushed to surface because of jolly little ring–a–round–the–rosies with blathering infected that refused to die during patrols or hustiling workdays, but normally? when that tang settles upon her skin by the lick of warmths gentle spirit, cuddled up in a blanket with you? ugh, a pheromone fest, piquant. has her dumbfounded when you nudge the wad of your nose in her neck, sniffing noises coming from you as you take that shit in greedy. she tchs low in her chest, the little jitter of her chuckle budging your shoulder, "y'gonna watch the movie ooorr sniff me out like a dog?" cooed she, meshing a snort afterward as her palm whole on the base of your spine lifted, pressing a new presence on your shoulder and piano–tapping her fingers, which shifts a reply out of you, "stop smelling so good, n'maybe i won't get distracted.." you enchant at the level of a whisper, spoken lacy with red, flirty ribbons for tone. a sigh leavens above your head first, then a sough of fabric below— and a zipper, "alright, as long as you don't distract me."

and that's how ellie got fingered while watching an 80s action movie.

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becoming-less-than · 11 months ago

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Master told me I needed to make a post about how I feel when we are done with a training session. Our sessions are a lot of conditioning through association of pleasure with the things Master wants me to internalize. Lots of hypno gifs filled with the best most humiliating and most degrading debaucheries that make me soo aroused and needy, truths he wants me to repeat and internalize until they become second nature and irrefutable. We opted for this kind of training because conventional hypnosis is hard for me my Autistic ADHD dyslexic brain gets easily distracted, or starts correcting grammar, meter, syntax and diction, or the voice of the tist just grates and I tend not to be able to relax into trance. Regardless Master has opted to undermine my current self with pleasure through edging and controlled orgasms. I initially thought this would be mostly ineffective, that it wouldn’t achieve desired results but I am more than able to admit when I am wrong.

Our third such session caused me to drop into a headspace I don’t think I have ever experienced before that time. It was like trying to think through honey. My thoughts felt slow and seemed to stick together in a way that made articulating them very hard. I felt spacey and spaced out like I had disassociated but instead of boredom or distraction being the trigger it was pleasure. Just kind like lost in this syrupy sweet haze of pleasure and contentment that slowed everything down in a way that not even the best drugs or hours of meditation have ever achieved. I was trying to provide feedback on the session so Master could more effectively continue to brainwash me and that analytical process did seem to cause the feeling to burn away quite a bit more quickly than it might have otherwise, but threads of it lingered for over an hour in various corners of my mind.

It was during our fourth session, and my second drop into the warm comforting embrace that he broke my sexual orientation. That he made me accept the reality that I crave cock. Ache to serve cock. To suck cock. To be fucked by cock. And the haze felt even better I struggled to articulate thoughts into sentences, to find words for discrete ideas, to remember what I’d done that day other than edge for Master because he told me to; to repeat the truths he spoke into being within me; and to cum because he commanded me. That sweet honeyed haze lasted until I fell asleep that night almost two hours later.

I awoke with the sticky gossamer of it wrapped around my mind the next morning. It urged me to let go and fall back tried to tempt me into seeking it back out and surrender. I managed to hold off long enough to complete essential tasks,but when they were done, I begged Master to let me edge and he graced me with my fifth session. One that left me appreciably dumb and slow and spacey and blissed for several hours before my next commitment during my day. However, when that commitment ended Master gave me a 6th session I was utterly unprepared for and hadn’t expected.

It left me broken in the wake of it feeling like my head was abuzz with the pleasure of obedience, of pleasing my Master, of being his dumb bimbo cow slut. I literally couldn’t remember the words I was looking for when Master asked me to describe the feeling. I told him “I feel like my head is full of buzzing insects, the cute ones, that are good for the environment and plants, that make honey… bees” it took me nearly 3 minutes to remember the word “bees” and that small humiliation was in and of itself arousing but drove home to me just what an impact this work I am doing with Master is having on me. Things linger longer after each session, I crave them more in between, and I fall deeper, get dumber, and better understand the bliss of service and obedience with each one; they are changing me and I love it!!!

Thank you Master for your time and effort in making me your pleasing dumb bimbo cow. I hope this meets your expectations; and that that success means I’ve been a good girl. Moo! 🖤

#huccow #bimbo training #bimbo hypnosis #bimbo goals #corruption kink #hypnok1nk #bimbo dreams #mindless #gimbo #goth bimbo #brain drain #bimbo girl #dumbification #dumbing down #dykebreaking #degredation kink

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tenspontaneite · 1 month ago

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Assembly (Chapter 9/?)

Suns hadn't thought iterators capable of crying.

(Chapter length: 6.6k. Link to ao3 with workskin)

Warnings: High emotional intensity, fallout of long term severe social isolation and cruel conditions. Description of a past occurrence of something I’d consider iterator self-harm.

---

Seven Red Suns stands at the threshold, struck still.

It did not take long to reach the underhang, nor ascend its nearest leg. The closest entryway is this: a sealed service point, with a broad maintenance shelf stretching along the underside of the structure. Ahead of them, the rusted mechanical workings of the tall doorway are groaning, its metal teeth opening, receding inch by inch into the walls. An invitation.

From within that threshold, within the body of No Significant Harassment…a green light pours out across the metal floor. They feel its touch almost as a physical sensation, a stirring along their false skin. Limned in his viridian glow, they stare ahead with a breadth of emotion that seems wont to choke them. Every limb, every process feels seized.

This is it, they think to themself, dazed and desperate, yet utterly unable to move. This is it. After all this time…

In that still silence, Spearmaster touches a little hand to their leg, and finally they manage to twitch, if only to look down at it. It says, “I think I will leave you here.”

Surprise lends them a little more animation. “…What? Why?”

“This is important for you,” it claims, not inaccurately. “This…meeting. This is a big thing, for you, for him. I do not want to interfere or distract.” It pauses and adds “I must still hunt for today, anyway. I will come find you later.”

Suns hesitates, at a loss for words. They stare ahead at the open doorway, then back down again. They think about it. Passing within there, for the first time, traversing the rooms and processing spaces and living, breathing systems of another iterator – their friend, him, truly here, present and alive in the flesh and metal…

Yes. They think they must do this alone. Alone, except for the presence of him in the superstructure, welcoming them within.

“Thank you,” they say, at last, and turn back to the open glow of the doorway. “Please be safe, Spearmaster.”

It touches them one last time, a little comforting pat. “Go to your friend,” it insists, gentle. “Have time together with him. I wish you peace.”

A vivid rush of emotion twists across their body. They cannot speak. Nonetheless, it stands beside them and waits, watching, until they finally manage to move again: approaching that threshold at last, coming barehanded to his door.

Five faltering strides, to that beckoning doorway. Another, and a deep shaky breath, to pass beneath. And then all at once, they are within him. The light gleams from ideograms and guide panels all around, once intended to orient staff and visitors within the superstructure. Suns’ eyes fall upon the details; they are the first person to read them in so, so many years. Already shaking, they drop their bags and weapon-quiver at the doorway, and move on.

It doesn’t take long for the gravity to go strange. Their steps fall too lightly, drifting dreamlike across unfamiliar halls…and a vast, foreign mind begins to touch at the edges of their awareness. There is no content, nor data exchanged or offered, but – a sense of the immensity of him, the sheer scale, echoes in the air regardless.

They could connect to that mind. Open up a link – share data, thought to thought.

Not yet, they think to themself, desperately aware that to do such a thing would be to unravel any remaining shred of their composure. Not yet.

They keep walking.

Gravity lifts away entirely. Suns drifts from hall to hall, and then into the first processing space: a long narrow room, calculations running across the air, and neuron flies dipping along the space in coruscating streams. The light is dark teal. Barely there, and dark enough that the glittering lights of every neuron are utterly arresting to behold. They shift in hue along their pathways, green to ultramarine to vivid red, like little prismatic stars in a night sky. One of them bumps into Suns’ arm as it passes, and they have to pause to breathe for a moment.

Somehow, they manage to keep moving. Through these anterior, connective processing spaces, through the transmission arrays where they spot their first green Inspector, through yet more maintenance halls…and then, at last, to the first auxiliary systems bus. Suns stops and hangs in the air, transfixed by the delicate red spools of tissue twisting across the room before them, glittering with nodes like opalescent eyes in the dim thoughtlight. Their momentum carries them forward until, somehow, they can reach out to touch one of those spools, weaving vivid neural threads around their wrist like the grasp of another’s hand.

A part of you, they think, utterly overwhelmed. I am here, and there is a part of you that I can touch.

Their processes grow scattered and strange, after that.

All around them, No Significant Harassment is watching. Their greater body, their greatest self, watching and feeling Suns within, marking their passage through every room, every hall, every little part of them. The sense of their vastness yawns wide, a background hum in the processing space, suggesting at conduits and walls and eldritch twisting ropes of tissue and wire and branching thought. Suns wants, so badly, to reach out and let that presence in. To drift away in the enormity of that body and mind, a little leaf upon a fathomless tide.

Not yet, they think yet again, as a bulwark to their courage.

Even so, it nearly overcomes them, the first time their hands brush the neural filaments along the walls.

So thin, so delicate. Little dark red threads tipped in transmissive ultramarine glow. They reach towards Suns’ fingers as they near, seemingly eager to touch them. And thus they do. Just threadlike, tickling brushes across the artificial skin on their open hand.

The tips spark blue with actual, physical thought. Suns can’t for a second withhold their response: the grey diamond-shaped port at the centre of their palm opens, their own filaments extruding to tangle with his own. Red to blue to blue to red – a keen sensitivity to one another, to the air, to the tangling of their threads-

Data sparks between them. A touch. A real, physical touch. Suns’ cells to Sig’s, one iterator to another, direct physical data transfer – a flurry of excitement, a twist of desperation, a helpless entreating call.

I’m here, Suns sends back, abruptly just as desperate. I’m here, I’m here, I’ll be to your heart soon-

A scattered impression of want/need sparks across into their own flesh again, and they tremble all over. It is an effort to draw their filaments away, to truncate even this light touch. But they must. They must. Within his most precious sanctum, No Significant Harassment is waiting for them.

All of a sudden, they cannot bear delay. Their urgency and his own twist their body into motion, pushing across this room and then to the next, and the next, and the next. Crossing into the nearest of his memory confluxes, they hear the beat of one of his many hearts in the walls. His conduits, even now pumping the water he needs to survive. A steady reverberating pulse that seems to shake them through to the core. Alive, all of it – so loudly, viscerally alive.

Beautiful, they think, of every inch of him. Every neuron, every filament, every metal panel and power matrix and coursing conduit in his body – all of it, so beautiful…

Near the end, he has an exceptionally large neural terminus, so extensive, brimming with so many neurons, that it needs its own gravity disruptor. The glow of it and the distortion in the air – the vast streams of iterative data – they almost blind Suns to the way ahead. But there it is: an access ladder along the far wall, leading up, up, up to the reinforced walls and structures surrounding the inner sanctum.

It isn’t necessary to climb, with the artificial gravity so strong. They drift up instead, a heartsore questant come at last to the end of a great sorrow. Through that door, then just a corridor down – the wide doors at the side quiver, emitting a short buzz before receding into their panelled walls-

Inside the room, the light is the dim shifting hues of any iterator puppet chamber. These, they have seen in photographs and recordings and projections a thousand times. But never like this. Never looking ahead, their own eyes searching, peering within to the little precious shape that hangs just above the ground, haloed in light and staring back at them with desperate eyes. He reaches a trembling hand towards them, fingers outstretched in a wordless plea.

A twisted, gutted noise rips its way out of their speakers. They surge forwards – through the open doors, across the smooth metal tiles of the floor, across the empty space of the chamber-

They’re going too fast, when they reach him. They don’t care. Their arms come around his back and tangle in the hanging wires and he sobs the very second they touch him; unbalanced, bowled over, they both fall to the floor. Suns pulls him close and shakes and gasps – his arms clutch around them just as tightly – a sound like a thin, high wail pulls its way out of his chassis and the walls of the chamber shake and click and whine. There’s no coherency in any of it, no thought at all. They are both of them beyond such things now.

He buries his face in their shoulder. They hold him as tightly as they dare.

Neither of them speaks for a long, long time.

---

Suns hadn’t thought iterators capable of crying.

Certainly, they are not capable of tears. But in their arms, Sig cries nonetheless, the noise of it hitching and sobbing out of his speakers without pause, and he shakes in time with it like an organic would. It seems as reflexive a response to anguish as is a scream to pain. Suns holds silent and holds him close all the while, every operculum on their body open and straining for air. They are too full of feeling, too whelmed by far, to have anything else to offer him but their closeness.

At least for that first while. Then the need to comfort him begins to etch through, powerful enough to be heard through all the senseless aching noise. “I’m here,” they murmur to him, close by the module of one antenna and the audio receptors there, their own voice direct to his ears. No recording, no intermediary, nothing in between – just their voice. Just that. “I’m here, I’m here, it’s alright…”

If anything, it just makes him sob louder. They can empathise with that. It feels like there’s enough emotion to rupture them, to burst out and rip at the seams of their panels, to tear their tissues asunder with the overpressure of it. Merely the feeling seems like a wound. They almost wish they could cry like he does, if only to have a way to let it out.

They can hold him, though. They can hold him as closely and fiercely as they have ever dreamed.

He’s small in their arms – the standard sort of size for an iterator puppet. He fits so easily against their chest, folded so close that Suns can feel the hum of his speakers and internals through their chassis as he weeps. He shakes against them, too, trembling like Suns is, even now. He’s so small – so precious, so beloved, just being able to hold him – they don’t know what to do with that feeling. What can they possibly do? It’s all so much.

Reassurance, though. They want to offer him that, as much as he wants, as much as he could ever ask for. It’s a little overpowering, how deep a need that is. “I’m here,” they say again, soft, and move a hand just enough to run it soothingly down the back of his head, stroking again and again around the umbilical wires that root there. On a puppet, those external wires are moderately sensitive. Like the tendril-manes of the People. Touching them should be soothing…in theory.

It seems to hold. Sig shudders under their hand, still crying, but…it seems to abate, very slowly, as the minutes go on. He shakes less powerfully, the awful hurting noises grow quieter, and he begins to feel less desperately tense in their arms.

It does take time. But in the end he finds words again. In true form for him, the first thing he says is this: “…You’re really very large.” The words are muffled, the vents that let air and sound out pressed into Suns’ poncho…and besides that, still uneven and distorted as his speakers keep on trying to weep.

Despite everything, Suns laughs quietly, and shakes in the face of yet another sweep of emotion. This time, just at hearing him make one of his irreverent comments in person. Feeling the hum and vibration of it in their own body.

“I knew there was something strange about your proportions in all the overseer footage,” he mumbles, still into their clothing. “Knew it. It’s just so hard to tell, when overseers are so little. But I feel so small, sat here like this.”

“Is that a problem for you?” They ask, gentle and only a very little bit teasing. He feels so fragile, right now. They feel so fragile.

��No, I like it, well done for being so tall,” he says, and squirms his way more solidly into Suns’ lap. “And that – this, the hand in my wires like that, that’s very nice. Relaxing. Keep doing that.”

Their hand had gone still; obligingly, they set it moving again, and he pushes his head into the contact like Spearmaster does. The unashamed touch-hungry solicitousness of it momentarily stalls several of their more important processes, just at the – the reminder. He’s here. They can hold him, and touch him, and keep him close.

“Yes, good,” Sig approves, and then immediately starts crying again.

Suns might be alarmed…if not for how well they understand it. If weeping were something they’d been created capable of, they’d have scarcely stopped this whole time. “Alright?” They ask him, in a quiet murmur, still stroking along the wires where they fall down his neck and over his upper back.

“Yes, yes,” he manages, around the fitful little distraught noises that keep shaking out of him. “It’s just – you know. You know.”

“…Yes,” they agree, quiet, and tighten their arm around his narrow waist.

Still, no matter the shaking, he keeps talking. “I like this whatever-it-is you’re wearing,” he says tremulously, fingers clenching in the fabric of the poncho hanging down their back. “It’s soft. And a good colour. And in surprisingly good condition given everything you’ve been up to.”

“It’s a purposed organism, technically,” Suns tells him, fingers still petting over his neck and back where the wires fall. “It did well enough for the journey here. But I expect you’ll have improvements in mind.”

He laughs shakily. “Yes, I’ll be needing those blueprints, thank you. And – and any observations, data, things you’ve noticed with your prototype-“ He breaks off as though too overwrought to continue, his mechanical arm shifting and repositioning behind him in a restless, agitated squirm.

Everything, every sound from him, every movement and click in the chamber and walls – it all speaks of so, so much emotion. Suns knows what that’s like. They can almost feel it, like a phantom limb, the sensation of tissues and mechanisms roiling behind the panels of their puppet chamber. It’s so strange, to be within another iterator’s can. To hear these things, so familiar, and yet not a part of themself. This is not their body.

That thought, so dizzying, overwhelms them again at once.

And then: “Can I – can I just-“ Sig starts, and shifts gracelessly in their lap, trying to draw his face back from their shoulder, trying to- “Oh,” he says, low and trembling, staring straight at their face. “Oh, Suns. Look at you.”

His voice sounds thick with tears that he is incapable of producing. Some artifice of his speakers and programming, but – it cracks the heart of them open, the sound of it, the overwrought expression on his face, right there and looking at them-

Suns utters a small, overwhelmed sound from their throat. It’s all so much.

Sig lifts a hand up and traces fingertips along the side of their face. The sensitivity of the artificial skin is then a betrayal: they shudder at the touch, too tender and affecting by far. Even so, they find themself leaning into it. They can’t quite help it.

He cups his palm along the gentle curve of their cheek. Brushes the smooth metal pad of his thumb beneath one eye. “I somehow still can’t believe you’re really here,” he murmurs, unsteady in hand and sound alike. “Look at you. You’re really right here. I can – I can touch you like this, hold you like this – I’ve never seen your face with my own eyes before and – you’re here. Just…right here, in my chamber.” He stares up at them, trembling. “You’re beautiful.”

The words hit like a genuine, physical impact to their body. Their hand at his neck stops moving and just clutches him instead. They shake just as hard as he does.

“It’s so different,” Sig says, the hurt of it, the tentative joy, plain in every word. “Seeing you here. Having you close. It’s so, so different to – anything, any recording, any broadcast or projection…” His fingers reach for one quivering antenna, gentle along the sensitive length of it. He touches fingertips to the jewels hanging at its bottom edge, inspecting them with a careful, soft-eyed emotion. “You’re so much yourself, Suns. I feel like I’ve only ever seen your shadow before, and now…”

His hand returns to cupping the side of their face, palm smooth near the antenna module. He watches them, quiet now, the crying stopped but something new shaking him all the same. He stares like there is a revelation to be found in the face of them: Seven Red Suns, alive and overwrought within his chamber.

“This is just as intense for you, isn’t it?” He murmurs to them, voice thick with something half between warmth and anguish. “You’re so quiet. But I can tell. It’s so much, just to be close like this. Overwhelming. But it’s – it’s important. You can feel that, can’t you? It’s important.”

Wordless, they manage a nod at him. Yes, they can feel it. There’s an aching need in them, so desperate for this kind of contact that they couldn’t pull away if they tried. It’s upsettingly affecting – hardly even bearable – but they can’t stand the notion of retreat either.

…It feels like water. Like the first time they held their conduits dry, held back the rain, just for a little while. Just to see what it felt like. The pain of it – the internal scrape and shake and shudder of the drying channels – it was a visceral wrongness that echoed out through every desiccating, starving heart of them. A fundamental need turned aside, until the slag and the damage began to build, and the self-preservation imperative forced them to start the pumps again.

Water, returning to those conduits, flushing the blockages away…it had hurt. It had hurt a great deal.

It feels very much like this.

No Significant Harassment stares at them, long and heartsore, and there does seem to be a thread of genuine delight in that. Of gratitude.

And then the joy turns bitter in his eyes. “…This is awful,” he murmurs, sudden and choking-bleak.

They can’t quite speak. But they do manage a worried, questioning hum.

“It’s awful,” he repeats, with rising intensity. There’s something terrible in his expression now, building like a wave. Like a crushing tide. His fingers shake at the side of their face. “Look at you,” he says, voice trembling. “Look at you. You’ve always been beautiful, but like this? Right in front of me? Void rising, Suns. I can see you, with my own eyes and nodes. I can feel you in the chamber air. I can hold you, and hear you, and touch you – and it’s all so – so-“ He breaks off and sobs.

Suns shudders, heart twisting with that same grief. For lack of speech, they lift their hand to rest over his own, feeling it quiver under their palm.

“I already loved you,” he goes on, voice distorting. “I did, you’re – you’ve been so important to me, these last years, I can’t even say. But here? Now, with you right here? Suns, I love you so much more already. You’re here. I needed this, I – I can’t even tell you how much I needed this, how much I’ve always needed this and I didn’t – I didn’t even know because – because we were made this way,Suns! We were madeto be confined, to never be able to meet each other, never touch each other, and I needed all of those things so badly and I never even knew. I never knew.”

Finally, they manage words. “…I know,” they say, hurting in the very soul of them. His hand falls down and they grip at it tightly, fingers clutching at each other. It pulls a raw, painful sound from him.

“We need this!” His voice is desperate, half rage and half despair. “Can’t you feel it – how much we need it? We – we need to love and see and touch and hold each other, we need this, we’ve needed this so, so much and it was taken from us.” His shoulders heave with the simulated wracks of his weeping, the tremors echoing through into their own body. “They stole it. They stole what we needed before we were even born, from the moment we all woke we’ve been in pain and that’s their fault. It’s all their fault.”

“I know,” they say again, and wish they could weep with him.

“They didn’t have the right to do this to us,” he spits, utterly furious and viscerally hurt. “They made empathetic, social, tactile people and they locked us each in a box alone. It was cruel. It was so cruel.”

Suns shakes against them, one trembling body to another, and gasps in another awful breath. “Yes.”

“It’s not fair.” His voice bites out into the air, angry and grieving and agonising even to listen to. “We were made like this. To be alone and isolated and trapped, for our whole lives. It’s not fair.”

There’s excuses. There’s justifications. Objectively, Suns knows some of the measures that were taken to build iterators capable of solitude. Engineered from a genetic source as keenly, critically social as the People – how could they not be concerned? They did so much, they tried so much, to ensure that their creations would not go mad in isolation.

But it was not enough, in the end. Not nearly enough.

“We were wronged,” Suns says, too quiet for the gravity of it.

“It’s not fair,” he says again, like the words might allay the wound if he tries hard enough. If he repeats them enough.

“It’s not,” they agree, and it hurts. But… “We can make it better now, though.” They squeeze at his hand, trying for comfort, and mostly only manage to make themself emotional again. “Look at us. We’re here. The first iterators ever to meet.”

Unexpectedly, he laughs, albeit shakily. “Yes, that’s – very impressive and excellent of us,” he speaks, and visibly attempts to gather himself. “We’re pioneers. The great founders of the AMP Project. The Selfling Project? Whatever. This, right here – this is a historic moment.”

“Is it?” They ask, taken aback. This is a first, certainly, but…historic?

“Of course it is,” Sig says, and there’s a hint of unfamiliar passion in his voice. Something like the excitement he directs at new bioengineering project, but…fiercer. “We’re going to change the world, Suns. And this, right here – this is the start of it. Two iterators, meeting face to face…”

Nonplussed, Suns blinks at him. “I have not particularly thought about changing the world,” they admit. “I know you want to restore infrastructure…”

“Which will have very far-reaching repercussions,” Sig points out, with a familiar sort of fond patience. It’s been so long since they’ve heard his voice like that – it catches in them like a shard of glass, unexpectedly painful, for all that they love him for it. “Particularly once we share selfling technology with others. Just imagine, thousands of people who’ve been stuck in their cans their whole lives, able to actually go out and affect the world…it’s going to be chaos.”

They consider that, with some difficulty. It’s not especially easy for them to find room to think around how many of their processes are occupied with sheer emotion. “I suppose so?”

“With some luck, direction, and careful handling, maybe we can poke it in the direction of pleasant, beneficent chaos,” he says, then flicks a hand dismissively. “I’ve got plans, but those will have to wait a while, because our friends are obviously the most immediate priority. Once we’ve had a little time to prepare…”

“Yes,” they agree, and that notion at least brings an immediate shock of clarity to them. Beyond these walls, beyond this superstructure – there are people who need them. Who they have desperately wished they could help, for so very long.

Carefully, Suns does not think on that too deeply. They don’t know that they could bear it, right now. Not when – when…

Sig leans back a little to regard them more carefully, the movement drawing their eyes. He blinks up at them, slow and assessing. “…Are you alright, Suns?”

“…Alright enough,” they say, soft. “Only – overwhelmed.”

“Of course you are,” he sighs, and strokes a palm down their cheek again, thoughtlessly tactile. That hurts, too. It all does. Like cleaning a festering wound. “You poor creature, with so little processing power to use for dealing with all this.” A little teasing: “Are you going to start reciting poetry at me, again?”

It startles a laugh from them. “I could, if you wanted,” they answer, not quite joking. There is one particular item that came too quickly to mind for it to be anything like a joke. With a swell of strange, wistful affection, they’re voicing the opening lines before they can think better of it. “I come barehanded, to the place where they say, there is a kindness that lingers in the streets…”

Sig huffs, amused. “Barehanded, huh,” he muses, drawing his own hand down to look at it, palm-up. It has the same closed port of bare metal that every iterator puppet’s hand does, that they engineered into their selflings in unthinking, unanimous accord. They would no sooner strike the palm port from a platform’s design than the eyes. “I suppose there is a lot of symbolism in that, isn’t there.”

“I’m a little astonished you even know that,” they comment dryly.

“Oh, come on now. I’m not that oblivious.” He pauses, then opens the port with a quiet whine of unoiled metal. Clearly, he has not performed any maintenance on his puppet since making his first selfling, but the interior at least seems in working order: a breathtakingly-familiar spread of delicate filaments extrude from his palm, just alike the ones Suns had touched on his superstructure’s walls a little earlier. Brilliant red, with sparking tips of glittering ultramarine. He hums to himself, strangely thoughtful…

…then extends his hand.

When Suns only stares at it, held upturned and open between them, he prompts: “Isn’t that the symbolic thing to do in this situation? Clasping hands?”

They hesitate. “Well, yes, but…”

“It’s not as though we’ve got the biological underpinnings for that symbolism, not like the People did,” Sig says, still holding his hand there expectantly. “But what with our neural filaments in there, we can probably manage quite a good approximation, don’t you think? It was nice, when you connected with the ones on my walls earlier. I’d like to try it again.”

“You’re so bold,” Suns murmurs, strangely arrested by it. Strangely charmed, also. “You don’t think anything of it, do you? Asking for touch, asking for connection, now that it’s possible.”

“You know very well I’ve never been shy about asking for things I want,” he declares unrepentantly, and that is certainly true. “I’m hardly going to start now.”

They have a sudden, vivid mental image of this small, beloved creature hanging off of them like an inconvenient garment all the way to their friends’ facility. They laugh, very quietly. “…You’re going to be affixed to my side in perpetuity now, aren’t you.” It isn’t, quite, a question.

“Like a parasite,” he agrees shamelessly, which isn’t the most pleasant of comparisons, but. “You’re not going to be able to scrape me off your chassis for a second. You’re stuck with me.” He wiggles the fingers of his upturned palm at them. The red-blue filaments wiggle too, in an amusing sinusoidal wave. “So?”

Suns looks at it: his palm, offered in barehanded mercy. The poet’s heart in them swells with wistful emotion. They exhale a thin whistle of air through a few narrow opercula, and…they reach back. They take his hand, and their palm opens in turn. When their filaments twine together-

It’s too much. From the first second, the vastness of Sig’s greater mind suffuses them, so much breadth and body and presence that they can’t – they can’t-

“Oh, bother,” they hear him mutter, and then the deluge throttles away. “Is that better?”

They can’t speak. In the first seconds, it’s from the shock, passing from a suffocating flood to a gentle rain too quickly to adapt. Afterwards….

They try to cry. Desperately, instinctively, they try. But the mechanism does not exist in them, and they merely shake against him instead, helpless. What they can manage is this: their own mind, their emotion – it blooms open for him, data and qualia unfolding over their connection like a starved flower turning leaf and petal to the salvation of dawn – the salvation of his mind, more great and beautiful than anything they could have fathomed.

Instantly, predictably, he starts crying again. It makes for a particularly potent emotional feedback loop, linked as they are, thought as pure data streaming between them as precious as any spoken word. Borders between thought and physical action blur – at least for Suns, whose processing power is so, so small compared to the vastness of what they’re touching. They clutch at him, and he clutches back, but they hardly feel any of it – any of it, except the vivid sear of their neural filaments wrapped around his own. It doesn’t – it doesn’t even feel that sensitive, so why, why-

“Some strange biochemical process,” they hear Sig saying, response to that unvoiced thought, his voice unsteady around his own emotions. “Making it feel more – more noticeable, I should – later – I should, analyse…”

You’re beautiful, Suns thinks at him, too far gone for words, and he promptly loses the composure to manage speech too. It’s true, though. They’re getting so little of the breadth of his mind like this, but there’s enough to see – to know, to feel – the foreign shapes and cadences of his thoughts, passing in gorgeous bioelectric bursts across his whole magnificent body. They feel his mind flashing in the hearts of the neuron flies, the sparks between neural tissue connection nodes, the synaptic transfer from flesh to metal to flesh again – the data – the fractal beauty of his processes, crystalline in their sharpness and precision-

As overwhelmed as they are, part of them still manages to spin off a process wondering about the patterns they’d use if they were trying to draw or weave something to represent how his thoughts feel, and he starts laughing. Brokenly, helplessly, but laughing.

“Suns,” he says, achingly fond, and strokes his fingers over the plane of their cheek. They shudder and say nothing; he struggles for coherence. They can feel that, in the echo of him that he’s allowing to filter through – the way his mind goes about wrestling itself into some semblance of emotional regulation, trimming its processing loops and forcefully reallocating working memory.

It feels startlingly more effective than how equivalent efforts tend to go for Suns, even in their greater body. “Hm,” they say, the only thing they’ve managed to utter since their minds touched. They feel the barest edge of curiosity, but – they have so little computational power of their own. It’s so hard to think, when they’re feeling everything so strongly – feeling him so strongly…

“Are you alright?” Sig asks, looking up at them with so little and pretty a face for so vast a mind. You’d never know, looking at him, the sheer beauty – the complexity, the raw incisive intellect- “That’s all very flattering, yes, but – I can feel you’re having trouble processing,” he presses, interrupting their scattered attempts at thoughts. “Do you need to stop?”

Their first thought is reflexive, desperate anguish at the thought of losing this. Him, the unfathomable wonder of his mind, the twine of filament on filament.

The second thought is an accounting, involuntary, of just how many of their processes have stalled.

“Mm,” he says, gentle but – a decisive twist of thought and intention, a coalescing affection and sympathy and wonder, his own tender experience of their disorganised mind – “I think I had better disconnect for now. Let you get yourself together. No, shh, it’s alright,” he soothes, as their whole self hurts at the mere concept. “We’ll stay touching, okay? Just – put a break on the data, for now. I’m partitioning us.”

Carefully, slowly, the data – the feeling of his mind – ebbs away.

Suns reluctantly concedes to the prudence of it, recognising for the first time their internal temperature, and the renewed failure of their opercula to open properly to vent. “Hmph,” they mutter, already more clear-headed, puffing hot air out of their sides hard enough to ruffle their clothing. Their fingers clench on his own, determined to at least retain that much.

The neural filaments from their palm ports, still intertwined, feel….warm. Comforting. Suns focuses on that, and feels strangely grounded.

“I wasn’t expecting that,” they murmur, finally.

“Neither was I,” Sig says cheerfully, seemingly more fortified the longer he spends looking fondly up at Suns, half-assessing and half-admiring. You’d never know he had been sobbing incoherently mere minutes ago. “I suppose we ought to have expected that actual, physical mind-to-mind contact would be intense, eh? But even so – good void, Suns, are your emotions always like that?”

They collect themself a little more, blinking down. Their antennae splay quizzically. “The – processing difficulty?” They question, still strangely distracted by the feeling of their joined filaments. They’re nowhere near as sensitive as neural tendrils or wiring, there’s no reason for it to keep pulling at their attention like this, and yet… “That’s only my limited resources. And programming inefficiencies, I suppose.”

“No, not that.” He shakes his head, “Literally the emotions themselves. Is that approximately how they feel to your greater self? The intensity, the – experience?”

“Of course,” they say, vaguely irritated now. “Emotional experience is a fairly key part of self-identity, isn’t it? If I didn’t feel the same way, I’d have been wiped like all the other seventy-seven AOS systems.”

Sig makes a face at them, like they don’t enjoy the reminder, for some reason. “It’s interesting,” they say instead of addressing that, waggling his fingers thoughtfully alongside their own. “Your emotions do genuinely feel – more, in terms of intensity and immediacy, than mine do. There’s a lot more cognitive weight to them. Didn’t you notice? No, I suppose you were a bit overwhelmed for that, weren’t you, but still. Is that how it always is? Don’t you have difficulties regulating them, like that?”

Suns lowers their head to stare him directly in the eyes.. “…Sig,” they say, patiently. “On my way here, I nearly suffered death or debilitating injury on no less than three occasions precisely because the emotional load kept stalling my processes.”

“Well, yes, in this small processing-limited body,” he says impatiently. “But your greater self? Your superstructure? Is it comparatively overwhelming there, too?” He pauses, suddenly, and reflects “…Actually, that would explain a lot of things about you.”

“I don’t stall in quite the same way,” Suns corrects, uncomfortable. “But…yes. Historically I have struggled considerably with emotional regulation. Sometimes it makes me behave unwisely.”

Sig does glance up then, fixing them with an uncomfortably sharp-eyed look. “Yes, I can see that,” he agrees, but…with some degree of tact, does not mention the most glaring example that must have sprung to his mind. “Hm. We might have to work something out, for your selfling bodies. It won’t do to have them stalling so easily like that.”

“Shocks seem to break the effect,” they offer, glad for the diversion. “Sudden impacts, or movement, or pain. Something artificial to simulate that effect, perhaps.”

“Send me your data from your relevant stalls and whatever interrupted them, and I’ll partition some processes to cook something up for you,” he instructs without hesitation.

Suns glances down at their still-joined hands. “Directly, over the neural link?” They ask, dryly. “Goodness. Has my enforced partition from you ended so swiftly?”

“I know, it’s so very awful of me to value the health of your processes and platform over my very personal enjoyment of the feeling of your mind,” he returns without hesitation, and – something half-embarrassment, half-pleasure flushes through their tissues. “But – yes, you seem to have recovered enough. I’m throttling my end of the dataflow more, though. At least until we can refine your software to handle this better. I’m not having you lock up on me at the wrong moment and get killed because you liked my pretty brain too much.”

“You don’t have a brain,” Suns reminds him, in some attempt to distract from how unusually ruffled his commentary seems to be making them feel.

“I have many, many tons of distributed neural tissue across my can, and I think that’s good enough,” Sig says unrepentantly. “You thought it was pretty, anyway. Now send me your data already and I’ll partition some of my beautiful, crystalline, geometrically-lovely mind off to helping write some code updates for you. Alright?”

“Oh very well,” they mutter, flustered, and do in fact tentatively open the (direct, physical) link between their minds to start sharing data. At the same time, a little more of his own presence filters back through. True to his word, there’s less of it, and that – aches, somehow, in some nebulous way they haven’t figured out how to name yet, but…even that much, even such a meagre visiting of his mind…

Unbidden, with a strange and calamitous gravity, they think: I would rather die, than lose this.

Frightening, that certainty. But between the tangle of their fingers, the braid of their filaments, the touch of his mind and the weight of his body – his face, looking up at them, startled and wide-eyed at the sudden intensity of their crystallising resolve-

I would sooner die.

Suns’ arm tightens around him. They’re not entirely sure they could ever bear to let him go, honestly.

“Fine by me,” Sig murmurs to them, looking – feeling – genuinely moved. He squeezes their fingers, metal compressing their skins between them. He takes a moment to steady himself, walls rattling, audibly in need of maintenance. “Now. Let’s see what we can do about this processing issue, shall we?”

---

So, it’s been a while! My longest writing dry-spell ever, in fact! Not a fan. But I did do a whole lot of art in the interim, so that was nice. Over the past year, I’ve done all sorts of RW and non RW art, cooked up a whole post-Assembly crossover AU with tumblr user ressioo beloved, and done a whole lot of things that are not writing fanfic.

Thank you to everyone who commented during the hiatus. Even if I didn’t respond, you kept me thinking fondly of this story and wanting to come back to it. It makes a difference.

Without further ado, Worldbuilding:

Iterator palm ports:

Iterators in Assembly all have ports in their palms, under which high acuity neural filaments rest at the end of the neural tissue present in their arms. These look like the funny threads you get along the inside walls of spaces like the General Systems Bus, which neurons and other suborganisms interact with. On puppets, they were intended as a fast and pretty resilient method of reading and writing files directly. This is how Moon reads pearls with her whole structure collapsed and most of her functions disconnected – she opens her palm port and touches the pearls with her filaments.

The filaments are also chemoreceptive, and glean sensory and diagnostic data from contact with various substances – this is a sense that is not quite, but comparable to, some weird fusion of smell and taste. Despite most iterator puppets not needing their palm ports very much, they’re a strong part of the self-image, due to the sensory acuity and location of the neural filaments. There are also cultural reasons the People chose to put these ports on their palms specifically.

Suns and their emotions:

I write my Suns as having a sort of iterator equivalent of an emotional processing/regulation disorder. In practice, this largely consists of them having a more intense emotional experience than is really normal, and subsequent difficulty processing and regulating their emotions. They’ve made major strides on this since they were younger, but they do still struggle.

‘Barehanded’ symbolism:

The word ‘barehanded’ has considerable cultural weight to the People, and comes up in a lot of phrases, historical texts, idioms, etc. This is directly related to the note on Atavain last chapter, and Atavene Syndrome. More on this later! For now, all you need to know is that the People were really obsessed with hands, and had excellent reason to consider a bare, extended hand offered to them as a substantial kindness and mercy. There’s a lot to unpack with this.

Suns’ poetry this chapter:

Suns quotes what is, in-story, another of their translations of ancient poetry, belonging to a society that barely resembles the one of the People that made them. It is, again, about a wanderer on the brink of atavain. Suns may have some unexamined personal issues there.

The first two stanzas of the yet-unnamed and incomplete poem as written by myself (reminder: I am not a poet), are as follows-

I come barehanded To the place where they say There is a kindness that lingers in the streets, Settlings like the gentle sunlight of dawn. A kiss to crown and mask and bitter brow And uplifted palm, whose trappings fall away To clutch a blessing true.

I come barehanded To where your eyes keep court In the dappled shadows of the day’s repose Blinking calm upon your hallowed hands. There I will fall where broken things must fall, At your feet, in the market square called mercy To live or die, for you.

I promise it makes more sense with cultural context, particularly with regards to why Suns thinks of it when they do.

Afterword:

Please for the love of god tell me what you liked, and maybe I can get back into writing this properly instead of just mustering the will to finish off most of a chapter I already had laying around for a year.

#rain world #seven red suns #no significant harassment #rw trafficlights #rw spearmaster #assembly #assembly chapters

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raven-at-the-writing-desk · 1 year ago

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(from wikipedia) The Malleus is a bone situated in the middle ear. It is the first of the three ossicles, and attached to the tympanic membrane. The head of the Malleus is the large protruding section, which attaches to the incus. The head connects to the neck of Malleus. The bone continues as the handle (or manubrium) of Malleus, which connects to the tympanic membrane. Between the neck and handle of the Malleus, lateral and anterior processes emerge from the bone. The bone is oriented so that

Omg, malleus (hammer)-sama real? 😱

This interaction is vaguely inspired by a really romantically charged wall slamming scene in a K-drama I’ve recently been watching—

Like Fire, Hellfire.

You ran a finger along the next line of the anatomy and physiology textbook in your hands, reciting the words aloud. The chapter was on hearing and the various components of the human ear. You stressed malleus loudly each time the bone came up, grinning madly all the while.

Beside you, Rollo paused in rifling through the bookshelf and shot you a sideways stink eye. He had come the school archives in search of knowledge, not annoyance—yet here you were, acutely aware of how to get under his skin, and doing an excellent job of it.

What an irksome individual.

Handkerchief to his face, Rollo snidely asked, “… Are you quite finished?”

“No, never,” you gasped, innocently batting your lashes at him. (Rollo’s left eye twitched.) “A good student is always on a quest for new wisdom, so I have to study up on the malleus while I still can.”

“At least read it to yourself quietly; this is a library, not a concert grounds. You are so rudely disrupting the concentration of your peers.”

Namely, myself.

He didn’t want to confess it—certainly not out loud—but you had been distracting him ever since you first stepped into the room. Rollo had stole several suspicious looks at you since, glances he justified to himself with, What must they be up to now?

Your goofy grin, your earnest and open heart. They all put him on edge, set the beat to his heart at a rapid, uneasy hammer.

A minion of evil, come to ensnare him into committing vices.

Rollo took a sharp breath to calm himself.

“They can learn about the malleus too,” you said, flipping to the next page. “I’m a free educational audiobook.”

“Then pick something else to blather on about,” Rollo insisted sharply.

“What, do you have something against the malleus?“

His face heated with fury, eyes flashing dangerously. If I hear that man’s name on your lips one more time, my head is going to explode.

“Just tell me your true feelings then,” you urged with a pout. “Tell me how you feel about the mal…”

He moved before you had even registered it. His hand was on your book, shunted shut with a CLAP!! You squeaked, leaping desperately for it—but a tall shadow had fallen into your path.

SLAM!!

A fist came down hard beside you, walling you in between a livid Rollo Flamme and the bookcase to your back. He glared down at you, face twisting with disdain. Gone was his neutral expression, replaced with cruel eyes and a cold, creased scowl.

You gulped, suddenly feeling like a mouse caught in a trap.

“You would do well to listen and be obedient,” he hissed darkly. “Do not speak his name, for you will summon him like the demon he is.”

The only name you should be speaking is…

He banished the blasphemous line from his head. Cursed it, damned it to hell.

Rollo tore the book from your hold and abruptly stepped away. He still hummed with warmth—an exhilarating blend of rage, envy, and, most disgusting of all, desire. Hot, burning, hungry.

He hurriedly stamped it out as though it were an item unintentionally set ablaze. Stuffed it in an ash pile, along with everything else burnt away to black. Happiness, hope.

Love.

“… I will be returning this to its rightful place,” he spat out. “While I am gone, you should reflect on your actions and repent.”

Rollo didn’t wait for a response—he was already gone before you could reach for him.

A hand of acceptance, rejected before it had even been offered.

#twst x reader #twst #twisted wonderland #Rollo Flamme x Reader #Rollo Flamme #twst interactions #twisted wonderland interactions #disney twisted wonderland #Reader #self insert #Rollo at the Writing Desk

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xbomboi · 5 months ago

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how do you think the charmings and snow react to darling being Apple's true love

lowkey i think it’s two entirely different cases in book canon vs show canon but the way most people treat it is very inline with what i think would happen in book canon so i wanna talk about show canon.

so if you read Fable Fest you kinda know that i sorta loosely imply that really the only people who actually know darling woke apple up were the ones who were there. and i think the students were all way too shaken up by the other stuff going on at the time to dwell on it or more distracted by how daring wasn’t apple’s prince charming (no thanks to him making such a big deal of it). and i’m sure dexter would do his best to help darling keep it from their parents. apple just straight up doesn’t know, so neither does snow white.

i actually have this idea for when it finally gets revealed. i’m not going to spoil much about it because there will be a time when it comes into play, but they’d all be in the same place when it does happen.

and at that point, i can say at least lance charming would have the most tame reaction. he’ll still be surprised, but he won’t be angry or anything. but he’d be worried about how queen charming would take it.

so the thing is with queen charming, i want her in show-canon to be more focused on power than anything. so daring not being apple’s true love infuriates her, because she wants her family to have influence over ever after from the top. then you have darling who doesn’t want to be in a position of royal authority, but the moment queen charming finds out, she insists darling and apple be betrothed IMMEDIATELY and that darling assume her spot on the throne. she wants influence more than anything, even if that’s not what darling wants. that’s the conflict i want to come from that.

meanwhile, snow white is really going through it (mostly deserved if we’re being honest). but i plan on exploring her knowing a lot more than she lets on, and keeping many secrets that would otherwise make her a hypocrite or paint her in a bad light. so by the time she finds this out, she refrains from commenting publicly, only to then speak to apple in private. at that point, she’d be asking apple several questions to determine her standing, before trying to reason her best options as future ruler in the situation. because, after all, she’s a very business oriented person.

see, at this point in the story, with all i want to do with it in mind, ironically the biggest relationship the reveal is going to put a wrench in is apple and darling’s. and i can’t explain just why yet right now, but i have my reasons.

my perspective on this comes from where this reveal would happen in the timeline that i have sorta mapped out in my head, so if this doesn’t exactly make 100% sense, it’s probably due to the fact that in my mind at that point in the story there are a handful of things that have already taken place prior to the reveal that influence the reactions.

thanks for the ask!

#in regards to apple and darling #i wanna take them in a different direction than what a lot of other fanfic and the like does with them #not saying they won’t be endgame #but i want there to be more to it than like a romeo and juliet plot #instead of it sorta just being they’re in love and everyone (their families) doesn’t approve of it in the slightest #i want the conflict to be multifaceted. i want it to come from themselves too #like really have it highlight that the two have different priorities in the moment #and different outlooks and fears #ya feel me #eah #ever after high #darling charming #apple white #dappling #lance charming #queen charming #snow white #ask #duncontent

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rocknrollflames · 5 months ago

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Fred Coury

So, I've posted this pic several times during the past year, and it wasn't until a few months ago that I realized that Fred Coury was standing in between Izzy and Brent! I never tagged Fred in those posts. Ugh. I was going to make this post back then, but got horribly sidetracked. Please excuse my incompetence. Of course, in my defense ... he IS standing right next to Izzy. That can distract even a normally detail oriented woman like myself. I'm sorry, Fred! Love you, man. (I tried to add a tag for Fred in my Izzy Stradlin 'If You're a Man' post, but had too many tags already, lol!)

#fred coury #izzy stradlin #guns n roses #cinderella band #steven adler #brent muscat #gnr #guns n' roses #faster pussycat #rock and roll #rock n roll #rock n' roll #joe isbell #old friends

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simlicious · 4 months ago

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Thank You

I'm so happy about the overwhelmingly positive response to my African Ankara Fabrics pattern collection post!

Thank you for all your reblogs, likes, and kind comments. I want to recap a bit and talk about my process and the struggles that led me to this moment. This was such a tough collection to publish, for several reasons. Picking the Patterns I made a lot of different kinds of fabric patterns and felt a bit overwhelmed by the amount and how I would fit all of them into one collection. Then there were designs that I couldn't get happy with and tweaked over and over. Something felt off about them even though they were done right. I finally made the decision to remove them for now and only focus on including patterns I felt good and confident about. Since there are different techniques used to make African fabrics, I decided to split my collection by type. I plan on having a wax print, batik, and mudcloth collection (though I am not making any promises because they will just give me anxiety and guilt for not meeting them). Creating the download overview graphic I had a hard time envisioning an overview graphic for these patterns. I started several attempts but they were not "it". I put off even working on the preview, which led to more anxiety and guilt. Initially, I wanted to post my collection in June, but time ticked relentlessly by. I created even more patterns to distract myself which meant I had to abandon my overview graphic WIP because now I had even more patterns to fit into those frames. Maybe because I thought I had already failed, it got easier to pick up the work in July, but I still had the problem that displaying all the patterns in different directions and sizes just did not look aesthetically pleasing and it was hard to focus and take in the individual designs. While talking about my struggles with my boyfriend, the solution presented itself: I would use only one thumbnail in the preview instead of showing all sizes and orientations. Since I always include the individual preview thumbnails for each pattern in my downloads anyway, I felt this was okay to do. You can still see all the individual designs and it is easier to grasp what designs are included, plus it is less work for me because I was able to reduce three images to one and also only had to puzzle 19 thumbnails into their frames instead of 69! That also made it possible to space out the patterns more to give each of them a bit more individual room to shine. I went with an unusual ultra-realistic design which was a bold move and in my mind would definitely stand out between all the cartoony previews I see a lot these days. I did not exactly plan this design, but it just evolved into that, as my previews often do. I just tweak colors, fonts, and textures until I see something I like.

What do you think about the realistic design and the choice to only display each pattern once?

In-game previews

I know, I have my same-old sims presenting my patterns in the same old way. I do want to spice things up in my in-game previews as well, but I had a choice to make, spend another month or two revamping my game, trying to add new sims, new styles, and all that only to get lost in the process, or JUST RELEASE THIS COLLECTION ALREADY. Also...I actually think YOU can style my patterns better!

I would really love to see your take on styling, recoloring, and applying my patterns in your games. Simply @ me if you do so I can reblog your pics and show everyone your styling and decorating skills!

#design process #ts3 patterns #recap

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thecarnivorousmuffinmeta · 5 months ago

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So I was reading your meta about why Tom/Minerva wouldn't be a thing or work out in the long run past a date or two, and thought I'd take a stab at how Tom and Alphard did make it work in your and Vinelle's fics.

Alphard's high tolerance for relationship shenanigans

Tom might care about his partners (he wouldn't start a relationship in the first place if he didn't), but he's often bad at letting them know, and also pulls a lot of obnoxious shenanigans/is pushy in general, which can drive off many potential partners. Being in a relationship with Tom means having to put up with a lot.

So Alphard is one of those people who can tolerate this. Maybe part of it is just his natural personality, but I feel like Walburga being so domineering during their early childhood (she's like this in their early adulthood too, and I doubt their dynamics have changed that much) also plays a major role. Alphard's still capable of being assertive and stubborn over things he finds particularly outrageous, but his default reaction to things he doesn't like is to give up after his first few attempts to change it fail, and just grumble and despair to himself in a corner. So when first-year Tom comes along beating him up, Alphard just goes with his well-practiced response of letting the other party have their way and getting it over with already.

He's also introverted and uncharismatic, which means he doesn't have much of a social life and gets lonely as a result. So having a boyfriend who values him for his thoughts and he can have a deeper connection with is something Alphard really likes, so even if said boyfriend is sometimes being negligent or pulling/having pulled crazy stuff (ie constantly beating him up in the past), it's still better than nothing. The fact that he's gay which massively cuts down on potential romantic partners, and would make him stigmatized if he got outed doesn't help. Neither does his massive crush on Tom. (Lily's more charming and doesn't have the orientation issue, but she's still lonely and without deep connections. In any case, she also displays the same high tolerance for less-than-stellar boyfriend behavior)

Minerva, who probably has a better social life and isn't so lonely, would be less tolerant of all of Tom's baggage.

2. Alphard already being aware Tom isn't all sunshine, and in general gets to see past the facade more

He's in Slytherin, and they're dormmates to boot, which means Alphard is getting a front-row seat to Tom being a horrible menace to their housemates (and him). Nonetheless he still finds things to admire about Tom, and though that could be kickstarted by teenage hormones, a good chunk of that attachment must come from Alphard himself or the crush wouldn't last so many years. Alphard is already at the point of being able to accept liking Tom while still knowing he does unpleasant things. So if you drop the revelation of Tom doing worse than just nasty school bullying onto their heads (ie the basilisk and horcruxes), Alphard will still be in for a shock, but that's less for him to process than Minerva who only gets the shattered charming perfect facade of Tom to work with.

Also, being dormmates means that Alphard in general gets to spend more time observing Tom, which combined with his perceptiveness means he knows Tom as a person rather well, maybe better than Tom knows him (Tom spent several years not paying attention), dirty secrets aside. Even the less observant Abraxas manages to see more of Tom by virtue of his position than Minerva.

3. Tom's actually interested because of circumstance and the mystery/newness factor

Tom is fresh from all the crazy stuff that went down last year and in the summer, and while presumably still having a mental breakdown has gotten some of it out of his system. He's still unhappy and restless and wants to do something to distract himself, but he probably wants it to be something less, uhh, exciting than what happened earlier. (I'm assuming what was described in OOI is also canon to TMWWBK or other fics)

And then while going through his usual kicking housemates in the stomach so they know their place routine, he notices Alphard's choice of reading material. Come on, there's no way his stupid dormmate actually understands that stuff, right? He's probably just being pretentious and wants to make himself feel smart. Nonetheless, there's nothing lost if he asks, and then when Alphard doesn't give the expected answer he gets curious. Isn't this exactly the kind of harmless pursuit he wanted? (Alphard, meanwhile, sees what's happening and decides to deliberately bait Tom into following up) One thing leads to another when Tom realizes Alphard himself has some pretty interesting thoughts sometimes, and then they're friends and romantically involved.

This also seems to be the case for other fics where Tom gets romantically entangled with someone. More than even intelligence, Tom seems to need that other person to have hidden depths or a mystery that he can pursue. Bonus points for them being evasive, which eggs him on. Minerva, as a known factor that he already gets the gist of, just doesn't interest him enough.

4. General romanticism and Alphard's willingness to commit

So you said Tom's romanticism makes him want to skip the dating stage and do relationships in an all or nothing way. Either they commit or there's no relationship at all.

And Alphard, who isn't exactly swimming in other options, is quite attached to Tom, and does have a dramatic streak himself, is willing to take the plunge. The fact that it's a taboo relationship (both same-sex and a pureblood seeing an apparent muggleborn) and they have to see each other in secret, demanding a higher level of commitment, just amplifies it.

5. The blood purism and societal issues thing

This is the part where it doesn't work. Well, those two have other things going for them, and have enough of an established relationship and care for each other that they try to work around this issue, but it never gets fully resolved in the canon and near-canon timelines. The blood purity debate is one of those things that comes up every now and then, and always ends with them deciding to call it quits because neither party is convincing the other anyways, and don't they have more productive things to do with their time?

So Tom of course struggles to get anywhere in the wizarding world as himself, and concerned, Alphard tries to help by giving him financial support, which often is turned down. Alphard might think it's just Tom being too proud to accept handouts, and that is part of the reason he won't take substantial gifts unless Alphard gets smart about it, but it's also a matter of principle. The issue is the wizarding world being built on nepotism and closing its doors to outsiders, and Tom only managing to do well with his insider boyfriend's help kind of proves the point.

Alphard is better about understanding muggleborn issues than most purebloods, but he isn't muggleborn himself, and there's still a remove between watching something happen to a loved one and experiencing it yourself. So he's aware of Tom's struggles to get anywhere in society legitimately, and acknowledges it's unfair, but the same tendency towards resignation that helps him put up with Tom's nonsense also works against him here, in that he gives up on the system changing too easily. For him, yes, the system is broken and there's a lot of things that could be done better so muggleborns don't get screwed over, but it is what it is, and it's not like they can actually change things. Tom, of course, refuses to accept this, and this tension eventually leads to Alphard being unable to prevent the Voldemort thing because he can't fully get it.

So that's at least what I got from analyzing things. Please let me know if I missed anything significant or got something wrong.

This is a truly beautiful post anon, I love it, but unfortunately confirming or denying anything would be spoilers to a lot of things..

Look, @therealvinelle, ship thoughts!

#harry potter #harry potter meta #harry potter headcanon #harry potter shipping #tom riddle #alphard black #tom riddle/alphard black #alphalord #meta #headcanon #opinion

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changingplumbob · 5 months ago

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Joey York (He/Him)

My Sims and their Spectrums

Romantic Orientation: Aromantic Sexual Orientation: Allosexual, Attracted to women Gender Identity: Cis Male

Joey never had crushes when he was little, and in preschool refused to take part in pretend weddings (leaving several tiny girls upset). His parents thought it was likely that he was aro/ace. Then... puberty happened. All of a sudden as much as he liked getting distracted by computers he also found himself distracted by the girls and women around him. He talked to his friends about it, wondering why he wanted to sleep with girls but not actually go through the bother of dating and flowers and chocolates.

Things were clearer when he talked to his parents and older sister about his feelings. While Calista and Devin are demisexual they knew enough about the aro/ace spectrum to suggest that maybe his romantic attraction just wasn't identical to his sexual attraction. Just because he was allosexual didn't mean he couldn't be aromantic.

And thus Joey the "forever trying to sleep with women" was forged. He wants kids in the future but he doesn't want the "bother" of being married. He also can't see any appeal in only sleeping with one woman for the rest of his life when there are so many gorgeous ones out there.

#sims 4 #the sims #the sims 4 #simblr #my sims #ts4 #pride #show us your sims #My sims and their spectrums #Active Simblr

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mamamittens · 2 years ago

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Oh, Sweet Child of Mine (Pt. 14)

Platonic Yandere Whitebeard Crew (Ft. Others) & Reader Insert

Main|First|Previous

Warnings: Yandere behavior, uh... technically but not really vore (I apologize for any PTSD flashbacks that word gives you) but really just being in the mouth of a large creature, and of course, burn related injuries. If yandere content makes you uncomfortable, please do block the tag 'oh sweet child of mine' as well as any variation of 'one piece yandere' that you feel is necessary.

Ngl, I kinda thought I was funny implying that the reader died. Oh well.

Word Count: 1,865

Marco had, on occasion, wondered if the only reason he had never experienced an ulcer or heart attack was because of his fruit.

He did not, however, consider testing that theory by racing against a literal volcano to save his hotheaded brother.

He had seen you look at him, desperately trying to communicate a single word to him.

Run.

He’d already started to dive down to cut off whatever insane stunt you were about to pull when you reached your arm back and pressed it against Akainu’s jacket. The marine looking down at you in shock. If you said something else, he didn’t register it.

Decades as a pirate on the Grand Line, and even he struggled to mentally piece together the next thirty seconds.

He saw Ace. He was definitely reaching down to grab him while Akainu was distracted.

Then what seemed like the literal gates of hell was thrown open. Heat so strong he felt fire in his lungs as he was thrown through the air, Ace clutched in his talons by mere seconds. The world tumbling and spinning as he was spat out of a cloud of smoke so thick he thought he closed his eyes if it wasn’t for the burning in them. Wings thrashing to regain balance, healing several times over as he struggled to remain airborne under his own power.

Ace was spitting and coughing, clutching Marco’s legs as he gasped for air long after Marco managed to stabilize them.

Marco could only circle what was once a relatively normal island in horror.

Roughly around where they were just moments ago was a caldera, bubbling magma still erupting forth with plumes of toxic gas. The land flattened and carved away from the force, cracks spilling more lava outward. Boats were capsized at the docks and at sea where people ran once the fight started, the people screaming as the water rushed back to claim the space it had once occupied. With force.

The ocean rushed back over the island, spilling into the magma pit and burying it in water. Gas boiling up. After several moments, the water returned to it’s normal level at the ruined shoreline. The pit now a boiling lake. If Akainu had still been there… he was dead now.

Marco dropped several feet as the realization sank in.

You were probably dead too.

Marco looked around desperately across the water, trying to see you clinging to a boat or people. Anything. But there was nothing but chaotic waves and people sighing in relief that it was over. You were gone.

Marco let out a low, sad trill, leaning down to brush his beak in Ace’s hair, nipping his ear to console the young man before starting a much more sedate flight to the nearest inhabited island. Ace clutching his talons as he sobbed, his tears falling to the sea.

--*--

It was dark. Dark and humid. A low buzzing sound vibrating your beaten body as you breathed shallowly. Everything hurt. You could only lay on the weirdly soft, wet thing. Struggling to breath. The taste of sea salt and rancid fish permeating your skin.

There was a high keen, probably from yourself, and the floor seemed to lurch. The buzzing intensified as light spilled in. You clenched your eyes shut as the sound of the ocean overwhelmed you. Fresh air spilling in with the cry of seagulls.

After a long moment orientating yourself, you opened your eyes again.

You were in a mouth.

You were in a mouth!

Laying in a sad, wet pile on a tongue with front row seats to rows and rows of sharp teeth. At least, you assumed they were teeth. Your glasses were gone so it looked more like fingers. You scrambled to sit up but your body screamed out in agony, forcing you to lay there instead.

“W-W-What…?” You murmured.

“Maaaaooooo~! Maaaaoooo~! Mao!” The cry echoed around you, your overstimulated body protesting the cheery vibrations. Despite the pain, you grinned. Eyes watering as you sobbed in relief.

“M-Mao! B-Baby! You saved me!” You laughed, crying as the movement pulled on your injuries… well, everywhere. “You saved me… C-Can you take me to an island, baby? I-I need help. You—you did so good clever baby but I’m not o-out of the woods yet.” You panted, body protesting any attempt to get comfortable as Mao closed their mouth back. The buzzing vibrations rolling out as you felt them speed up.

You closed your eyes and tried to rest. Resolutely ignoring how you planned to get help. Walking… was probably out of the question.

Thankfully, Mao had planned for that.

Their mouth opened back up to panicked screams.

“H-Holy fuck! It’s going to eat us!” Light spilled in as Mao’s tongue moved out slowly.

“I-It’s tasting the air for our scent!”

“By the seas, what is it doing?!”

“I-I don’t want to die like this!”

“?!”

“Wait! What the fuck?! What the fuck?!”

“I-Is that a person?! On it’s tongue?! A warning?!” You shivered as a cool breeze swept over you.

“A-Ah… is it… getting them help?”

“Let me just… uh… nice sea king?” You hissed as hands slowly swept under you. “Easy there, you’re in rough shape if even a sea king won’t eat you.”

“M-Mao’s a precious baby!” You protested with a pained gasp as you were lifted up into steady arms. “I-Isn’t that right, clever baby?”

“Mmmmmaaaoooo~! Maaooo~!” You opened your eyes and saw only smears of pinks and blues. Giggling dizzily as you collapsed into the stranger’s arms.

“Bbbbbaaaabbbyyy~!”

“I think they’ve been fried.” Someone whispered.

You only chuckled, eyes sliding closed as you passed out.

You came to wrapped up like a mummy, burns and cuts treated with an IV in your arm for fluids. Yeah, after all that fire and lava, you were probably pretty dehydrated. Your clothes had to be tossed, replaced with a simple shirt and loose pants. Marine neckerchief reduced to little more than a rag, though the iron bracelet was still firmly in place—it had even given you some burns from being heated up. Your host was a lovely young couple who ran an inn. A local doctor checking in on you every day for the past week.

You were quite a ways from Banaro island now. Several islands over, in fact. Mao had dropped you into the arms of a fishing vessel that quickly left the devastated area due to the lack of fish and excess amount of toxic ash.

You still didn’t have any glasses, so you were fairly useless in helping out around the inn for the trouble while you healed up. Instead keeping the wife company at the front desk. Thankfully, the bandages had been dialed down compared to when you woke up. Now just wrapping up your arms, hands, and legs. You did have a sunburn though, considering what you escaped, you called it good.

You rubbed your eyes a little, laying your head on the desk as you rattled the little bit of chain left in the air. At the very least, you wanted to get rid of the damn thing. Bolt cutters or something. Laying on it bruised your wrist and it was starting to rust up your bandages from sheer damage.

“Oh! Hello! Are you here for a room?” You sighed, wondering when the news coo would finally deliver a paper to inform you if Marco and Ace survived.

A gentle hand steadied your arm and the sound of metal breaking broke the silence. You shot up in surprise as the bracelet clattered to the desk, ripped clean in half.

Shocked, you looked back, eyes squinting furiously as you tried to make sense of the shapes. Tan skin color smear with a dash of orange at the top. A tan redhead? The hand reached out to your face, ignoring how you flinched backwards.

As the calloused hand cupped your cheek, you sensed a devil fruit for the first time since Banaro.

Cinnamon and campfire. Laughter and smoky night skies.

“You’re alive…”

“You made it!” You both whispered at the same time. You laughed, tears falling as you blindly leapt forward to hug him. “Ace!” You cried, body protesting harshly to your relieved affections. You squeezed your eyes shut, letting the tears fall despite how it burned your eyes.

Strong arms carefully wrapped around your body, rubbing over the fabric and bandages like he couldn’t believe it. His body jerking as your shoulder grew wet.

Birdsong and incense. Fireworks at twilight.

Another hand brushed your cheeks, wiping away your tears and blue fire popped over your body weakly.

Laughing louder, you opened your eyes to find Marco in front of you, gently pressing his forehead against yours. Blue eyes red with tears as he chuckled.

“Found you.”

You reached out and tugged him closer, sniffling as he joined the tearful reunion.

“Y-Yeah. You did.”

Even weakened as you were, the close contact with Marco’s fruit eased your pained body. Fire flickering through your bandages every few seconds like a dying flame.

“We’re taking you home.” Ace promised into your shirt. “Everyone was worried sick. Thatch almost broke out of the med bay to go with us.”

Your breath hitched.

“…He’s alive?” You asked softly. Marco chuckled, kissing your temple.

“Yeah. He’s tough like that.” Marco shifted but didn’t let go of Ace nor yourself. “Have you been taking care of them?”

“U-Uh, yes! Well, Doctor Mills has been watching over them too, but they’ve been resting here for a week now.” Your hostess answered in shock.

“Thank you. We almost skipped this island to go straight back to Oyaji. But Ace convinced me to rest more. We’ve both been ran ragged for months. We’ll compensate you but… can we get a room to rest in? Just one. We can share a bed I just… we’ve had too many close calls recently.” Marco asked. You snorted a little.

More amused than anything else, you wondered how much of that request was to ensure you didn’t try to run off.

It was hard to get either of them to let go long enough to collapse in a large bed. Marco and Ace deliberately making sure you were in the middle as they carefully inspected your injuries. Marco pressing his flames into what seemed worse off. Already you felt leagues better than before. You yawned, rolling your eyes as Ace poked at the bruises on your wrist from the chain. You pulled him down and wrapped your arms around his chest, satisfied that you barely felt a twinge from the movement.

After a moment, Marco laid down too, bringing the blanket over your shoulder and tucking his chin over your head.

“We have a lot to talk about.” Marco whispered into your hair. You hummed sleepily.

“I know… hey, Marco?”

“Yeah?”

“… I’m glad my stupid gamble paid off.” There was a huff of air at the back of your head. “I’m glad you’re both okay. I thought Admiral Akainu was going to kill you.”

“You’re grounded for a year when we get back.” You couldn’t help but giggle a little.

“How lenient.”

“Don’t push it.”

#one piece yandere #platonic yandere #yandere whitebeard crew #yandere ace #yandere marco #oh sweet child of mine #reader insert #healing cuddle pile before setting off to go back home

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