#truly such an unformed thought

[19seachelle19]

I have another theory that is probably not true and is out there but I wanna say it anyways. What of Cassandra’s and Ankarna’s child is actually Helio. What if Sol took over Helio as his “son” because both of Helio’s parents were erased from history. And Helio is the way he is because some of Sol’s worshippers specifically changed him to be like that so that he supports Sol. Or maybe during the Sol followers meeting the Ankarna followers, Helio was kind of given during that. I don’t know, but its just a thought I had

[gnomeniche]

having very very vague thoughts about dhmis and the family as the site of violence

[goddessofmischief]

      SPEAK NOW - SHANKS X READER (+ BUGGY)

A/N: This is part of this series, which requests are open for! These fics are all one-shots, so they can be read separately. Also, I highly recommend listening to the song linked in the title while you read.

I need a man. You are still just a boy.

These words tattooed themselves into the back of Shanks' mind until they were all he could remember, burned into him forever. In a short time, that one moment had become his creed and code, his reason for living.

And yet, he had given up on you.

He hadn’t given up on you as a person, or you as a friend - he still cared for you greatly, and respected you greatly. But he had given up any romantic pursuit of you. All he desired now was to become the best man he could be, and to stand by your side while you married Mihawk.

It was right. It felt right.

There was just so much to do, these days, and such little time to do them - normal piracy business of course, but in addition to that, the management of Roger’s health and the planning of a wedding had weighed heavily on his thoughts.

And now it was that day.

You had been getting ready for several hours when Shanks thought maybe he should visit you - that maybe you needed someone, and maybe he should be that someone.

He rose from his seat in the cathedral-

"Buggy, stay with Roger-"

"Hey, what're you doing?"

"I'm going to help her get ready," Shanks responded. "Usually people have bridesmaids for that."

Buggy just grumbled something under his breath.

You'd want him, wouldn't you? You'd want him there? You would want him to help you, like he had always done and would always be there to do, before you took your first steps into a new life?

Shanks was betting that you would.

...

Three knocks at the door.

"Come in," you called out, assuming it wouldn't be Marines or rival pirates or anyone else, assuming that the cathedral filled with the most feared pirates of your time would be enough to protect you.

You were correct in that assumption.

"Feels wrong to see you," Shanks said, closing the door behind him. "Though I guess it shouldn't."

"Is it... is it okay?" you asked, spinning a bit in your dress.

"It's lovely," he said.

"Thanks. Buggy helped me pick it out."

Buggy? Well, he shouldn't have been surprised. He knew you trusted Buggy with things you wouldn't tell him, or perhaps things you felt would be a waste of his time.

"Anything else?" you said, eyes tracing over him.

Yes. Yes. So much else.

"No," he said. "You're perfect."

Shanks was the bigger man. He always had been. In quarrels with Buggy, in competing with Mihawk, in not letting his love for you get in the way of your life. Above all, he refused to let anything keep him from being kind. He refused to cause your unhappiness, even if it met letting you get married without telling you everything he truly felt.

What was there to say, anyway? Later on, Shanks would marvel at the messiness of that age, and how he managed to conduct himself in the first place: his thoughts, his affections, were so new, so unformed. Even if he had insisted you hear him out right then, he wouldn't have even known what to say.

That you were beautiful? The smartest pirate he knew? That he wanted to have you by his side forever?

...Well, maybe he could've started there.

For now, you smiled at him brightly, and moved to kiss him on the cheek. But he moved, right then, as he'd noticed a stray blue hair on your white skirt, and meant to pick it off before you left-

And you kissed him on the mouth, just kissed him, and it was completely on accident but totally on purpose, and it lasted for a long time, maybe forever, maybe two seconds.

"I'm sorry," Shanks said as you broke apart, and you couldn't look at him. Nothing hurt quite as much as that. You held your hand to your mouth, seemingly unable to process what had just happened, and what it meant, and if it really had to mean anything, and you couldn't look at him, and really, nothing hurt quite as much as that.

"It was an accident."

"Yeah, it was," he reassured you. "That's all it was."

He was telling you he'd keep it a secret, that it would never be known, that you could get married and never kiss anyone else again and be a good girl all your life with an unblemished record, and Mihawk would never ever have to know, and every time Shanks looked at you he would want to die, but he would take the secret of that kiss and all that it meant to him to his grave. This was his promise to you, the one he made in the few breaths between sentences, in the breaths between you as you had pulled away.

You nodded to him, and he nodded back.

"Do you want me to get Roger?" Shanks asked finally. "Everyone's out there-"

Suddenly, Buggy burst through the curtains, red-faced.

"Shanks, I need to talk to you."

"What's going on? Where's Roger?"

"Shanks," repeated Buggy, warningly.

"Anything you have to say, you can say it in front of her."

Buggy's eyes flitted from you to Shanks, feeling guilty for what he was about to do.

"Mihawk isn't here," Buggy said, and your heart sank. "...He didn't come."

"He's probably just held up," Shanks assured you. "Maybe he got in a fight or something."

"He sent a letter."

You collapsed to the floor, white dress spilling around you. Shanks stared down at you.

"Alright," said Shanks, rubbing his temple. "...Where the hell is this letter?"

...

Darling,

By the time you read this, I will be gone.

I must start by saying I am madly in love with you, and always will be. I wish more than anything I were there with you now.

Regrettably, I attracted some Marine trouble on my last job. I did not wish to bring it back to you, but I would be lying if I did not confess that is not the only reason why I am not with you today.

The bitter truth is, my name has become more known than I could have predicted. I had planned to be a swordsman, a pirate, and most of all, your husband - but fate has disrupted those plans, making it impossible to return to you now. After I became known as the World's Greatest Swordsman this past summer, thousands have come looking to challenge me and my bounty has tripled. It occurred to me that it would be unwise to lead anything but a solitary life for as long as I am such a wanted man.

Please do not believe this has anything to do with you. I still mean every word of all that I told you. You are the love of my life.

Do not wait for me. I do not know if I can ever return to you, and certainly not how long it will take. My best wishes to your family, and please inform Shanks and Roger of my regrets. They are good people, and I am sorry to have hurt them.

In the meantime, I will think of you.

Yours,

Mihawk.

...

You were inconsolable for days.

It didn't matter how many fights you'd been in, or how much you had escaped, nothing petrified you more than the moment you had to walk back down that aisle, Shanks and Buggy flanking you from either side, while you told all the guests that the groom would not be attending his own wedding.

That Dracule Mihawk had left you.

It took all the convincing in the world from Shanks and Rayleigh to convince Roger not to go after him himself. He couldn't, in his condition, and Shanks was sure it would be the thing that killed him. Besides, Shanks wanted the honor himself, even though he wouldn't allow himself to have it.

He's the bigger man, right? Right?

But he hated how much you wept. It rocked the ship, feeling like the storm was inside the walls rather than in the ocean. You were being torn apart, punished, killed.

"Did I cause it somehow?" you wondered aloud, voicing to Shanks the irrational fear that had been clouding your mind for days. "Did he know that I would-"

"No, don't say that. Please don't say that," he pleaded, softer than you imagined he would. "He sent that letter days before."

Shanks couldn't let the thing that had hurt you the most be his fault.

"Still, is it because he thought-"

"He's a very direct man. If it were anything else, any other reason, he would have said exactly that."

It was true, you knew. He would have. It was something you loved about-

Loved. There it was, that word again. You love Mihawk, present tense. You wouldn't allow yourself to say you loved him. That would mean it was really over, and you couldn't accept that just yet.

And for the fifth time that week, Shanks left your room, feeling more torn up than before, still unable to fully put that kiss into words. It could not be spoken, as that would make it true.

For the first time, Buggy was waiting outside. He and Shanks exchanged looks.

"Is she... better?"

"No," said Shanks. "More of the same."

"Should I...?" Buggy cleared his throat. "Alright. I'll talk to her."

Buggy knew rejection - he felt it a lot - not just from you, but from the world. If anything, you had accepted him the most. Maybe he could offer a fresh perspective.

Whatever he expected to see when he opened that door, it wasn't this. You were still in your dress - the one he picked for you, he remembered with a pang - and lying flat on the floor. Without hesitation, Buggy laid down next to you.

"Well, you look rough."

For the first time since, you laughed. Something about the way he said it, something about the way it struck you. You did look rough, and Mihawk wasn't coming back. The truth was easier to accept when it came from Buggy.

"I'm sorry I've disappeared," you admitted. "It's just been too much."

"I know. It's time to come back, though. Things are getting serious with Roger."

Shanks had declined to share that information with you.

"Is he...?"

"We're disbanding in a week," Buggy confirmed. "After that, I don't know - he's talked about sitting down each of us, so I think he's gonna do something."

"I think he's going to turn himself in," you confessed.

"No way."

"That's what Rayleigh told me he was thinking about."

"Rayleigh never tells me anything. He hates me."

"That's not true."

"...I don't mind."

For awhile, you both sat in silence. It was nice.

And you decide you might change your clothes tomorrow.

taglist:

@sawendel @twinklesnake @literaturewithliz @sordidmusings @foggyturtleknightangel @toertchen @96jnie @lunanight1021

[goblinhoursinsomniaramblings]

me last week: jesus i am bad at the task i have set out to do. what am i thinking, trying to write mpreg of the type i like. i'm just not good enough to pull this off so other people would like it--

me today: *jams out an entire part 1 in one evening after five drafts just out of queer spite and self-indulgence* be queer do thoughtcrimes

Part 1 of the Clone Gestation AU. expect other parts to have more characters, plots and dialogue, but I need the setup out or I'll feel weird about the other completely self-indulgent scenes percolating in my head.

Also: do not go into this expecting real science, you're getting comic book science at most.

In Vlad’s defense, the theory had been sound.

Every ghost had a… he had heard many terms, but in his research he had gone with ‘ectonucleus’ rather than the more colloquial ‘core’. Even his Plasmius form was no different, a shell of ectoplasm projected from an organ simple enough to barely count as such. Vlad’s human mind drove it, but many ghosts lacked a living brain to truly take advantage of their power. One of the many reasons he kept pulling off so many of his schemes plans in full. Ghosts seemed to be all emotion and obsession, no thought or patience.

The ectonucleus had many ectobiological functions. It processed ectoplasm, functioned as a rudimentary nervous system in response to stimuli, and most importantly for his current project, it stored what passed for genetic information–except instead of copying it into trillions of individually specialized cells, it took the information as a whole and shaped raw ectoplasm around it. Ghosts could even use it reproductively, something Vlad had decided to skip past with the cloning.

Though, admittedly, some of the early readings on the control subject’s cohesion had been… worrying. Which shouldn’t have been possible. The cloning tank was full of ectoplasm that had been subjected to so many layers of filtration he could legitimately label it as surgical-grade. There shouldn’t have been a problem making a stable filtration barrier between the ectonucleus and the surrounding ectoplasm.

He hissed as he felt a painful lurching from his ghost half, leaning against the occupied cloning tank with one arm. This had been occurring with regularity since he had first seen the decline in the results, and it really was not helping him solve the problem! His Plasmius side, as powerful as it made him, was maddeningly psychoreactive–it wasn’t the first time it had thrown one of these tantrums, and if it kept this up he would dig out those schematics for–

He felt it, before he saw it. A probe of something too aimless and unformed to be curiosity. He looked up to see the little ectonucleus up against the wall of the tank, barely outlined by a little firefly glow, as though it could tell he was there.

It couldn’t, obviously. It was only reacting in response to stimuli, extending feelers of presence, for lack of a better term, to decide if the way ahead was safe. There was no way it could fumble blindly to him unless–

A somewhat less painful lurch in his chest answered his thought. Ah. Of course. Ghost ‘biology’ strikes again.

No. He knew what this was now, absolutely not. He was already too emotionally invested in the outcome of this project, and the control subject was already showing signs of eventual non-viability–

And the smaller proto-presence flickered away. He felt a jolt as he tried to figure out what happened, but his eyes soon caught the faint glimmer of the cloned ectonucleus, on the far side of the tank.

Alright. This was… ideal. It was better to keep some distance while the process was still unstable.

And if his ghost half was unhappy about it, it would be so much worse if he let himself get too attached close.

***

Years later, when Vlad discovers what, exactly, ghosts are powered by, he will think back on this and laugh for far, far too long.

***

The ectonucleus doesn’t seem to notice him if he’s far enough away, even when Plasmius tries to signal it. Still, inevitably he will brush by the tank, or work near to it, taking readings on the purity of the medical ectoplasm or checking the integrity of the tank, and when he looks up–

“Again? Really?!”

The little proto-ghost seems to press itself against the tank at the sound of his voice. He knows it is just responding because it isn’t exposed constantly to his voice, making him new, worth investigation. But Plasmius seemed to respond like it was cute, and oh, he had no idea his ghost half had that particular set of feelings.

(‘Sublimation’ would become a very familiar word to him one day.)

He could reinforce the tank. Make it impossible for the unformed, barely-there clone to notice him. Maybe, in another life, he does exactly that.

Instead, he heaves a sigh, and decides he will simply have to make his voice less novel. Didn’t he hear somewhere, once, that speaking to still-forming humans was necessary for development? The ectonucleus had yet to project a human body, but it was a clone of a halfa, so perhaps–

He would have to keep an eye on the medical readings to see if this was pop science (pointless, in other words) or was worth doing, but… how badly could he compromise himself, talking to something with all the personality of an amoeba?

***

“... and that is why I even bothered to show up! Honestly, Jack should count his lucky stars he’s worth more to me alive than dead right now!”

The proto-clone glimmered at the steady flow of Vlad’s voice. It truly didn’t seem to matter what he spoke of, it just… wanted to be near his voice. Even when Plasmius didn’t overtly signal it.

It was heartwarming distressing how much he loved her already for that craved even that level of attention. How lonely he felt every time he visited Jack and Maddie, and came back with nothing to show for it but more envy fury over what he never had the chance to have.

Originally, the plan had been to introduce a combination of subliminal training, organic nutrients, and a rapid growth solution to the tank to get the clone close to Daniel’s age and development. But…

“Jack kept blathering on about old stories of Jasmine and Daniel. Showed me pictures. Showed me baby pictures.”

He had realized just how much he would be skipping. How much he would still feel had been taken from him.

He had quietly struck that stage from the planning before sitting with the tank for the proto-clone’s regular enrichment session. Not only would it have made him thoroughly depressed angry to falsify an entire childhood for the clone he wouldn’t actually get to experience… he had the feeling doing the full accelerated growth regimen would have irreversibly worsened the cohesion damage.

It hadn’t exactly improved, but regular stimulation had greatly lessened the rate of damage over time. The problem came down to the filtration barrier. It was the equivalent to a cell wall, and ghosts usually had a much stronger one around their ectonuclei than his the control subject was capable of forming.

He hunched forward a little when Plasmius again made his chest lurch unpleasantly, hand rising unbidden to his sternum. Oh yes, he was fully aware of his ghost half’s input on the subject. Instincts were a powerful driving force.

When a ghost reproduced, there was a stage where the unformed proto-ghost would parasitize the parent’s core, and siphon ectoplasm to produce a stable filtration barrier. From there, they could generally be removed and placed somewhere safe so the parent could get back to their usual life as it finished developing, filtering the ambient atmosphere of the ghost zone until it had enough power to project a body. Even into maturation, a ghost could generally fend off destabilization by placing their essence into something, or even someone, formed of ectoplasm until they could reform on their own, a reflex honed at that very early stage.

Vlad was beginning to believe his instincts were responding to a ghost too underdeveloped to form its own barrier. Something it might only be able to learn by example.

Vlad leaned his head back against the tank. He had not wanted this step to even be on the table. The control subject was still damaged, with no guarantee he could reverse it. He had sworn to himself he wouldn’t get attached without a guarantee of viability and this…

He let himself finally address it. This may not have been the same as the human equivalent, but it was so close it was impossible not to draw a parallel. It was essentially a ghost pregnancy, and the intensity of his ghost self’s psychoreactive nature practically guaranteed he would be thoroughly attached to this adorable awful little amoeba.

Perhaps he could do this in stages. Yes. Just a little at a time, until it could form its own barrier. Then, back in the tank.

“You are entirely too demanding. This is how children end up spoiled rotten, you know,” he scolded the single-celled nuisance.

It had the nerve to just glitter back at him. Such an attitude already.

He wondered if it was too late to go back to that tank-insulation plan.

It absolutely was.

***

He changed into Plasmius for the extraction. It seemed more conducive to holding something crafted purely from ectoplasm. He had barely placed his hand in the tank when the ephemeral little thing swam to him, settling in his palm snugly. He went intangible, and it hesitantly sank into his hand, then poked around, gradually finding its way to his own ectonucleus.

The effect was nearly instantaneous. A strand of pink energy wound around the little proto-ghost, and it let itself be cradled as the energy gently wove around it, flashes of light from within signaling a repeating cycle of weave, dispel, weave. Teaching it the ghost equivalent to homeostasis.

Now, however, came the real test. He transformed back to human…

And he still felt the new dimension to his so-called ‘core’, almost equivalent to a heartbeat. It was capable of existing flush with Plasmius, wherever his ghostly side rested when he was human again.

This felt promising. He didn’t exactly trust that.

He was so very tired of broken promises.

***

He still spoke to it. It had become a bonding exercise habit by this point. He would be sending email, or reading, or combing through footage from his many invasive discreet hidden cameras, and find himself talking as though it were listening. He listened back, as well, for the steady pulse of energy in, energy scattered, outlining the gradually strengthening core ectonucleus of his child control subject.

The only step left was to remove it as a ghost would and see if it learned to make a barrier on its own.

***

He may have put off the removal too long.

Those early reports of cohesion damage may have swayed his decision a little more than he wanted to admit. It was just easier… not knowing, until he was certain it could do this very basic thing. He would be staring at the tank, having gone to his lab specifically to see if it could function away from him like it would as a developing ghost and some new variable would come to him.

He should do a full cycling of the medical ectoplasm, just to be sure it’s as clean as possible for reintroduction.

He should make sure he has some emergency supplies on hand for his ghost side, just in case Plasmius fights him on this subconsciously and damages something.

He should go over lab security just in case, check the footage.

Really, it’s been too long since the tanks had a full maintenance cycle.

He had felt his ectonucleus shifting position a little. He needs to wait until it settles for a while.

(He really should have paid attention to where, exactly, his core was traveling to.)

On, and on, just him and the pulse of ectoplasm signaling all was, currently well. Although it did catch his attention that his ghost self seemed to be siphoning off some ectoplasm somewhere, even when he was human, that wasn’t accounted for in the energy transfer of barrier formation. It seemed to be evenly distributed over his entire body, some odd ectoplasmic underpinning to his circulatory system.

Initially, he just wrote it off as some sort of mapping of his human body. After all, the proto-clone was a halfa. It would need some extra education for when it projected a human body. There were some ‘vessels’ that terminated abruptly, but he couldn’t see to what purpose. Maybe it was waiting for something else to be finished, once it got enough of a boost.

He would have plenty of time to get the child control subject back in the tank, given the rate of growth.

***

He hadn’t been expecting a flare-up of his ecto-acne. He certainly wasn’t expecting it to behave extremely differently from every time previously. Truthfully, he only guessed what it was because on examination in the mirror, his eyes were glowing and spots appeared on his face. Itchy, awful, conspicuous spots.

No ectoplasm in them, however. Odd.

Almost like something was siphoning it off before it could–

***

By the time the Fentons helped him confirm his suspicion–and was that ever an awkward encounter–it was far too late to correct course. Well, technically, he could have worked something out. If anyone could have, he could.

‘Would’ was another matter entirely, though. Blame loneliness, a long-thwarted desire for family, age, loneliness, sentimentality, loneliness.

If going from a ghost pregnancy to an actual pregnancy was the price to pay for finally feeling connected to someone?

He had finally gone long enough without to do anything for that feeling. Up to and including planning the murder of anyone stupid brave enough to tell him otherwise.

Though he would have appreciated a warning about the word ‘clone’ no longer applying.

***

@vladdyissues I DID THE FUCKING THING i have no idea if you'll find introspective yet still in denial vlad being tsundere about wanting to be pregnant and getting hopelessly attached to as yet unnamed Dani nearly as appealing as I do but I still thank you for prodding me to do this fucker regardless

-manifesting a complete lack of fucks for the gender binary through a cis male character who would willingly be pregnant to have a kid ain't the usual way but fuck it, that's my coping method right now

[monsterfuckerconfessions]

there are some concepts for aliens and monsters in pop culture that aren’t even “I can see how someone would find this sexy” and are just “this character is just the amalgam of a bunch of kinks”

my favourite one for this is Venom (AKA The Symbiote) from Marvel comics. its literally living clothing that covers you in black latex and turns you into a buff alien with fat tits and a foot-long tongue

also, in Eddie’s case, the inherent eroticism of wearing your boyfriend 👌👌👌

I personally fantasise a lot about the possibility of being bonded with a symbiote, it’s just an avenue for so much

the symbiote finds you one night, its tired and helpless in its unbonded form, and latches onto you in the hopes of at least feeding before moving on. perhaps it drips from the ceiling, splashing over your chest as you doze in bed just before sleep. then, as it covers you and you awaken to feel it spreading over you, the symbiote starts to feel a connection. it covers your entire body from the chest down now, and it feels so strange but so good as it wraps around your lower regions. it extends from the back of your head and over your face, and then the bonding is complete as you feel a throb of pleasure ripple through your body, your newly fanged maw opening to let out a sigh of satisfaction. you and the symbiote both realise that this is more than just a one-time thing, you two are compatible. how else would this arrangement feel so natural, so effortless?

you get up to check yourselves out in the mirror. you’ve grown by about a foot and a half, and are covered in tight muscle. your face is little but a mouth with knife-like teeth and devious white eyes. opening your mouth, your tongue is a long, dextrous limb that drips with alien slime - useful if you ever wanted a third in your relationship, perhaps.

for now though, your new body is still vague, unformed. intuitively, you start to experiment with its versatility. it’s easy as flexing a muscle to, for example, create yourself a thick cock from your groin. it extends out, pink and fleshy next to your otherwise uniform skin, feeling like an extension of your human genitals, ready to be used. a thought and a flex later, and it shifts to gain a large, bulbous knot at its base. another flex, and it splits into two separate cocks, perfect for penetrating both holes of a human at once. you keep experimenting, inverting the cocks into a tight cunt which you briefly finger with your clawed hand (you both shiver with pleasure, your skin rippling with a sigh) and even creating various tentacles and stranger things.

turning your attention away from this area, you find it easy to shift any aspect of your appearance. fingers turn to claws, horns of any shape or size extend from your head, tentacles from your back, or anything you could desire.

once your body is perfect, the bond is truly complete. you know you could change back into your human form any time you like, but your true form is always just a thought away.

.

[ineffable-baker-street]

Merlin had been gone for five days. Arthur had been in bed for those five days. Well, technically he got out of bed on the first day, but then he'd tried to dress and bathe himself, had had to walk around the castle trying to find the kitchen to get food, and decided it wasn't worth it and climbed back into bed.

The crown prince had not spoken in Merlin's absence, and though he hadn't yet said a word, the kingdom, and certainly the royal household knew why. His servant was gone. Though servant was a word used lightly by most, just Merlin's formal title really. Anyone who had seen them together knew he was far, far more than that. Not just Arthur's friend, nor even his simple lover, but his soulmate. More than a soulmate in fact, Merlin was truly Arthur's other half. The two walked in step beside each other, them and only them, lost in the world they'd built to surround each other, a coin that flipped through the air, travelling from place to place, both sides always next to each other, never once straying apart.

But now, one side was gone, and a coin is not a coin with one side missing. A coin with one side is... well it's nothing. An unformed mass, doomed to being cast aside, with no use and not worth a second glance. And that was now Arthur. He had no purpose without Merlin, no future, no destiny. There was nothing more for him to achieve in this world, for Merlin was his destiny. From the day they had met, Arthur had known his life served no purpose without Merlin by his side. No matter what plan was formed, what decision was made, what path he walked, Merlin was beside him through it all, from today, and into the beautiful abyss of forever.

And so Arthur knew where he was next headed, where he had to go to find the other side of the coin. In the dead of night, as the sixth day was arriving, Arthur mounted his horse, wearing the cloak Merlin had once lent him, drawing it around him as tightly as possible, holding nothing but the Horn of Cathbhadh. It was all he needed, for it would take him home. He rode out of the gates, not sparing a glance back, his heart becoming more desperate the closer he got, his eyes fixated ahead of him, until the Great Stones of Nemeton finally come into view. And peace flooded him, over his skin and through his blood, knowing he was almost there, that he had very nearly escaped this grief, a torture he had never had to endure before. Arthur lifted the horn to his lips and blew, every second spent in this world without Merlin unbearable.

Once, all he had cared for was Camelot, and he had thought nothing would come between his duty and loyalty to the kingdom. How unbelievably wrong he had been, proven the day a young boy stood up to him, in a way no one ever had. And how he had been proven wrong every day since then, as he became intwined with Merlin, with every aspect of him, with his very being, until they were one, and finally he was whole. Every moment with Merlin came back to him, and he dropped to his knees an sobbed in agony. Because it hadn't worked. He was still here, and Merlin was still gone. And he reached the end of his memories, to the very last one where Merlin held his face and whispered,

"I love you."

But it was louder, louder than everything else, and then he felt arms around him, pulling him up and drawing him in, and finally, as the whiteness grew brighter and brighter, and the world behind him faded, finally Arthur was home.

[bethiav]

This is one of the hardest things I feel like I’ll ever have to write, but I/we want to be open about the season/valley we are currently facing together. We are pregnant with another beautiful girl, this pregnancy has been met with some challenges, we have more questions than answers and right now are truly just taking everything day by day. I know that every life is a gift, so as long as I get to carry this baby and maybe meet her face to face, even if only briefly, I will be glad. Heaven is our forever home, where is there no more pain and suffering and where she can be in complete peace. If I have learned anything in motherhood since having my Jenny girl, it is to have grace — for myself, my baby, everyone, etc. So, to honor our second baby and give her a name/identity, we have chosen Grace Ruth. She is so loved, now and always. I know we are not walking this road alone and for that, I am eternally grateful. Bringing this to light makes all of this easier to bear, I don’t need to hear that everything will be okay, right now I feel like I am holding my breathe but I am clinging to peace that passes ALL understandings. I am running this race with and for my baby, and no matter the outcome, she and I will finish strong.

——-

Psalms‬ ‭139‬:‭13‬-‭18‬ ‭NKJV‬‬

-

“For You formed my inward parts; You covered me in my mother’s womb. I will praise You, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made; Marvelous are Your works, And that my soul knows very well. My frame was not hidden from You, When I was made in secret, And skillfully wrought in the lowest parts of the earth. Your eyes saw my substance, being yet unformed. And in Your book they all were written, The days fashioned for me, When as yet there were none of them. How precious also are Your thoughts to me, O God! How great is the sum of them! If I should count them, they would be more in number than the sand; When I awake, I am still with You.”

[reassambled-dragoon]

14: Telling

As with Halcyon's entry, may I suggest listening to this as you read?

   Trust us. Let us help you. Those were the unspoken words in Alphinaud and Alisaie’s determined sapphire eyes as they had turned away from Storm to extend hands of friendship to Meteion. And because Storm loved them, and because she trusted them, she stepped back and watched the storm of dark feathers take the last of the Scions. And, once again, lost more family.

   The silence was deafening.

   A bridge shimmered into existence, starting at the edge of the dead café and leading upwards, onwards. It shimmered and shone with brilliant rainbow hues, a bright beacon amidst the dead, dusty desolation. Of course they would make such an eyeblinding display, defying the whole godsdamned universe…or perhaps, showing the universe that there was still light where there should be none.

   Storm began walking. Mechanically. Woodenly. Brokenly. It didn’t matter how she got to Meteion; all that mattered was that she began moving and let momentum take her. Tears clouded her vision, and shimmering specters began drifting towards her. One brushed against her mail-clad arm, whispering in a voice she hadn’t heard in over a decade, a voice that had been silenced as her village had left Ala Mhigo. Child, did you truly think you were alone?

   “G-Gran…?”

   Keep walking, foolish girl. If you leave your greatest work unfinished, I shall be very cross with you.

   Don’t look back, Skip, another lost voice chided her as a second specter gained shape, cheerfully joining in the walk. The fight is ahead, not behind you!

   Ha! Who would have thought the mousy little Styrmsatza would prance around in fancy white chain!

   Oh, do shut up, Howling Brook. It matches her hair, don’t you see? Yet another voice chimed in. On and on and on, as Storm’s tears fell and her heart somehow broke and healed, the voices and ghosts of those she had loved and lost joined her on this eternal walk. The rainbow bridge hummed beneath her booted feet, and she knew the twins would have been delighted.

   Would have been…

   Her march faltered, and she clutched her chest, choking on her sobs. Her ghosts shifted around her, unable to physically carry her onward, but they all perked up as two unformed specters drifted down the rainbow bridge. As with the others, they gained form as soon as they made contact, their faces shifting into a short, slim Roegadyn man with vibrant green eyes and a gentle smile, and a proud Roegadyn woman with stark white hair.

   The woman reached forward to touch Storm’s face, her fierce eyes softening as she began to sing. The soothing notes of a long-forgotten lullaby filled the dead air, and ghosts of family and friends fell respectfully silent. As the song wound down, the green-eyed man extended his hands towards Storm. You can do this. We can’t fight alongside you this time, but we can walk with you until the end.

   “Need…I need…” she gasped, managing to shuffle a half-step forward. It felt like trying to move through wet cermet.

   We’re giving you what you need, Gran snapped. ‘Tis past time you stopped telling us what you want, and start. Moving. Forward. On with you, child! 

   Storm flinched, then managed the hint of a wobbly smile and whispered, “You always knew how to encourage your ‘prentices.”

   She took a deep breath and forced herself to stand upright. She dragged her gauntleted hands across her face, the armor leaving scratches on her brown skin. One boot moved forward, then the other. Shuffling movements became hesitant steps became a determined stride, her white half-skirt flowing behind her, with those she had loved and lost defiantly filling Ultima Thule with their cheers as Storm Dancer walked onwards, upwards, but never alone.

[thoughtfulfangirling]

Random unformed thought I want to put a pin in: the parents of the children in this book seem to have no direct bearing on how others seem to perceive them? At least it seems Nelly for one truly tries to take the kids as blank slates. With Hearhcliff having been the exception because of his appearance.

[unadulterated-syd]

marlene mckinnon x fem!reader

warnings -> none literally fluff, unedited

-> i literally love this,, this is how i see marlene tbh and i need her sooo bad

anyways, hope u enjoy.

masc presenting people dni.

-

everything she did caught your breath— it was like she sucked the oxygen from the world around you, holding it to herself. almost selfish if you had to say so yourself.

because everything she did infuriated you to your core. she was everything you'd never have, but you'd phrase it differently. she was stuck up, and she thought she was too good for you.

she was too good for you.

however, the world had always had an odd pattern to it. the stars always changed, though they'd always come back. and just as you thought of her, she'd thought of you.

you were too much for her, gorgeous and confusing. she didn't want to accept that she'd fallen for you. she wouldn't. and neither would you.

it began with flirting— even just in the halls, she'd throw a wink, and you'd roll your eyes.

then it was at parties, ones you usually wouldn't have attended.

you held your liquor well, never drank too much whilst there. but she didnt, she never held back. something you'd admired. her drunken dancing practically left stars in your eyes.

as soon as everyone had started to party they'd disappeared— it was only the two of you now. a room full of people meant nothing when her eyes fell on you.

she made you a target, drunkenly offering you her hand, "Ms. L/n." your brain traced the goofy smile that plastered her face, how could you say no?

"dance with me, Y/n. dance like you've never tried." she gave you a look of mischief, one you'd wished you'd taken a picture of. she took your hand and you spun your way around the room.

it was always different— the kind of dancing you'd hide to the comforts of your bathroom mirror, the dancing you'd see in a club, ballroom steps.

it ended there, in a slowdance. too tired to carry on with any high energy dance— her head fell on your collarbone, tracing your palm as she caught her breath.

and when she looked up, you'd nearly cursed yourself. there was no way you'd truly get over her— the look in her eyes as she explored your face.

and then she grinned. grinned.

"you look.. " she paused, her head tilting as she sucked in one more breath, "hot."

you shook your head, as if you'd expected anything more mannered than that from the drunken girl.

"you look gorgeous."

"i thought you hated people like me."

"people like you? god, mckinnon i worship people like you."

she stared at you blankly, for even just a moment. she didn't need to think, she couldn't think. complicating things was no longer a choice, but a need. something she'd forget in the morning, but would yearn for till the very end.

she kissed you, as if the universe connected in that moment. two soulmates partaking in the realization they needed too. two rivals becoming something they'd never dream of.

and you kissed her back.

no one but you would remember this in the morning— no dancing, no kiss, it would be as if you'd dreamt it. but for a moment you asked yourself— was it worth it? and you'd never need to ask again.

for a dream like this was better than the unformed hatred that rested itself in your hearts.

"spend the night with me."

"you're drunk. you don't mean that."

"i do. i really do. i've only just gotten the guts to say it."

"we can't do this."

"just one night. please."

you pondered, one night and the bliss would be gone. for you could never maintain what you have— what you could've had. people would never accept it.

"okay."

-

as the night died down, she stayed in your arms. her head drowsily found itself placed against you in anyway, as you both lightly swayed to the dying music.

kids were laid everywhere— some had left, others finished up their games, others had fallen asleep right where they'd been.

close to sleep, you sought it best to find your way back to the dorms.

even with the light demands of marlene to stay back— insisting on more booze and dancing, you managed to pull the two of you to the common room, and up the stairs (a task that proved almost impossible with marlene at your side)

you'd practically carried her up, finally resting her on her bunk. she'd sprawled out as soon as she'd reached the comfort of her sheets. only breaking her zombified state to grab at your hand.

"where to..?" she slurred, eyes squeezed shut, a manner in which you wondered how she'd even seen you go to exit.

"changing."

you did as such— prepared to go to your own bunk and allow hours of wonder dance around your mind, however you were a woman of your word.

you sighed, gently moving the sleeping girl over, setting yourself beside her in the bunk— whilst reaching over her to grasp the blankets, she saw it an opportunity to burry herself in you.

you swore you'd never been closer to heaven.

even if it'd come crashing tomorrow.

-

hp tags -> @goodoldfashionedluvergirl

marlene tags -> @withastrangerheart, added u because there isn't enough marlene fics and i figured you'd want this (let me know if not!)

if you want to be added to a tag list send in an ask <3

[humanperson105]

What is thinking? Part 1.

Deleuze, Thinking, and Stupidity

In Deleuze's seminal work “Difference and Repetition”, he approaches the question of thought by way of its relation to stupidity. For Deleuze, stupidity (betise in French) is a kind of animality unique to humans. Stupidity is not an error or a lack of intelligence, but rather a necessary transcendental condition for thought.

For if thought thinks only when constrained or forced to do so, if it remains stupid so long as nothing forces it to think, is it not also the existence of stupidity which forces it to think, precisely the fact that it does not think so long as nothing forces it to do so? Recall Heidegger's statement: 'What gives us most cause for thought is the fact that we do not yet think.' Thought is the highest determination, confronting stupidity as though face to face with the indeterminate which is adequate to it. Stupidity (not error) constitutes the greatest weakness of thought, but also the source of its highest power in that which forces it to think. (Deleuze pg. 275 DnR.)

Thought only occurs when something shocks us out of our passivity. Thought is a production of novelty in the sense of Bergson's notion of creative evolution in which change is caused by breaking from habits and cliches. Thought produces ideas, pre-individual intensive multiplicities, or events. For Deleuze, we are only thinking when we produce ideas, in our moments when we aren't thinking we’re merely mechanically going through the motions of everyday life in a blind stupor (here we can see the weight of influence from Heidegger). In line with Deleuze's commitment to absolute immanence and his conception of univocal being, ideas are impersonal singular aleatory processes of differentiation/differenciation that the individual thinker can only affirm through problematization. Deleuze even goes as far as to say that ideas are in fact problems, problems with inexhaustible solutions. Deleuze approaches thought from the Heideggerian perspective that we are not yet thinking and only a shock from the outside can force us to think. Stupidity is possible due to the groundlessness of thought, the absence of a foundation for thought is what allows for stupidity but also allows for the endless determination of solutions to problems. Heidegger and Blanchot both ask whether we are thinking in the first place and what motivates us to think. This presents thinking as becoming-active, a break from our usual experience of the world as presence at hand. That which forces us to think (the sublime) is opposed to recognition, that which can be recalled, imagined, or conceived by the faculties of good sense and common sense, and takes the form of an imperceptible encounter with the sensible that forces our faculties to pose questions. The shock to the sensible should not be confused with the sensible in the sense of the empirical. "It is not the given but that by which the given is given." (Ibid. pg. 140) For Deleuze, this encounter is with the pre-individual forces that produce the objects of our experience as well as our capacity to experience in the first place. This imperceptible encounter is a necessary encounter with the Kantian sublime (we will expand on this later). "[W]ith the sublime, according to Kant, the imagination is forced or constrained to confront its own limit, its phantasteon, its maximum which is equally the unimaginable, the unformed or the deformed in nature [...] Moreover, it transmits this constraint to thought itself, which in turn is forced the think the supra-sensible as foundation of both nature and the faculty of thought…" (Ibid. pg. 321) For Deleuze (as well as Heidegger and Blanchot), thought is conditioned by and ultimately subordinate to the sensible and we can only truly think by being forced to do so within the immanent univocal expression of being. (Continued in part 2)

[late-to-the-magnus-archives]

because we all deserve an angsty snippet

Work in progress, 3/4 done!

TW: mention of past suicidal ideal

--------

A beat while Arthur listens.

Martin can’t imagine what that must be like - your person, inside your head. He wonders how things will change for these two if John does, indeed, get a body.

He wonders if Arthur really, truly realizes how much this John is his person.

It hardly has to be romantic. But Martin also has the language to express such things - queer, maybe platonic, etc. He doubts Arthur does, and without the words for it, it remains vague, unformed.

He thinks their friendship will survive separation.

His love survived Jon’s ability to read his mind, so surely, these two can manage when losing their shared space.

Arthur licks his lips. “Right. I don’t know how to - well, it’s not an easy question, is it? Oh, hush. Martin - your Jon. Is he… human? I’m sorry. I don’t know another way to ask that.”

Martin hesitates. “I honestly don’t know. He was. I’m not sure he is, now.”

“If he’s not, John says there’s something we can do if… damn it, John, he just cleaned up.” Arthur sighs. “If you have any of his blood. I’m sorry. There’s simply no way to deliver these requests without sounding macabre.”

Martin swallows.

A moment passes.

“I’m sorry,” says Arthur. “We shouldn’t have asked.”

“No, there… does it have to be fresh?”

Arthur listens. “No.”

“Then there is something.” Martin doesn’t move. 

Arthur may not be able to see his face, but he’s not stupid. “I’m sorry, forget we asked. John, there has to be something else.”

“No. No, I can get it.” Martin feels almost robotic as he heads to the kitchen and opens the trap door to the root cellar.

It’s startlingly cold down there, deep wooden stairs descending into a space so narrow that Martin must turn sideways. The cellar opens up a little past the stairs, but not by much.

It’s lined with shelves, laden with mostly canned goods, ready in neat glass jars for winter.

The candle he brings is the only light, and he’s fine with that. Down here is always, always filled with webs.

No, that isn’t true. It’s not filled with webs. It’s just rife where their stuff from Earth is kept.

Martin stares at the very back of the cellar - two backpacks, seemingly innocent but for being wound in white and wisp.

He’d stopped clearing the webs off after the first month. When Jon asked if he could see them, he… lied. 

There really wasn’t any point to it. He just did. Didn’t want to worry anyone.

I’m as bad as he is, Martin thinks, staring. 

His heart races.

For Jon, he tells himself, and walks toward them.

The smell hits him first, and it is so strange.

These bags carry an electrical smell for reasons unknown, a scent that just doesn’t exist here - an atmosphere of power lines and ozone, the odor of busy power stations, the strangely charged air of the apocalypse.

Martin has no idea if the bags look weird on some level, too. He never asked. 

He should have asked how they looked to Jon, but there’s no point in castigating himself now. He kneels and opens the bag on the left.

The thing he needs isn’t in there. He just wants to feel these clothes. To press the factory-made cloth between his fingers, to remember them draped on Jon’s too-thin body, to marvel at the uniformity of industrial stitches.

And to put off reaching behind the right-hand bag.

The one on the right holds his own clothes, and it’s harder to look at those. To remember them on his skin, remember them hiding his skin, remember how he thought it was normal to dislike his body so much.

He didn’t feel strong, like now. Just… accepted his mother’s caustic comments, and Elias’ paternal parallel. 

What a contrast to remember the first time he and Jon made love, and the way Jon made him feel. Feel manly and sexy and desired. Feel worthy and seen and strong. So weird, to touch these clothes, and remember. 

For Jon. Who didn't even like sex that much, but would make love for him.

Martin lifts his backpack and puts it aside.

Behind it lies a knife. It is a serious knife; a Ministry of Defense “survival” knife with a sheepsfoot blade, Jon had told him, and a thick, black grip perfect for Martin’s hand. He liked the way it had felt when they were traveling through the wastes, liked how it seemed to fit him, as if it had been designed for his palm.

Funny, that he cannot now recall where he got the thing.

Daisy’s place, probably. But he doesn’t remember packing it.

He just remembers having it, being comforted (pointlessly) by its existence - and also remembers the horror when he found it gone and knew where it had to be.

He’d known Jon was going to do something crazy. He had known; or had he?

He tells himself he did.

He’d certainly thrown that accusation at Jon like he did.

He’d gone to Melanie and Georgie, trying to hurry things along, on the claim that he did. But to what end? What, exactly had that been going to achieve?

Down here, in the quiet dark of the cellar, in another world, planning a rescue mission from a god, alongside a blind man with a piece of said god inside him, Martin can admit the truth.

He’d been afraid Jon was going to use the knife on himself, and thought that by somehow harming Jonah first, he could prevent it.

Why didn’t I say anything? he thinks, staring at it, unwilling to pick it up. If I really thought he had suicidal ideation, why did I act like everything was fine? Why did I even let him out of my sight for a moment?

Martin has no answer for that. The closest he can come is because I wanted to be wrong.

And he was. Jon hadn’t used it on himself at all. 

Though, in a way, he had.

“Okay, Blackwood, you’re done,” he mutters, flexing his hand a few times. “Sat in your head for a while, had your little cry, and now it’s time to get to work.” He swallows hard and reaches.

He’d never cleaned it off.

Drawing it from Jon’s side when they arrived here - the slight suction of Jon’s flesh when he pulled it free - had been the worst thing he’d ever felt, in his entire life, hands-down.

He’d thrown it down then, focused, just… desperate to keep Jon alive.

Jon, who had not been breathing.

Jon, who had hung in his arms, limp - 

But he’d been bleeding, heavily, and that got Martin moving because that mean a heartbeat, meant Jon was still alive.

He hadn’t recalled the knife for two solid days, and even then, had only gone outside, looked at it, walked a few feet away to throw up, and left it there in the dirt.

Two weeks passed before he had the courage to retrieve it from the neglected garden.

The blood had long since dried. No insects or animals had messed with it at all - an unnerving thing, but Martin, at that point, lacked the wherewithal to wrestle with that weirdness, and he’d just taken it inside and - on a whim - thrown it into the unused root cellar to get it out of his sight.

It still bore Jon’s blood. A lot of blood. All over the blade, all over the handle, all over the guard.

It doesn’t feel like anything as he carries it upstairs. Gritty, a little. Like old, slightly tacky dirt.

“No, that won’t work,” Arthur is saying as Martin returns. “I mean, you could do that, but it would be quite hard to take on clients if they were busy being spooked that you had so many arms.” 

What an image. 

John Doe, thinks Martin, might actually be cute. Endearing, at least, in spite of his origin.

He decides not to comment on that. “I have it.”

Arthur turns his face toward Martin. 

It’s a good face, Martin thinks - clearly worn and tired, but there’s a stubbornness in it he finds oddly refreshing. 

Oh, Arthur hides that stubbornness with smiles and a lovely, pleasant voice, but Martin knows what he sees. That stubbornness is something he could never miss.

“So?” Martin says. “Is this usable?” And he holds out the knife.

Arthur listens. “Calm down.”

“You’ve got to tell me what he’s saying.”

Arthur sighs. “John says it’s reactive. He says it’s responding to us both.”

Martin looks at it. “It’s not moving. What does he mean, responding?”

A pause. “Resonating to the Lonely in both of us, and to the Eye in you. And to something he calls the Web, as well. We haven’t discussed that one, John. What is it?”

So Jon’s blood, even old and dried, still resonated to the Fears. Great. Just great.

[anjumstar]

All the Way Home ch4

Read on AO3

rating: teen

pairing: bakudeku

word count: 26.8k/81.1k

summary: Four years ago, All For One and Shigaraki were defeated, taking One For All with them. At twenty years old, Katsuki and a quirkless Izuku are heroes, boyfriends, and partners. Until one day, they’re hit by a quirk that suddenly makes them fathers too. Now, with a newborn baby, they have to figure out who did this to them, and why it means the downfall of superhuman society.

This work is a part of the @bakudekubigbang​ 2022. Updates will be weekly.

first chapter - previous chapter - next chapter

master list

Chapter Four - When I Get All Steamed Up, Hear Me Shout!

Three Years Ago

It almost could have been any other day at school. Izuku was in the same jacket and tie, although his mother had insisted on a shiny pair of black shoes that would be wholly useless if a villain chose today of all days to attack U.A. They were slick on the bottom and completely unformed to Izuku’s feet. So no, not exactly like any other day. 

“Congrats, nerd,” Katsuki said, sidling up to Izuku with his hands in his pant pockets, slouching them even further than they already were.

“Thanks, Kacchan!” Izuku bubbled. “You too!”

Katsuki grinned with one cheek. “I meant the tie, dumbass. Why would I congratulate you on the diploma—we all got the same one.”

There had only been one period in time when Izuku had truly thought he’d graduate from U.A., a brief flash in time from first year. The time of his entry up until he’d left school in the winter. And never again thereafter.

No one quirkless had ever attended U.A.’s hero course. But here he was: the first.

“Oh,” Izuku chuckled, looking down at his uniform. In addition to the new shoes, his tie was affixed properly, hanging down by his waist instead of thick and stubby up against his chest. “Yeah…figured the occasion called for it.” He gestured to Katsuki, who was wearing the same red tie, albeit with an inscrutable knot. “Seems you thought the same.”

“Yeah, well,” Katsuki griped with a roll of his eyes, “the hag woulda pulled me off the stage if I picked up the damn paper without one, so whatever. Now you finally get to see me with the noose.”

Izuku had heard that Katsuki had once worn a tie to appeal to Principal Nedzu and Endeavor two years back, but no one had thought to provide photographic evidence. Granted, it was eighteen witnesses against one Bakugou Katsuki, but still, it wasn’t the same as seeing it. Whatever normalcy the day was disguised with, it was shattered by the sight of Katsuki in a proper tie.

“You’re lucky we’re going into a field where you almost never have to wear one.” Izuku grinned.

“Make it actually never, and then we can call it lucky,” Katsuki said. He looked to the side, in the direction of Shouto taking a nice picture with his mom, and Endeavor awkwardly off to the side. “And switch it so that old fogey is working for me. I’m no fucker’s underling.”

“One year, Kacchan,” Izuku reminded. “And then more independence. Endeavor won’t want to micromanage us anyway. He trusts us by now. It’s a perfect fit.”

“Tch.”

“Izuku!”

Izuku turned to where his mom was standing with the Bakugous, waving over at him. 

“I think it’s time to go,” Izuku murmured.

Katsuki said nothing but walked alongside Izuku as they made their way over to their parents on the green between a number of the school buildings and facilities. In the distance was a tent and temporary stage set up that was already being taken down with just a few stragglers remaining for pictures. 

“Izuku…” Inko murmured as they drew near, her eyes watering again. She’d alternated between bawling and sniffling into her sleeve all day—Izuku could hardly look at her lest he start tearing up himself. 

“Let’s go, Mom.” Izuku wrapped an arm around her shoulder and began to lead her away. In his last couple years of school, he’d put a couple additional inches on her, so her head rested comfortably against his shoulder. “Goodbye, Auntie, Uncle.”

“Goodbye, Izuku-kun!”

Izuku heard no goodbye from Katsuki as he walked away, but that was alright. They’d be seeing each other soon, as there wouldn’t be much of a break before work began. Besides, they’d spent the entire day together. The graduating class was seated in homeroom order, so he and Katsuki had remained in their numbers seventeen and eighteen spots next to each other. They’d graduated one right after the other, like something they might have dreamed of together many years ago.

So why did he feel so melancholy?

“I’m just so proud of you, Izuku,” his mom said for the dozenth time since they’d had breakfast together that morning. “You’ve made history. Again.”

“Th-thanks, Mom.”

“Oh, Izuku,” Inko cooed, reaching a thumb up to the corner of his eye where a tear had beaded. He hadn’t realized he’d been sniffling, blinking back tears. “It’s been an overwhelming day for all of us.”

But it wasn’t overwhelming. In fact, Izuku felt a sinking feeling of underwhelm, expanding heavily the pit of his stomach.

“I just…” Izuku turned back and saw the Bakugous walking the opposite way across the field. The last time he’d see Kacchan and himself in matching uniforms without bringing out a photo album. “It’s nothing.”

They continued walking and Inko’s arm came to rest comfortingly on his shoulder. This was right. He and his mom would go home, watch a movie, probably not make snacks until halfway through since they’d been none too shy with the lunch bentos offered. Then they’d make dinner together, and Izuku would try to enjoy the early night but probably pass hours on his phone participating in the class group chat, wondering how long it would stay alive now that they had graduated. No longer did they need to ask if the heat was wonky in everyone else’s room or if the pastries Rikido had left in the kitchen were up for grabs or if Kyouka could turn the music down or, alternatively, way up for everyone to hear. 

He wondered if Katsuki would be the first to drop off. He was already the quietest in the group, surprising everyone when he would deign to respond. But he was witty and quick in a way that let Izuku know that he was reading the messages, even if his comments were few and far between.

He looked back again. One last, last glance at that Katsuki. His classmate, housemate, his…

“Did you forget something, Izuku?”

“I…”

Izuku swallowed, mind racing. It should have been nostalgia he was feeling, rose-tinted glasses over the horrors and learned camaraderie of the last three years. But nostalgia was something slow, disorienting with its tricks. What was within Izuku at this moment was fast, heart pounding, threatening to break out.

“Yes,” he replied. “I did. You go to the car and I’ll be right there.”

“Okay, dear,” Inko said, her voice not devoid of concern, but then it hadn’t been for years. Before it could grow, Izuku ran.

Izuku didn’t feel fast—hadn’t in two years. Even with Hatsume’s prototypes, inspired by Tenya’s quirk or recreations of her old Power Suit and Electric Booster, nothing was fast after having known One For All simmering under his skin. Still, Izuku ran, kicking up blades of grass, his long tie flung over his shoulder.

“Kacchan!” Izuku shouted as he drew near. Katsuki and his parents turned back, but Katsuki waved his parents on. As they continued walking, Katsuki stood still.

“What?” Katsuki asked. “We parked in the other lot.”

“It’s not enough!” Izuku wheezed as he came to a stop in front of Katsuki, heaving, sweating through his dress shirt.

Katsuki squinted. “What’re you talking about?”

“Waiting until work starts up to see each other,” Izuku panted. “Not seeing each other every day. It’s not enough.”

“Deku,” Katsuki said, a strange softness on his face between the confused narrowing of his eyes and the ever derisive smirk slicing across his face. “We live five minutes away. You’ll come over for dinner. I’ll come over for dinner. You’ll get sick of having me around even before the hag does.”

“No, that’s not what I mean,” Izuku said desperately. “I wanna see you every day. I can’t let that go, Kacchan. I know it’s selfish and that I might hold you back, but I’m going to push every moment to earn my place by your side. I wanna train together and learn together and fight together and be together.”

The speech took more out of Izuku than the sprint had. His hands were sweaty and his face was warm—he was probably flushed from his bangs to his throat. His pulse was pounding beneath his jawbone. He was trembling.

Katsuki only blinked at him, frowning.

“Be…with me.” Katsuki deadpanned.

“Yes!”

Katsuki took a step backward and Izuku followed, as if tied together by a string. “Don’t say shit you don’t mean.”

“Wh-what?” Izuku sputtered, thrown. “That’s the last thing I would do!”  

“Then think a little more carefully about the words you're fucking saying!”

Izuku tilted his head. “Kacchan…”

“You don’t want to be with me,” Katsuki said, his voice strained, pressed between heavy weights. “So don’t fucking say that shit.”

Katsuki turned away, back in the direction of his parents, opposite Izuku’s path. Izuku reached out reflexively, his fingertips brushing Katsuki’s, and then he reached further. “Kacchan! I don’t lie!”

Their hands met and he yanked.

“I’d never lie to you.”

Katsuki turned back to Izuku harshly, pulling on his hand the same way Izuku had just done to his. Except Katsuki’s shoes must not have been quite as shiny and new as Izuku’s were, because Izuku’s went slick on the bare-patched grass, one leg kicking out in front of him. His reflexes activated, all trying to save him from ending his last day at U.A. the way he’d started his first, tripping his way to the entrance exam. But he was caught against the small of his back by a familiarly strong arm, and then the sun disappeared from overhead, his face cloaked in shadow, and then a set of lips slotted against his.

It wasn’t quite soft. It was plush lips pressed against hard teeth, an insistent tongue meeting his own and pulling him away, making Izuku crane his neck up, chasing it to meet again. It was rough where cheeks and chins weren’t quite clean shaven, prickling and making his skin tender and that much more sensitive. It was Katsuki giving Izuku’s bottom lip a quite intentional bite before pulling away and, of all things, scowling.

“That’s what ‘being’ with someone is,” Katsuki rasped, his voice and face so much rawer than Izuku presumed he was supposed to see. “Is that what you want?”

Izuku smiled, all those missing feelings of overwhelm leaking out his eyes and falling back towards his sideburns as he continued to look up at Katsuki. “It’s not enough.”

Katsuki’s eyes narrowed again, nearly black with the sun blocked behind his head. It backlit his hair into something angelic, yet Izuku only wanted to run his hand through it, ruining that perfect halo.

“Alright, nerd,” Katsuki began, his voice drawling with suspicion. “What would be?”

Izuku leaned up.

“Kiss me again.”

*

The front door slammed just as a low growl released from Katsuki’s throat. “What the fuck was that about?”

“What was what about?�� Izuku asked, dropping the diaper bag and rolling his shoulder, still nestling little Sugu in his other arm. 

They’d just endured an awkwardly tense car ride, Katsuki silent next to the driver while Izuku and Sugu had taken the back. Izuku had been fine with the silence, interrupted only by a couple text messages. A simple What’s going on? from Shouto and a photo attachment from Ochako, a picture of Katsuki and the baby carrier out on the sidewalk followed by maybe twenty question marks. Even under the hat and the mask, the spikes of hair poking out were unmistakably his. “Fucking vultures,” Katsuki griped when he saw it. He’d need a hoodie too to really get away with anything.

Izuku had put the phone away, but not before silencing it, having enough on his mind already. Katsuki had seemed to as well, though not at all peacefully. His arms had been crossed, fingers digging into the meat of his triceps. Now, as he kicked his shoes off, there were still little pink patches on his upper arms from the pressure.

“You’re just going to quit being a hero?” Katsuki exclaimed, marching to the kitchen and setting the kettle to warm. “Indefinitely?”

“I don’t see what choice we have!” Izuku met him if not in volume than in intensity. “If we’re right, and all this was intentional, then that means Sugu is in danger. Someone might want to kidnap him, so no, I’m not giving up being a hero, I just have a particular ward.”

Izuku thought of that suited man who’d briefly reached for Sugu before Izuku had seen him. The hesitation the man had shown before fleeing the scene. Had he been a good samaritan? Or a villain?

“That’s something we’re supposed to talk about before you just go and make a pigheaded decision alone, asshole!” A loud buzz sounded from Katsuki’s pocket and he pulled his phone out by reflex before rolling his eyes and angrily shoving it back. “Fucking Shitty Hair.”

The baby in Izuku’s arms started fussing, his face beginning to twist and contort the way Izuku would feel his own do when he cried. Izuku shifted Sugu into both arms and began to bounce him as he walked out of the kitchen and searched for a cloth to swaddle him with.

“This is One For All, Kacchan,” Izuku hissed as Katsuki followed him, finding the small, soft cloth and going to the couch. He sat, folding one leg into the back of the sofa, the other kicking out towards the coffee table. “This happened because they think there’s a ghost of a chance that One For All is inside of him.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Well, what else is it supposed to be?”

It brought fury raging into Izuku’s chest. There was lava in his veins, shifting between liquid and solid, heavy and cutting and batting against his heart and lungs. As the feeling rose hot and wet to his eyes, Izuku realized it was frustration he was feeling. Frustration and grief all over again. Of course One For All was gone. He knew what it felt like to use the quirks, each one. By the time they’d been lost, he could call them as easily as Katsuki could his lifelong quirk, with as much skill as any of his other classmates. If it were hidden somewhere inside of him, he would know. It was a cruel taunt to think otherwise.

“Whatever,” Katsuki bit. “It’s not your fault, moron, it’s the fault of some villains. You’re not sacrificing your career for this.”

“What, and sacrifice yours?” Izuku retorted as he grabbed Sugu’s right arm and folded it over his chest, taking the corner of the blanket with him. He folded it tight and moved onto the left.

“That’s what we would talk about, idiot!” Sugu let out another little cry just as the electric kettle went off in the other room. Katsuki stomped off to tend to it.

Izuku tucked in the bottom of the swaddle, but it remained shapeless. As Sugu kicked, the thing only grew looser until he was all but free and Katsuki was back in the living room, vigorously shaking the baby bottle, now creamy with formula and warmed water.

“There’s nothing to talk about, Kacchan,” Izuku insisted, trying to tug the swaddle tighter and watching it fall yet again. “Fuck, why won’t this stay?”

“It’s right, bottom, left,” Katsuki said, handing Izuku the bottle and reaching over him on the couch. He sat in the same position—one leg curled against the couch cushion and one splayed out, just behind Izuku. “And if you think there’s nothing to talk about, I’m never speaking to you ever again.”

As Izuku watched Katsuki wrap the swaddle tight on the first try, he was sufficiently cowed, body suddenly slouched and defeated. His spine bent so much like Sugu’s when he was cradled in Izuku’s arm, a gentle curve down a head that couldn’t quite hold itself up. It brushed Katsuki’s stomach, and Izuku leaned back into it automatically. When Katsuki was finished with the swaddle, he stayed on the couch, legs crossed behind Izuku’s sacrum as Izuku picked up Sugu and held the bottle to his slack lips. The baby was still fussing a little, but reflexively turned to the bottle.

“There’s nothing to talk about,” he said quietly, carefully, “because you’re the number twelve hero and I’m fifty-nine. Because your stats are consistently better than mine ever are. Because one of us is quirkless, and the other isn’t.”

Izuku rocked with every slight shift in Katsuki’s weight behind him, and tilted his head into Katsuki’s breath when it ticked his ear, hot and humid. The click of Katsuki’s tongue unsticking from the roof of his mouth sounded in Izuku’s ear as he opened up to speak.

“You’re. An. Idiot.”

“No!” Izuku exclaimed, whipping around to face Katsuki nose to nose as he kept Sugu stable in his lap. “You are! Obviously you’re the one who should stay at work and I should stay home. You have the higher ranking. You don’t break machinery every time there’s an actual villain fight just to keep up with other heroes. It’s obvious, Kacchan—if I went to work while you stayed home, everyone would think we were crazy.”

“I don’t care what any extras think, dumbass—besides, I wasn’t gonna suggest that rot.” Izuku looked on at Katsuki, gaze heavy as he waited for him to continue. “We should just swap. We have weekly days off anyway, so we just make sure those don’t line up and boom, only have to take a day or two off each week. Could even bring the tyke in if we’re just doing desk duty. That’s manageable.”

“Not if one of us is on a case,” Izuku argued, thinking too of all the looks he and Sugu had gotten when he’d had only the smallest of fits in the office. “We’d need to be available all the time. Kacchan, I’m serious. I’ve already decided. We can’t trust sitters for this, so it has to be one of us and the other fills in the cracks. Besides, I have my laptop and I can just do bits of deskwork here and just be here for him. You won’t talk me out of it.”

Sugu was through with the bottle, the last dribbles of unfinished milk beginning to drip down the side of his tiny, pointed chin. Izuku righted it and set it on the coffee table to be cleaned later and watched as Sugu almost immediately began to doze off again. A good baby.

“Asshole,” Katsuki muttered. “Self-sacrificing asshole.”

Izuku turned again and was met with Katsuki’s bangs brushing across his forehead, hiding those red eyes, so much like the ones he’d just seen contentedly in his lap, from his view. He didn’t dare force Katsuki’s head up, certainly not after he heard the smallest sniffle coming from him, but he did lean their heads together.

“I’m not,” he said quietly. “We’ll both be on this case, so it’ll be solved in no time. Then we can have sitters and our parents watching Sugu and I can go back to work. It won’t be long, I promise.”

“…I don’t like you.”

Izuku smiled, hearing the pout in Katsuki’s voice, how it brought the vowels right to the front of his face and made them less gravely than usual. “But I love you.”

“Too bad.”

Izuku bumped his head against Katsuki’s, gently nudging it up. “We love you.”

“Psh,” Katsuki said, finally bringing his eyes up with an eye roll. “The brat can decide for himself. Hardly needs your shitty decisions becoming his.”

“I think I make good decisions,” Izuku gloated. “Look who my boyfriend is.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Katsuki drawled. “Like I said. Shitty decisions.”

*

The sound of a baby rousing was more like that of a tiny bird squawking or a little piglet snuffling against its mother than anything remotely human. It woke Katsuki immediately, as it had three other times so far in the night. Izuku had insisted on taking all three feedings, claiming practice, claiming he was awake anyway, claiming that Katsuki needed sleep for work tomorrow. Well, the evening had come and gone, and now that it was the wee hours of that very morrow, Izuku once again pressed himself up on one arm, only for Katsuki to slam a pillow over his head, smacking him back down.

“My turn, dumbass.”

“Kacchan,” Izuku whined from beneath the pillow. “You need to sleep.”

It was four a.m.—only an hour before Katsuki’s alarm was set to go off anyway. He frequently woke up earlier even without a crying baby. Katsuki pressed the pillow harder into Izuku’s face and leaned over to his ear.

“Careful, Deku,” he taunted. “Keep this up and I’m gonna have to start thinking that you’re hogging the baby, turning him into a little mini nerd.”

“No, Kacchan—!”

“Go back to sleep or I’ll put you to sleep.”

Katsuki pressed down the pillow once more for good measure before rolling out of bed and shuffling over to the bassinet. Izuku might have decided he was the one to stay home, but he’d said Katsuki could fill in the cracks. If they were going to do this alone until the case was solved, then by golly Katsuki was going to do his share, even if he’d never verbally agreed. But the crying had grown louder and he winced with the effort of restraining from telling the baby to shut the fuck up.

He went ahead and unfurled the swaddle Izuku had tucked little Sugu in, already a massive improvement from the night before. The baby’s limbs came to life instantly swimming through the air like the womb they’d never been in.

“C’mon, pipsqueak,” Katsuki said as he hoisted the little guy up and carried him to the changing table in the living room. He clicked on a lamp, not wanting too much light to bleed under the bedroom door.

Katsuki only had a few diaper changes under his belt so far, but if he knew one thing, it was that baby shit was something else. Perhaps it was mild compared to things that had happened to his own body as a hero, but he still held his breath and squinted as he grimaced through it. His mother, who had been texting tips for the last twenty-four hours, had actually managed to send a useful one, which was to immediately upon removing the soiled diaper, cover the boy with the clean one. So as to avoid a fountain of piss pointed straight to the face.

“There ya go.” Katsuki smiled, picking Sugu back up and taking stock of his handiwork. Tight around the hips and no leaks. He shook his head at the strangeness of this. It was so surprisingly easy, yet still so foreign—the diaper changing at least. The rest was only foreign, and Katsuki couldn’t help but be reminded that it was a stranger’s ass that he was wiping. A very cute stranger with stolen facial features.

The formula was the other bit he could do by rote. Easiest recipe his kitchen had ever seen. He got started on it one-handedly, noticing the drying bottles still pilled with water from the night’s earlier feedings. Katsuki kept the light off as he felt for the formula box, the room only lit by the glow of the appliances.

When the bottle was ready, he pointed it at Sugu’s mouth, watching as he took a moment to find it. When he did, he began suckling, and Katsuki held him with a little sway in his hips, side to side. “Good man,” Katsuki praised as the milk disappeared.

According to the articles, this would be a year of his life—just this. Maybe some solids halfway through that time, but still the milk, the diaper changes, and the late-night rendezvous with someone who could barely communicate. Who he could barely get to know. Because what was there to know?

But Sugu could get to know him. Where he held Sugu right now, right in the crook of his arm, was the perfect distance where Sugu could make out his face. At any other distance, he and the rest of the world would be a blur, and only in grayscale. In a few weeks, he’d be able to make out the red of Katsuki’s eyes. 

“Just a little lump,” Katsuki murmured as Sugu finished up the bottle. He set the bottle in the sink for later and moved Sugu up to his shoulder, waiting to see if he would need his usual burp, never stopping the sway of his hips.

A little lump that he was supposed to mold and knead into an actual person. A person who would keep growing and changing for the rest of Katsuki’s life. Assuming…

Sugu’s tiny, short breaths rose and fell against Katsuki’s hand, so alive, so real. But there was still every likelihood that one day…poof. It was clear in Katuki’s mind’s eye. His arms suddenly empty, house filled with baby stuff suddenly in need of donation, the quicker the better, because why hold onto it? Izuku back at work and life just as before.

Katsuki shook his head, squeezing his eyes so tightly there was a backwards pressure on his eyeballs. His grip around Sugu’s middle became all the firmer, taking stock of his warmth, of his fluttering heartbeat against Katsuki’s shoulder.

Forever was unimaginable, but temporary was unthinkable.

There was a wet wrist dripping drool against his back, and Katsuki realized that Sugu had sucked his thumb into his mouth and fallen asleep again. He needed to be laid on his back in the bassinet, but Katsuki was as good as up for the day. And for the first time since last winter, when Izuku had caught the flu and taken a couple days off work—by force—Katsuki would be headed to work alone. Until then, Katsuki was prescribing Izuku with sleep uninterrupted by baby cries.

Katsuki tiptoed back into the bedroom, light on his feet in socks, and placed Sugu in the bassinet before grabbing it by either end and carrying it through the house. Past the changing table and the couch and the television all the way to the kitchen before setting it carefully on the ground. Then he opened the microwave for a shred of honey-yellow light on the countertop. Now, he could work.

Thanks to his mother’s bentos—a few of which had already been eaten—none of Katsuki’s old groceries had been touched. Vegetables were beginning to wilt, fogging up their plastic bags with condensation. His market-fresh eggs were going down in quality with every passing day, and there was some fish he’d really intended to cook a day or two ago.

He got the cutting board and his chef’s knife out and fell back into his easy rhythm like sinking into a summer-warm pool. His fingers were precise as they scooted left across the cutting board, leaving little ringlets of spring onions behind. It was more than he could ever use in one day; the rest would go in a little baggie in whatever small corner of the freezer could be spared. 

“Even slices are important, kiddo, so that they cook at the same rate,” Katsuki explained. “It’s all about control of the knife. Keep your index finger tucked in—you don’t need it to guide.”

There was a light coo in Sugu’s sleep from the bassinet and Katsuki continued on.

“Eggs.” He grabbed four from the carton, three in his left hand and one in his right. He gave the one a firm tap against the dark marble countertop that had sold him on this apartment, and dropped the egg cleanly in the bowl. “No need to crack against the corner of the bowl. The crack will be cleaner against a solid, flat surface.”

Talking was easy like this. Into the early morning air that smelled mostly of dish soap from all the handwashing they’d been doing, for a somwhat captive audience. It reminded him of the easiest moments talking to Izuku, when he was dead asleep either in the late evening or early morning. Those were the times where it was easiest for Katsuki to whisper “Come home safe, Deku,” and “Don’t do anything stupid.” Not like the idiot ever listened anyway, but maybe in those still moments it would creep through, and he’d listen with some part of himself that never did when he was awake.

Of course, it seemed Katsuki wouldn’t have to be reminding Izuku of any of those things for a while now. He’d be safe and sound at home for now. Indefinitely.

Katsuki finished up all the eggs, four perfectly floating yolks ogling up at him as he reached for the chopsticks and a salt shaker.

“Salting the eggs early can make ‘em look funny, but that’s just the proteins being affected,” Katsuki explained as he shook some salt in with one hand and began whisking with the chopsticks in the other. “Makes ‘em retain moisture better in the long run.”

Katsuki mixed the eggs until they were mostly homogenous. Only a few wisps of clear white between the yolk, just beginning to froth up. Then he opened a cabinet.

“Adding a little cornstarch slurry to the scrambled eggs makes it easier not to overcook them,” Katsuki said, dropping the fine starch, almost like baby powder, into a small ramekin and taking it to the sink. “Not that you’ll need the help, ‘cause you’ll be a pro.” The words, slipping out as easily as the rest of his instructions had, gave him pause. He glanced over at the crib, brows suddenly furrowing. “Or whatever. You don’t have to be…”

The best. Katsuki let the words dangle off the tip of his tongue, usually so sharp, and now dulled like a knife that’d gone too long without proper upkeep. He wanted his kid to be the best. To reach as far as Katsuki had and then one step further. Good grades, athleticism, ambition. But wasn’t it talk like that that had left him so fucked up? It was definitely what had fucked Shouto up, straight from his father’s hand.

“Just…be a good person, Sugu,” Katsuki settled on. Then he finished fighting out the cornstarch clumps and drizzled the slurry in with his eggs.

He satisfied himself with prepping all the ingredients, only turning on the rice cooker as he kept the stovetop and fish grill off for the moment. The still dark morning granted him time to pull together a dashi from scratch instead of settling for the ready-to-use packet that smelled of scrambling mornings and rushed arrivals to work; of commute clothes sticky against Katsuki’s back, bangs flatted to his forehead, the stale taste of manufacturing still on his tongue. While the niboshi sat in their bowl of water, he finely sliced some radishes that had been languishing in the fridge for a quick pickle. Every time the slap of the knife against the cutting board cracked a little too loudly, Katsuki dropped a glance at Sugu, but he rested through them all, little rounded tummy rising and falling.

The warm, Japanese spring joined Katsuki in the kitchen as he began multitasking, flipping on the induction stovetop and the grill to preheat. A sharp knife kissed the palm of his hand as it dropped through a cube of tofu to be added to the heating dashi-based broth on the stove for the miso soup. By the time a hand came up to cover a sloppy yawn, the meal was done. Without thinking about it, Katsuki had prepared a meal for two, all the ingredients heated or cooled to where they should be served.

With a sigh, Katsuki spooned out single portions and brought them to the coffee table, still dimly lit by the single lamp. Before folding his knees under it, he brought the bassinet over, peeking at Sugu as he did so. Still restful, despite the fact that Katsuki had neglected the swaddle. He’d remember to do it tomorrow. As Katsuki took his first bite of scrambled eggs, he looked back to Sugu and shook his head.

“Bet you’re fucking jealous,” he grunted out half his mouth. “No teeth, stuck with milk from a shitty powder.” He popped a radish disk in his mouth, the puckering flavor bursting as his molars tore through it. “One day, I’m gonna cook for ya, kid. Then you’ll really start living.”

Katsuki glanced at the bedroom door a couple times as he ate through his meal. Sometimes, the fragrance of cooking fish or even the gentle grassy aroma from the rice cooker was enough to wake Izuku up in the mornings and drag him to Katsuki’s side. Morning stubble would graze against morning stubble with a kiss on the cheek, the sensation sometimes overwhelming enough with its slight scrape of pain and surprising tickle that a shiver would run from Katsuki’s neck to his shoulders. This morning, however, Izuku must have been tired enough from the late-night feedings that even a home-cooked meal wouldn’t rouse him.

So when Katsuki finished with his food and dishes, he took care covering the leftovers. Some of them wouldn’t keep wonderfully, namely the eggs, but the radishes would only grow more flavorful and everything else just needed a gentle reheat. Then it was time for a lonely commute and a shift with some extras who’d probably have questions if the texts that had been burning through his phone since the prior evening were any kind of portent.

He went back to Sugu, bending his arms to rest them on the edge of the bassinet. “Have a good day, buddy,” he breathed. Then he reached down, and pressed a feather-light kiss against Sugu’s thin eyebrow. “Pass that along to Deku, wouldja?” He cocked his head at the baby, letting out a quiet hum. Not quite enough. For good measure, he kissed Sugu again and smiled. That one was just for him.

And then, after tiptoeing the bassinet back into the bedroom and one last look at both of his boys, out like twin lamplights, Katsuki pulled out his phone. The bassinet was posed close enough to the bed that both boys’ resting faces fit in the zoomed-in screen of the camera display. Katsuki centered them in frame and, with one blinding flash in the cold blue light of early morning, took the photo. Then, when he left, it was with a keepsake in his pocket.

*

Izuku’s eyelids twitched once, then twice before fluttering open. He thought he’d seen a lighting bolt, or perhaps the light from one of Katsuki’s explosions, deafened from the cotton-eared moments of early consciousness. As the gum from his eyes blinked away, he caught sight of a little baby right across from him, his new reality coming back to him all at once.

“When d’ya get so close?” Izuku murmured, smiling against his hand atop his pillow. The bassinet was right up against the edge of the bed, certainly not where it had been upon the last feeding Izuku had done.

It was a pleasant sight to wake up to. Even more, a pleasant sound to fall back asleep to, each long, relaxed breath of Izuku’s counting for two or three of Sugu’s huffed little baby breaths. One, two, three, one two three, like a slow waltz. And to that graceful dance, Izuku fell asleep once more.

[threeunrelateddescriptors]

tw: suicidal ideation

So my suicidal ideation is a background program running at all times. I'm used to and unbothered by it.

It stays in its lane, I stay in mine.

Recently, it has dialed up to 11. Now there is ~*desire*~ associated with it. Usually it's just fluttering thoughts. No emotion attached, no ambition or drive. Just idle constant chatter.

The emotion is deep and amorphous and omnipresent. If I didn't have suicidal thoughts at all, I might not recognize the emotion at all. It's simply so ....unformed? But due to it being securely anchored to the suicidal thoughts, I was able to identify "Oh, this is the *feeling* of being suicidal"

This is a recent (and likely passing) development. It's done this before, I'm sure it'll do it again.

But I love my brain. It is the best fucking idiot thing.

In response to this new intense ~*desire*~ associated with the suicidal ideation, in bold font complete with Winnie The Pooh accent and everything, my brain said:

Oh Bother

That's it. That's my brain's response to an intense feeling of wanting to be dead. Oh Bother.

I really truly cannot express how much I love my brain. It is both the cause of and solution to most of my problems.

So here's my advice to anyone feeling suicidal: look deep inside yourself, see the suicidal thoughts, see the suicidal feelings, take a nice long look around the space, then reach deep into your abyssal brain-guts and dredge up the unshakeable implacable "Oh Bother" and move along for another day. Repeat as necessary.

[child-of-atlas]

Aspen Trees and Raindrops

My fear is my fiction; my fiction is my fear.

My fictions have consumed me, in every waking moment between every demand of daily life. I have given my heart, soul, and mind to the phantom shadow of a man that I haven’t yet verified truly exists.

These fictions play in a shadowy theatre of the mind when I’m lost for inspiration, or when I find myself stranded in the quagmire of my somnolent once-romance, or when I allow myself to wax hopeful for a different future waiting for me at a different time, in a different place, with a different man. These dramas are shadow plays of a deep-seated wish that there may be a future of mine where my image of this man of my imagination exists, and for now, the phantom shadow takes his shape, and his alone.

Perhaps the seamless shift from real to fiction is how much of my image of him is grounded in how I know him to be: captivating, brilliant, lovely, genuine, achingly handsome, addictive wit, and the occasional flash of something darker beneath the surface that only makes me want to dive deeper. (The guilt that eats at me to write this while attached to another is still not enough to keep me from acknowledging the basic truth, yet even with my issues, I would be crushed if my nonfiction partner so much as hints at the attractiveness of another woman. I, hypocrite.)

In spite of myself (my age, my shreds of dignity, my general composure), I find I am no different with him than the introductory co-ed girls in their sighs and smiles for Dr. Jones; in the moments we speak, I cling to his accolades, leap for his texts, and revel in his voice whenever the opportunity arises. On instinct rather than thought, I lose a heartbeat or two when a tall and muscled man with salt-and-pepper hair walks by before reason reminds me that this is not even possible.

As it turns out, all of these fictions in which I’ve painted us are predicated on my own simple crush, spiraled out of control, such is my nature; and somehow, the additional thousand miles between us and more frequent lulls have somehow made it more difficult to navigate.

In the face of my (admitted, self-aware, and non-actionable) lunacy, I wither to think that what I perceive is mutual is, in fact, another fiction. And I’m haunted by the idiocy of my own youth underpinning my ability to wrap myself up in a tidy, simple bow and give myself over now—his memories of myself as a younger, unformed, disastrous hyena, circling his classroom and most reasonable boundaries; God help me, I can hardly write anything at all if I think too much about it.

However. I have at least some concrete evidence, or so I believe (though I’m sure Beethoven felt the same für Elise, painfully enough). “I forgot how pretty you are,” said only once, lives rent-free in my mind, with his smile and unmatchable voice. At least once, I’ve seen his eyes wander low to just the right angle on a well-cut dress, and I can’t help but wonder if there were other instances that I wasn’t lucky enough to catch. And, some months later, he didn’t flinch when I nearly put my hands on his across the table the last we spoke (though thankfully, for both our sakes, I caught myself well in time to avoid any sort of impropriety).

Is this coquet bouquet enough to flower these detailed fictions, or inspire them to run behind my eyes whenever a moment permits? Not necessarily; in fact, probably not at all. (Or perhaps I truly am more masculine than I give myself credit for; perhaps this is how the other half of the population operates.) Yet, couldn’t there be chemistry? I would be hard-pressed to believe there wasn’t a spark of something between us. Foolishly, I wonder if there are more obvious notes I can’t recall or missed altogether, and mourn their lost place in my mind if ever they existed at all. (Unless, of course, I am more a Ludwig than a proper observer, in which case, I may just recuse myself from society altogether if nothing else for the shame of being wrong.) I could foster the idea that his allusion to a shared trip to London while I’m “in between boyfriends” was just fun wordplay for him—maybe he did want me to squirm, just a little, just in his subtle undercurrent of the dark side—and yet I visit that set in the theatre of my mind too often, in wee hours where I should be finding sleep instead of more restless fantasy. And while my mind should veer toward all the beautiful history he could lead me to so that I may soak in the beauty and excitement of another land during my first trip across the pond—the sights to see, the music to find, every savory bite of our meals—I imagine instead a shared room, a shared bed, interlaced, frenzied and refined, instinctive and fated, gorgeous and raw; I wrap myself around this idea a million times over and decorate it with his voice, his cologne, the color of his eyes, and down to the bottom of the dream pool I would sink just to experience this once.

Yet below this fiction lies another: a serpent sliding through my carefully manicured visions, hissing their untruth beneath the surface tension of my reflective pool from which I watch these fictions unfold.

In each reverie, I inhabit the body I’ve been subtly tasked with finding from my nonfictional partner: I am strong and lean, flexible and pliable, uniformly pale and without a blemish. I can handle any position, can ride without needing to catch a single breath; I am beautiful from all angles, soundless while asleep, eat perfectly, tipsy but never drunk, dainty and witty, coordinated and clever. In my dreams, I am my own enemy: perfect.

Perhaps my wishful placement of him atop me is less problematic than my glamorized, unattainable mirage of myself I place below him; a bar I still strive to reach for a story that may never unfold.

And more chilling for me yet is my staunch, nonfictional reflection shows more than just a physical issue with my prospective pursuit: in my estimation, I am too full of holes, too unformed, and missing too many pieces to sit at his table. Seven years ago, I had the luxury of youth, arrogance, and stupidity to scapegoat; now, approaching thirty, I have so very little to point to but my own shortcomings for why I am not yet fully autonomous, not nearly so successful, so inexperienced in the finer nuances of intimacy (not for a lack of willingness, I fell the impulsive need to add), so poorly-read and worse-traveled; so painfully unworldly, save those many intangible worlds engraved in staff lines. In a body unmarked by time, perhaps these transgressions aren’t so dire; but the creases around my eyes, the stretch marks that only he would be able to see if all panned out well, the cruelty of my craft on my hands: these marks are not just my faults, but give indelible, irrefutable evidence for every fault I have beneath my skin.

Somewhere in my Grecian blood flows a drop of Daedalus’; like his son, I fly too high and too close to sun after sun out of nothing but arrogance. Who am I to approach this man as I am now? Even more importantly, who am I to approach him as he is now, happy and successful and reaping the rewards of a long-fought and harder-earned career? Have I not learned a more painful lesson in the past with dual-edged blade of a May/December partnership? I tell myself that a lack of commitment, a more liberal and whimsical approach to this union, the emphasis on the physical joys and aiding his conquest of each inch my terrain more than the promises of tomorrows and exclusivity, may chip away at my unchangeable decades of experiential debt, but I have no proof. And I should not have confidence in seeking a man whose time spent where we met covers most of my lifetime. When he stepped into this institution, I was two; when we met, I was twenty; and when I assumed the same title as his first, I had only lived a quarter of a century. Realistically, I was not half his age, but half of a whole human being in comparison.

And yet.

Yet still I visit my hand-painted drapes and backdrops through my day, in various stages of unwind and undress, pining for a ghost of a future that will likely never be, where my body is the visage of a Grecian statue wrapped around the idea I keep of him. I have accepted this as fiction, and fear only how ardently I dreamwalk in the waking shadows of an otherwise plain day.

The fact remains that optimism is just another shade of lunacy. Under this light, life is beautiful and long and full of turns that no one could anticipate. So if I afford myself any hare-brained notion that this could transpire, perhaps, one day, we find each other in the right light and in the right wavelength. Perhaps he holds his own fiction in which I appear, radiant and free, unencumbered with whatever ails his nonfiction partner; and maybe, my fictions and my fears melt away in the face of the right embrace.

Perhaps, one day, I find myself on a plane to the land of aspen trees, and step out to a prelude of raindrops.

[thepoetsvortex]

Yeah, you are acting like a fake ass Christian. Sitting here preaching about pro-life. Stop trying to do God's job!! A fetus only has the right to life if God says they have the right to life!!! If a fetus was made from rape aka the devils work why on Earth would God want the mom, who is more than likely underage to be forced to give birth to a devil baby? Unless of course the mom wanted to keep it, then they have a special place in heaven for that strength. But that's the thing, the mom should get to choose! If God doesn't want her to have an abortion he will make it so that she can't get one by other means aka no appointments available or here is a thought any child who is needed from God will be placed in a loving home by parents who want kids. God is about free will and he wouldn't have had the option available if he didn't will it. 😡 plenty of babies died in the flood. Why? Because they were just going to be raised to be sinners anyway so stop worrying about stuff that is ultimately up to God :/ (Talking about early abortions only btw) have a blessed day /srs 💜 also thank you for reading all of that :D

So I wanted to put together a thorough response to this, I think that it deserves to be responded to because to me this represents a large problem with mainstream Christianity nowadays. I'm not apologizing for this being long, because I will take the time to be diligent and say what needs to be said.

Stop trying to do God's job!!

It is God's job to be the ultimate arbiter of justice because only He is really just, and only He is righteous and good. This does not, by any imagining, mean that He does not call His people to care about injustice, because He absolutely does. How many times in the Bible does God instruct His people to care about the defenseless, the poor, the orphan, and the widow? (Deut. 24: 19-22; James 1:27; Galatians 2:10; and soooo many more?) There are entire books of the Bible, including Psalms, Job, Habakkuk, Jeremiah, Isaiah, and Lamentations, to name just a few, who are concerned with God's justice not merely in heaven but the way His people carry out this justice in the world today.

God did not call His people to ignore injustice on this earth because it is His job alone to care about it. He calls His people to act justly. He especially calls us to protect the most vulnerable classes of society- particularly, children. We know how Jesus talks about little children- He loves them, and pronounces a harsh sentence on those who would lead them astray (Matthew 19:14, Matthew 18:6). We are not called to ignore the murder of little children because God is more just than we are. Of course God is more just than we are. That is why we are called to act like Jesus.

A fetus only has the right to life if God says they have the right to life!!!

What does God say about a fetus's right to life?

"Before I formed you in the womb I knew you, before you were born I set you apart" (Jeremiah 1:5).

"My frame was not hidden from you when I was made in the secret place, when I was woven together in the depths of the earth. Your eyes saw my unformed body; all the days ordained for me were written in your book before one of them came to be" (Psalm 139: 15-16).

As even Paul notes: "But when God, who set me apart from my mother's womb and called me by His grace..." (Galatians 1:15).

Now, a question. Why would God set us all apart- for indeed, these are not just applicable to major prophets, kings, and apostles, but to each and every one of us- why would that God, not believe that we have a right to life when He already at that early point in time (early for us, not for Him), has every single plan and calling for our lives ALREADY in place even then? Would He truly be fine with the death of someone who He is still has great plans for? Which is true of every child in the womb?

If a fetus was made from rape aka the devils work why on Earth would God want the mom, who is more than likely underage to be forced to give birth to a devil baby

This is sad to me, anon, because it shows me that you do not believe that God is good enough to bring beautiful things out of tragedy and horrific circumstances. The case of a young girl raped is absolutely tragic and horrific, and God will bring justice on her abuser. But He is so good that even in her startling pain, He can still bring good out of that! She is perfectly able to give up the child for adoption if she is not of age or financially or emotionally able to take care of it. It is still very possible for that child to have an enriching, fulfilling life.

In addition, "He will not die for his father's sin; he will surely live. But his father will die for his own sin" (Ezekiel 18:17-18). God does not call on us to punish others for heinous crimes their parents have committed.

Also, it is not a devil baby because the father committed an act of the devil.

Unless of course the mom wanted to keep it, then they have a special place in heaven for that strength

Here you fall into the logical pitfall of many pro-choicers. You see, anon, our value and our worth in God's sight is never determined by whether other people, including our own parents, want us or not. Plenty of His most beloved and cherished servants were rejected by absolutely everyone around them, including their parents and the world at large. They still have worth to God because they are made in His image, and because Jesus died for them. That doesn't change by any human being's rejection of us, whatever their basis for it. Why is it not a devil baby anymore just because it's wanted? If conception in rape makes someone of the devil, then that doesn't change because their mother wants them. Also, plenty of people are conceived in rape who are Godly, loving people and they certainly don't belong to Satan!

The mom should get to choose!

We are all free to choose sin, but this does not mean that we should.

If God doesn't want her to have an abortion he will make it so that she can't get one by other means aka no appointments available or here is a thought any child who is needed from God will be placed in a loving home by parents who want kids

If this were true, no evil things would happen in the world at all because God would prevent them. You say "God is all about free will," but then expect Him to intervene and actually violate free will to go prevent evil. That just isn't how it works. God is against rape, that is very much a sin, but obviously that is a tragedy that still happens in the world. God doesn't take away your ability to do bad things to stop you from doing them.

Also, God doesn't "need" any of us; He wants us! 8 billion people and He still thought the universe was incomplete without you! And without me, and all of our loved ones, and that unborn child conceived in rape as well. I am not comfortable, nor do I have the moral authority to say to anyone conceived in rape that they aren't wanted or valued by God. It would be a lie because they are!

God is about free will and he wouldn't have had the option available if he didn't will it.

This contradicts your previous statement, as I already got into, so I'll just say that God cares about free will, but part of free will is having the ability to choose evil. You can't say "he wouldn't have had the option available" because the option to do evil is ALWAYS available to humans. We are sinful, selfish beings! The option to murder, to exploit, to plunder, to do drugs; the option to do all these sinful things is always available. We still have laws against those things because they go against the moral order. Abortion goes against the moral order, but it is the only issue you argue we shouldn't regulate because it goes against free will and God cares about free will. Well, it is an exercise of free will to murder, but the Ten Commandments still says not to!

Freedom is not the freedom to do whatever we want as people. It is the freedom to do what we ought to do and what is right and just to do. Not to do things which it is unjust to do. "Do not use your freedom to indulge the flesh" (Galatians 5:13). God, and secular law, all regulate things which go "against" bodily autonomy because those things infringe on the rights of others, in the case of abortion, on the baby's right to life. It is only with abortion, though, that you say it shouldn't be regulated because of "free will." Free will is why we need law! We need law to regulate the human propensity to sin! (I highly recommend Federalist 51 for better arguments about this).

plenty of babies died in the flood. Why? Because they were just going to be raised to be sinners anyway so stop worrying about stuff that is ultimately up to God :/

It is up to God to met out justice in the last days. This is not an excuse to turn a blind eye to injustice happening now. In fact, it's the opposite! God will call us all to account for not helping the vulnerable. That includes orphans, and the poor, and the sick, and it also includes unborn children having their most fundamental and sacred right violated. (See Jesus's parable of the sheep and goats in Matthew 25).

Also, we all have the propensity to sin, children born from rape are not unique in that regard. But they also have the ability to choose God! If they are raised in sin, that doesn’t mean you have the right to kill them before they sin and it doesn’t mean they have to be stuck in sin as adults. They can get out. It isn’t hopeless!

God gave those babies life from conception. Why are you playing God by arguing that you have the right to take it away from them?

Christians cannot stay quiet about moral issues because it's up to God. It is up to God, and He very much involves us in His work! I encourage you to speak out against oppression and help those in need you are able, including the most vulnerable among us, the unborn. God gave them life, no matter how, and He loves them as He loves you!

And since you said you are only talking about early abortion, my question is this. When does it become a life? Because both science and the Scriptures say that life begins at conception. There is no arbitrary timeframe in the womb where somebody becomes alive. When an egg is fertilized, it is an entirely unique set of DNA that will never exist again. That doesn't happen several weeks down the line.

Thank you for reading all this anon and I hope you truly have a blessed day as well! You are deeply loved by Christ and I hope you experience His presence today! Please let me know if anything needs clarification or if this made sense. God bless.