#when the cicadas are hollow or whatever

[hollowbananer]

Cosplay

[aconflagrationofmyown]

Ain’t No One Goin’ Back to Nod Empty

A Big Daddy Elvis blurb

Note: Somehow it would seem that I have managed to write a blurb for the first time ever, half baked and plotless though it be. I suppose I was missing Big Daddy E a bit too much while working on other projects. And I have given him a newborn because in my worlds we have nice things

Summary and Warnings (Spoilers:) middle of the night nursing and cockwarming and dirty baby talk. yep, that’s what I wrote

Insomnia is no foreigner to Elvis, and while pulling awake in the dead of night he is accustomed to the verve of Las Vegas vibrating it’s way up to the penthouse, tonight he can’t even blame his startlement on the cacophony of cicadas who have found a home in the trees around Graceland.

Tonight the gentle sound that reaches his ears makes him question how on earth his life got to be so sweet, and since when did the gulping noises of his child feeding off you become simultaneously so comforting and erotic. He lays on his back for a few moments, calibrating his eyes to the dark and once he’s certain they’ve adjusted, and that no hope remains for him to fall asleep, he slowly turns and slots himself behind you like the big ole spoon you refer to him as.

Sweeter still than any noise yet, is your pleased little hum of surprise at the sudden contact. The heat of his chest and swell of his belly presses into your back, and he knows you’re happy to have his company, it’s the one thing he’s never in doubt of anymore, your little trio is a mutually adoring fan club.

He and his little peanut might jinx sleep intentionally just for these little moonlit moments.

Elvis can only speak for himself, but when the contented little mewls and the slurping gulps of his infant reach him, he becomes so desperately needy for the same closeness as you and the baby are sharing that his heart pumps more vigorously than it has in years, and while the baby takes from you, he gives.

Returning “cream for cream”, you had joked in a more lucid moment.

With another woman he might have been ashamed, but with you he presses closer, hooks his chin over your shoulder and delights in how you shiver from the tickle of his sideburns against your neck.

“Hi there, daddy, I see you’ve joined us.” you mumble teasingly through your fatigue, suddenly feeling less worn down now he’s turned to you, his strong embrace letting you give into the lethargic haze of a predawn breast feeding since you know he will watch out for all three of you.

“Thought I was sleepin through a beer guzzlin’ contest.” he jokes, reaching a hand over you to poke your baby’s fat cheeks as they don’t even hollow despite the constant sucking, “Heavens honey, you’d think you threatened to take your jugs away from her she’s so frantic.”

“Make yourself useful daddy, calm her down then.” you grin into your pillow, feeling him poking you from behind and knowing you’re gonna get more from this interlude than empty teats.

“Gonna have to get close then, mama.” he reminds you as if this were a clause in the contract you hadn’t considered.

“Whatever’s necessary.” you concede.

It’s a funny thing how you can think you’re close to him until he chooses to truly close the distance. Your man has an ability to shape himself into every dip of you and swallow you whole with his bulk in so heady a way that at one time you would not have anticipated it to have such an effect on you. It makes you moan as the damp heat of him scorches through the thin cotton of your gown and he doesn’t even think to ask as he lifts your thigh in his large hand, reaches below his belly, then he slides himself between your thighs, his height giving him the advantage of still being able to see over your shoulder. The puffy head of him nudges at your clit and the firm chub of him pressing against your heat makes you slump back into his broad chest. You can feel his answering grin against your cheek.

“She can’t settle cause her mama’s all pent up.” he diagnoses the situation before beginning a easy slide through your slick.

You let out a low moan above your baby’s head as you feel your previously unnoticed tension seep into the sheets along with your slick. You wiggle him deeper between your lips and shudder from how ready you already are.

“C’mon lil darlin” he coos, all moist and huffy against your cheek, “take it easy now, ain’t no one goin back to Nod till they’re all full and satisfied.”

He has a nasty habit of this, talking to both his babies at once, and you know he likes the plausible deniability of it, the way you can’t be sure if it’s wholesome or filthy.

He’s a furnace behind you, delighting in the way you are so plaint and giving for him, your thighs rippling with his gentle thrusts and a single ripe breast hanging out to feed the baby tucked next to you. It’s a marvel to him the way you grew his little seed and how you nourish it now, always giving, that’s what you are. Except for right now, nearly drugged you're so tired, your hips start to chase his greedily, all the feelings mounting in a slow but inevitable delight, fueled by his even grind and the baby’s suction.

“Daddy, daddy I need you in me.” you beg, your chest heaving with your breaths and this is backfiring, you’re starting to get worked up and he doesn’t want that, needs to grind you into oblivion.

“Shh, shh, don’t startle my baby.” he takes the calming hand from the baby’s fuzzy little head drags his knuckles over your cheek while angling his hips to truly torture you clit.

“Oh god.” you gasp out and you can feel the dribble of your interest coming from your clenching hole, burning painful in its emptiness. “I’m so tired daddy.” you fuss, knowing he’ll relent, he’s too appreciative of all your sleepless hours dedicated to the little nugget to frustrate you further.

“I’d better give ya your pacifier then, hmm?” he rumbles amused and you would like to swat him for being a menace but your hand is occupied cradling the baby’s head and he is taking mercy anyway -finally.

Joining with him is a slow, burning stretch that has you nearly faint from stratification, all the familiar sensations of him drowning you and soothing you all at once, the friction of his uncut head nudging past, each graduating inch of girth, finally the hairy little pooch of his lower belly snug against your smooth cheeks.

You settle finally, all is right with the world and Elvis groans so loudly in satisfaction at being inside you that the rest of the house must surely hear him. Baby is unperturbed, she’s used to the way her papa worships her mama in these early hours. Ever since that first time after you’d gotten her home, barely healed up when Elvis started clutching and prodding between you thighs with shamefaced desperation, whispering hoarsely into the darkness:

“Jus wanna be close mama, wanna be close with my widdle girls, Peanut’s goin at it ain’t she? Can barely hold her eyes open but she chuggin it down. Jus, just let me in mama, that’s it, just wanna be close, oh goddamn you are snug as anythin.”

[miilkphone]

MCD REWRITE LONGPOST :

The Divine Warriors/Irene powers/Relic Thoughts

okay so starting off. I know I did a poll over if I should rename Aphmau and people said to keep her name as Aphmau but I got attached to the name Amalthea

HERE !!! are a couple of Amalthea concepts, + a face close up of her after unlocking Irene/Malthasso's powers/memories AKA it's her starting her transformation ig + the beard she kinda has going on is her moth fluff, which also runs down her neck ON TO MY THOUGHTS

i will say that a lot of this is copy + pasted from where i rambled in a few disc servers

I'm considering naming the rewrite Metempsychosis

" me·tem·psy·cho·sis [ˌmedəmˌsīˈkōsəs, məˌtemsəˈkōsəs] noun metempsychosis (noun) · metempsychoses (plural noun) the supposed transmigration at death of the soul of a human being or animal into a new body of the same or a different species "

unsure if I actually will or not

I want to rename Irene to Malthasso because the name Amalthea is derrived from it, and it always bothered me that Aphmau and Irene's names weren't a little similar

all of the divine warriors have something buggy going on

Irene/Malthasso - Moth

Shad - Beetle

Esmund - Cicada(thinking of the golden cicada)

Enki - Spider (Because of the Web from TMA)

going along with the moth theme, when Malthasso slumbers to become Amalthea, she goes into a sort of cocoon? and eventually Amalthea comes out, Amalthea has very vague and fuzzy memories of the cocoon and the Malthasso dimension (probably also going to get renamed), but she doesn't actually know what it is until her and the others get sent to the dimension

Now for Malthasso's powers, I saw someone give her time abilities instead of healing, and I liked how they did it so I wanted to do something similar, but I think instead I want to do something similar to how Nhika's(The Last Bloodcarver book mc) powers work. It's a bit hard to explain, but by touching people Nhika can feel every bit of someone's body, all their organs, all their veins, etc., and she can go in and heal whatever needs healing but it's not an instinctual thing, she has to actually learn about the body and how it functions. It's a dangerous power that could either be used for good or bad, it's not only used for healing. Anyway, I was thinking of Malthasso's power working similarly, except instead of being just humans/animals, it could also work for plants n such, like she can feel every bit of the earth and the roots as if it was a body and veins

LAURENCE he does not get his sight back completely, either it'll be like Kenshi from Mortal Kombat or similar to Toph from ATLA leaning towards similar to Toph since he'd be healed from the effect of the Malthasso statue, or at least somehow from Malthasso/Amalthea's abilities, he'd also be able to sort of 'connect' with the world around him

Adding in relic thoughts,

Absorbing and having a relic taken are both very painful things too, as well as having your Jury title renounced(thinking of something specific for the Garroth n Katelyn scene)

Absorbing a relic, when not gone to it's "rightful" owner(but still to a compatible body), it feels very unnatural, suddenly your body doesn't feel like your own anymore, you feel stuck inside a hollow shell and there's always a part of you trying to claw it's way out

Absorbing a relic, when gone to it's "rightful" owner, it still feels unnatural but not in the same way, it just feels like you've gained another limb or organ, you feel more whole than before

Having a relic removed is like having an organ or your heart ripped from you, it's very very painful

I DO HAVE MORE MCD REWRITE THOUGHTS but I figured it'd be better if it wasn't shoved into one big post, trying to kind of 'sort' which thoughts go together. but anyway lmk if you have any questions:))

[riddley-art]

Pawns of the Past: A RiddleCat love story

Chapter 2

Summary: Set six months after the fall of the Justice League, thanks to the Suicide Squad, and five years after Arkham Knight, Riddler tracks down Catwoman, who’s been living far from Gotham, determined to reclaim the money she stole from him. Their tense confrontation takes an unexpected turn as old sparks reignite. What begins as a mission of revenge slowly evolves into a complicated romance, forcing both Selina and Eddie to confront their feelings, their pasts, and the possibility of a future neither expected.

I’m beyond excited to finally share the project I’ve been working on with the incredible @adhdnursegoat! This is our very first RiddleCat fic, and we’re so thrilled to bring it to life today. 💜💚

Rated: Mature

Need to catch up or re-read? Here's the link to: Chapter 1,

Archive of our Own Link

Chapter 2

The cicadas are loud tonight, a relentless chorus filling the warm, humid air with their shrill cries. Their incessant buzzing seems to scream at her to go back inside, to retreat to the safety of her home. The sounds reverberate off the trees, echoing in the stillness of the night, a reminder of how easily the wilderness can consume her. But something makes her stay.

The porch creaks softly beneath her as she shifts her weight. The landscape around her is a lush tapestry of greens and browns, illuminated by the gentle glow of the moon filtering through the leaves. Fireflies flit through the darkness, their tiny lights winking in and out like the stars above. This is a place of serenity, where the chaos of Gotham feels like a distant memory—a dream fading with the evening light.

Selina closes her eyes, breathing in the earthy scent of damp soil and blooming wildflowers that surrounds her. The air is thick with the sweetness of honeysuckle, mingling with the cool night breeze that rustles the leaves. Here, in Sevierville, the world feels different, softer. She can hear the distant sounds of the creek burbling nearby, a soothing lullaby.

But the cicadas intensify, a cacophony urging her to flee from whatever danger lurks in the shadows. They fill the night with a noise that feels almost sentient, as if the very essence of the woods recognizes her apprehension. Or maybe, it is just her own deep-seated fear of contentment that makes the atmosphere seem like its buzzing without the help of the local critters.

She grew up in Gotham.

And it seems like Gotham always has a way of finding her, no matter how far she runs, no matter how many oceans she crosses or how many cities she calls home for a while. The city clings to her like a shadow, ever-present, lurking just out of sight, waiting for the right moment to remind her of its existence. Selina Kyle had left Gotham years ago, on a cold, damp night that felt like the final curtain call of a play that had gone on too long.

The night Bruce died.

She had known it then—felt it deep in her bones—that there was nothing left for her in Gotham. The city, with its suffocating alleys and unyielding rooftops, had lost its hold on her. Without Bruce, the connection that once tethered her to the dark streets unraveled, dissolving into a threadbare whisper of what had been. Gotham without him was a hollow shell, a place devoid of meaning.

And so, she left. She packed her bags and slipped away, no grand farewell, no looking back. Just the quiet, resolute decision to start over, to leave behind the life she had built alongside the Bat. She thought she was free, that her departure would sever the final bond between her and the city. But the truth was far more complex than that. Gotham was never just a city; it was a part of her.

In the years since, Selina had done what she always did when things got too heavy—she ran. She spent the next few years rounding the globe, hopping from one city to another, living her life in fleeting moments. There was Paris again, where the wine flowed like water and the art of seduction was a language she spoke fluently. Then Tokyo, where the neon lights cast an otherworldly glow on the streets, mirroring her ability to blend into the night. Cairo, with its ancient mysteries and secrets older than time itself, had been a brief but memorable stop.

Santorini, Madrid, London, Shanghai, Maldives—cities and territories blurred together, each one offering an escape. But the thrill of new sights, of new people, began to fade over time. The heists became predictable, the allure of danger dimmed. With every success came the creeping realization that she wasn’t running for excitement anymore. She was running to forget.

She was tired.

Not in the physical sense—Selina had always been able to push herself beyond her limits—but in a deeper, more existential way. Tired of the game, tired of the chase, tired of the mask she wore for everyone else. Even tired of pretending she didn’t care about what she left behind in Gotham.

The world had grown small after so many years of circling it. No matter where she went, no matter how far she strayed, the emptiness followed her. She had everything—money, freedom, the power to disappear and reappear at will—and yet, none of it brought her peace.

So, Selina stopped running. She found herself in Sevierville, Tennessee—a place as far from Gotham’s grime as one could imagine. It was peaceful here, surrounded by the smoky ridges of the mountains, where the air was clear and the sky seemed endless. For the first time in years, she felt stillness, a kind of quiet she hadn’t known since she was a child. She laid down roots—something she'd never done before. She bought luxurious plastationwith a wraparound porch, the kind she could sit on and watch the sun dip below the horizon, and let the world slow down for a change.

The townspeople barely knew her as anything other than Selina, the woman who kept to herself. The local farmers' markets and serene hikes through the woods became part of her new routine. She lived for the small, peaceful moments now—something she never thought she could appreciate when she was younger, always on the move, always on the run.

But Gotham is not done with her. 

It never is. 

And this time, it has found her in the form of Edward Nigma.

Edward is Gotham personified—the traps, the twisted games, the sense of control he always sought to have over every situation. He had come into her life in those years of chaos, when their paths crossed in the underworld, sometimes allies, sometimes enemies, always drawn together. He had always been a puzzle she couldn’t quite solve, a man whose brilliant mind was as dangerous as it was fascinating. But she had left all that behind. Or so she thought.

And yet, here he is, in Sevierville, of all places. She didn’t know how he’d found her or why he was here, but the moment their eyes met on that porch, she knew it wasn’t a coincidence. Gotham had come to Tennessee, and it was wearing Edward’s face.

Selina sits on the porch, her long purple dress flowing like liquid silk around her, shimmering subtly under the fading evening light. She reclines against the wooden railing, her body poised and elegant, but there’s an air of casual detachment in the way she twirls her phone idly in one hand. Her smirk plays at the corner of her lips, a perfect mask of amusement that hides the sharper edge beneath.

"You’re clearly not the date I was expecting," Selina says, her voice smooth and dry, cutting through the quiet. Her eyes, glinting with amusement, stay trained on him.

He steps closer, measuring each movement with precision, his confidence intact, even though the setting feels wrong. This isn’t his domain, but the rules of the game remain the same. "Well, I tend to exceed expectations," he replies, a wry smile curling his lips.

She lets out a soft, almost dismissive chuckle, her eyebrow arching.

"Funny," she muses, "I don’t remember setting the bar that low."

Edward smirks, already feeling the familiar rhythm of their banter. It’s been years, but this part—the dance of words, the back-and-forth—it’s like slipping into an old habit. "Still as sharp as ever, I see, my dear," he says, keeping his tone light, even though his gaze remains sharp, watching her every move.

She leans back slightly, resting her weight on one hand behind her, but still seated, her body language casual yet commanding. The distance between them feels more than physical. This porch, this home, this life she’s carved out for herself—it’s as though she’s planted roots in a place so far removed from the city that shaped them both. Yet, here they are, Gotham’s shadows reaching out even into the heart of Tennessee.

"You say that like I should be flattered," she says, voice low and dangerous. She tilts her head, studying him, as if waiting to see what angle he’ll play next.

The cicadas grow louder, a buzzing reminder of where they are—so far from the towering buildings and alleyways of Gotham. The quietness of the night stretches around them, but beneath it, there’s a tension, a palpable sense of anticipation. Here, in the soft glow of the porch light, with the deepening darkness settling in around them, there’s no need for masks or costumes. This is raw. It’s Selina and Edward, alone, without the city’s noise to drown out the meaning behind every word.

"So," she continues, her eyes never leaving his, "if you’re not here to stir up trouble, Eddie, what are you here for?"

He hesitates for the briefest moment, just enough to consider how much truth he’s willing to offer. He’s always been one for riddles, but Selina has a way of cutting straight to the heart of things. No games, not with her.

"I’m simply here to collect what was taken from me," he says finally, his tone even, though there’s an undercurrent of something darker in his words.

Her expression flickers, amusement giving way to something more guarded. "You mean the money?" she asks, her voice quieter, but her gaze never softens. "After all these years?"

His smile tightens, a calculated shift. "Five years is a long time to let a debt go unpaid, don’t you think?"

Selina lets out a soft laugh, but there’s no real humor in it. It’s the laugh of someone who’s heard this all before, who knows the script but still plays along. "And here I thought you were past holding grudges."

Edward shrugs, keeping his hands in his pockets, his demeanor calm. "I’m a man of principles. It’s not about the grudge—it’s about the principle."

For a moment, there’s a stillness between them, the night growing thicker, the shadows longer. Then, slowly, Selina rises to her feet. Her dress cascades down as she stands, the movement fluid and effortless, as though the world itself bends to her will. She takes a single step toward him, closing the gap just enough that her presence fills the space between them.

"Principle, huh?" she murmurs, her voice sliding between a teasing purr and something sharper, an edge that cuts beneath the surface. "And what principle is that? Never let a woman outsmart you?"

Edward’s smirk wavers, just for a split second, but she catches it—she always does. Selina knows exactly how to push his buttons, how to unravel his careful facade and expose the truths he hides beneath layers of riddles and misdirection. Her words, though smooth, are like daggers, peeling away the mask he so carefully wears. She’s not asking for the riddle. She’s asking for the man behind it.

His grin creeps back, but it’s more guarded now, a defense mechanism more than anything. "Let’s just say... I believe in fair exchanges."

Her lips curl into a slight, disdainful smirk. "And I thought you’d come for something more interesting than money." She rolls her eyes, scrunching her nose in mock disappointment. "Guess I overestimated you."

The barb hits its mark, but he chuckles, refusing to let her see the sting. "Oh, don’t worry. I’m sure we’ll have plenty of time for more ‘interesting’ things. But for now…" He pauses, letting his gaze flicker to the side, carefully picking his next words. "Let’s keep it simple."

Selina crosses her arms, a gesture not of vulnerability but one of control, closing herself off from him. Her expression shifts—guarded now, eyes narrowing as she studies him. "So what’s your plan, Eddie? You think I’ll just hand it over and send you on your way?"

Her words hang heavy, thick with accusation. There’s no playful banter in her tone now, only cold calculation. She steps forward again, her posture stiffening, maintaining the distance between them but closing the gap in intent. Her arms remain crossed, her expression unreadable, a carefully constructed mask she’s perfected over the years.

"You really think you can just show up after all this time and ask for what’s yours? After everything you did?"

His smirk, once self-assured, fades under the weight of her words. Everything you did. The implications hang there, dredging up memories neither of them want to revisit but both are forced to confront. He shifts his stance, uncomfortable now, for reasons far deeper than the confrontation itself.

"Look, Selina—"

But she cuts him off before he can get another word in, her voice sharper now, measured, her inflection emphasizingher point. "You strapped an explosive to my neck, Eddie."

The accusation lands like a punch, and he visibly recoils, any semblance of his usual smugness draining from his face. She doesn’t raise her voice, but the cold fury in her words is unmistakable.

"You’re lucky I’m even talking to you," she adds, her eyes flashing with an intensity that makes it clear this isn’t just some old grudge. This is about survival, about betrayal, about trust that was shattered in a way she hasn’t forgotten—can’t forget.

Edward sighs, his shoulders sagging just slightly, his once impeccable composure faltering in the face of her cutting reminder. "I never intended “To kill me?” she interrupts, her voice dropping to a quiet, lethal growl. “Right. I bet that makes it easier to sleep at night.”

Her words strike deeper than any physical blow, precise and intentional, an attack meant to wound. This is no longer just the verbal sparring they’ve danced around for years, a battle of wits and clever quips. There’s a finality in her voice now, a reckoning that’s long overdue.

For a moment, the world around them shifts, and the weight of the unsaid—of every unspoken grudge and betrayal—presses down on them both. The once-soothing symphony of cicadas fades into the background, as if even nature itself recognizes the gravity of the moment.

Edward stands there, thrown off balance. His usual defenses—his riddles, his charm, the smugness that usually coats his every word—are nowhere to be found. He knows now, without a doubt, that he’s crossed a line with her, a line that can’t be danced around or glossed over with clever words. The playful, almost seductive rhythm of their exchanges is gone, and what’s left is something far more raw, far more dangerous.

He tries to hold onto his composure, but even he can feel the cracks forming in his facade. He had miscalculated, underestimated her depth of fury, the betrayal she’s been carrying with her all these years. There's no quick escape from this confrontation, no easy way out this time. And he knows it.

For a brief moment, Edward’s gaze softens. The cocky, confident Riddler is stripped away, revealing something more real, more vulnerable. He takes a tentative step closer, his voice quieter now, devoid of its usual swagger. “I made a mistake,” he says, each word measured, as if speaking too quickly might cause the fragile truce between them to shatter. “I was too focused on Batman, on proving I was smarter, better, that I didn’t stop to think… about what I was doing to the people around me.”

There’s something in her expression—hard, unyielding as it is—that falters. A flicker behind her eyes, barely noticeable but enough for him to catch. Maybe it’s surprise, or maybe it’s something else, something she hasn’t let herself acknowledge until now. She tilts her head slightly, studying him with those sharp, feline eyes of hers, searching for any trace of sincerity.

“That’s the closest thing to an apology I’ve ever heard from you, Eddie,” she says, her voice cool but with a tinge of disbelief. She crosses her arms again, the guarded posture returning. “But you know words don’t mean much to me.”

“I know.” His voice is softer now, tinged with something that feels almost like regret. “But I’m not that same man anymore, or at least… I’m trying not to be.”

Selina holds his gaze for a long pause. She searches his face, as if trying to decipher the truth in his words, to see if there’s any real change beneath the surface. And yet, she’s been burned before—by him, by Gotham, by the life she’s tried so hard to leave behind.

“And what makes you think I care if you’ve changed?” she asks, her voice cold, though there’s a hint of something else beneath it, something softer.

Edward swallows hard, feeling the tension in the pit of his stomach. This isn’t a battle he can win with cleverness. “Because,” he says, his voice steady, though quieter than before, “I think you know me better than anyone else. And I… I’m trying to make things right.”

She lets out a slow breath, her eyes never leaving his. “You’ve got a long way to go before you can even think about making things right.”

Edward nods, his usual bravado gone, replaced with something more genuine, more human. “I’m willing to try,” he says quietly, his gaze dropping for just a moment before meeting hers again. There’s a tremor in his voice, a vulnerability he’s rarely shown to anyone.

“This isn’t a simple heist you can fix with clever words, Eddie,” she says, her voice quieter, though still sharp. “I’m not one of your puzzles.”

“I see it now,” Edward replies, his voice trembling slightly, the desperation seeping through. “It took me years to finally understand, but it’s the truth, Selina.”

Another silence stretches between them, this one less tense, but no less charged. It’s the kind of silence that could tip either way, into reconciliation or further resentment, into forgiveness or finality. Selina’s eyes flicker to her phone, which she’s been twirling absentmindedly in her hand throughout the exchange, a distraction from the intensity of their confrontation. She glances down at it now, as if considering her next move, before slipping it into her clutch with a quiet sigh.

“You know,” she starts, her voice softer now but still guarded, “after waiting nearly an hour for my blind date who didn’t bother to show up, I think I could use a drink.”

Edward blinks, surprised by the sudden shift in tone. “A drink?”

She raises an eyebrow, her lips curling into a small, half-smile. “Yeah, Eddie, a drink. Don’t look so shocked.”

For a moment, Edward doesn’t respond, his usual quick wit faltering. This wasn’t part of the plan. She’s inviting him in? He glances at the door behind her, then back at Selina, unsure whether this is some sort of trap or one of her mind games.

“You inviting me in?” he asks, still half in disbelief.

Selina rolls her eyes. “Don’t make it a big deal. I need a drink, and it looks like you could use one, too. After all, you’re here, unannounced, after five years, asking for money. That sounds like a conversation worth a glass of something strong.”

She turns without another word, walking toward the door and leaving it slightly ajar as she steps inside. Edward hesitates, glancing back at the darkening sky before following her, still trying to process what’s happening.

As Edward steps inside, the atmosphere of Selina’s home envelops him like a velvet glove—warm, elegant, and surprisingly inviting for someone who keeps people at arm’s length. The plantation house in Sevierville, Tennessee, feels rooted in time, a place where the past and present meld seamlessly. It’s a stark contrast to the fast, gritty life of Gotham, and it’s clear that this place is a reflection of Selina's desire for something far removed from that chaos. The soft creak of the hardwood floors under his shoes and the faint scent of aged wood and jasmine linger in the air, inviting yet enigmatic, much like Selina herself.

The entryway is wide and uncluttered, the kind of space designed to make a statement, though in typical Selina fashion, it doesn’t scream wealth—it whispers it. A large antique mirror with an ornate, gold leaf frame hangs on the wall opposite the front door, catching the dim light from the old-fashioned chandelier hanging overhead. The chandelier itself is an intricate relic, its glass crystals shimmering softly, casting fragmented light that dances lazily across the walls.

As Selina glides across the room toward the bar, Edward's eyes flick around, taking in the details of her private sanctuary. High ceilings give the room an open, airy feel, and the windows are draped with long, whispy curtains, accentuating the open concept of the home. The fireplace, dark now but lined with fresh wood, promises warmth for later in the evening. 

The furniture is an eclectic mix of antique and modern—plush armchairs in velvet, a sleek, black leather sofa, and a long wooden coffee table that looks like it was hand-carved decades ago. There’s a lived-in quality to it all, a kind of relaxed elegance, like everything in the room was chosen for comfort and history rather than impressing guests who rarely get this far inside. It’s her space, private and curated, and Edward can sense the layers of Selina's personality embedded in the very walls.

As she reaches the bar, tucked into a small alcove off the main room, her movements are effortless, practiced. She grabs two glasses, delicate crystal tumblers that catch the dim light, and pours a generous amount of whiskey into each. Edward watches her, feeling the strangeness of being here—this house, this moment with her. The years between them stretch and shrink all at once, the familiarity clashing with the unfamiliar territory they now stand in.

“You can relax,” she says, not even looking up as she pours, the bottle’s amber liquid glinting under the warm light. “I’m not going to poison you. If I wanted to kill you, I wouldn’t bother with theatrics.”

There’s a sharpness in her voice, a reminder of who she is beneath the softness of this place. Even here, in a home that seems so far removed from her life in Gotham, Selina is still Selina—always guarded, always calculating. Edward lets a slow smile spread across his face as he steps further into the room, his footsteps echoing faintly in the quiet.

“Well, that’s comforting,” he replies, finally letting the tension ease from his shoulders.

She turns and hands him the glass, her expression as unreadable as ever, but there’s a slight softening in her eyes as they meet his. The space between them feels a little stifling, but no longer in the dangerous way it had outside. Now, it’s something else, something Edward can’t quite put his finger on. She raises her glass with a small, almost teasing smile.

“Here’s to bad dates and unexpected visitors,” she says, her voice lighter, though the weight of their past still hangs in the air between them.

Edward raises his glass, still trying to figure out how the evening had shifted so quickly, how he’d gone from standing on her porch asking for money to sharing a drink with her inside. “To bad dates and… surprises,” he echoes, the words feeling strangely hollow in the space between them.

The clink of their glasses seems louder than it should, reverberating off the walls, filling the silence. He takes a sip, the whiskey burning slightly as it goes down, grounding him in reality. He watches her, the way she sips her drink, her posture relaxed but her eyes still alert, still watching him as carefully as he watches her.

The house feels like a world apart from the Selina he knew—the one who lived in Gotham’s shadows, slipping in and out of high-rise apartments and never staying anywhere for too long. This place feels permanent, grounded, as if she’s found a version of peace here, or at least something close to it. There’s a part of him that wonders why she’d choose to let him into this sanctuary after all these years, especially after their past. But he knows better than to ask. Not yet, anyway.

On the other side, Selina is scrutinizing him just as much he does her. Now that she can see him fully in the warm light of the house, she takes in his appearance more carefully. Her eyes trace Edward’s form in the warm light, drawn to how different yet familiar he looks. There’s a ruggedness about him now, a weathered confidence that wasn’t there before. His simple jeans hang just right, worn but fitted, the dark denim complementing the well-used brown boots on his feet. They’re scuffed and broken in, telling the story of someone who’s spent time out in the world, maybe more time on the ground than behind a desk. It’s a departure from the sharply tailored suits and polished shoes, or even the messy mad scientist vibe she used to associate with him, but in this moment, standing in the rustic elegance of her home, he fits.

His dark green shirt is understated yet intentional, clinging just enough to suggest strength beneath the casual fabric, and the open brown jacket adds an air of ease, as if he’s comfortable stepping into any situation. The touch of scruff on his jaw, more grown-in than what she remembers, adds an appealing roughness to his normally sharp, angular features. The glasses give him that intellectual edge, but combined with the scruff, they balance out the calculated sharpness he’s known for. The contrast between the rugged, unpolished exterior and the still-present touch of refinement pulls at something inside her.

As he leans against the bar, glass in hand, Edward’s presence feels solid, grounded in a way that suggests he’s been through something—maybe more than she even realizes. The way the soft glow from the chandelier catches on the frames of his glasses, the way his short brown hair, still parted neatly to the side, seems slightly tousled now, more natural, makes him look almost approachable. She can’t help but think he looks… good. More than good. There’s a quiet allure in the way he stands there, casual but confident, as if he’s grown comfortable with who he is.

“You clean up better than I expected,” Selina comments, her voice low and casual, though there’s an underlying hint of appreciation that she can’t quite hide.

Edward glances down at himself with a smirk, the warmth of her subtle praise not lost on him. He shrugs, the movement relaxed, though his eyes flash with that familiar spark of wit. “I wasn’t exactly planning on meeting anyone tonight, much less you.”

Selina’s gaze lingers, especially on the dark green shirt. It suits him, that shade of green always had, and she can’t help but acknowledge how well it complements his lean frame. It’s like a reminder of who he is, always meticulous, always with an eye for detail, even when dressing down.

“Could’ve fooled me. Dark green—still staying on brand, huh?” She quirks an eyebrow.

He chuckles, the sound rich and genuine, the tension easing further from his posture. “What can I say? Some things don’t change.”

Her eyes flicker back to his face, taking in more details she hadn’t noticed at first. The scruff, which she once might’ve found too casual for someone like him, now adds a depth that suits the man standing before her. It softens the sharp lines of his jaw, making him look a little more approachable, more human. The glasses, too, add a touch of thoughtfulness, making her wonder if time has given him more than just experience—perhaps wisdom, too.

"Glasses again, huh? Trying to look smarter, or is it just old age catching up?" she teases, her voice light but carrying the undercurrent of warmth, a playful affection that feels almost nostalgic.

Edward, clearly enjoying the banter, pushes his glasses up slightly with a smirk, his lips curling into that familiar, self-assured grin. “Maybe both,” he replies, his tone just as light.

Selina takes another sip of whiskey, feeling the heat spread through her chest, melting the cold distance that’s been wedged between them for years. There’s something different about him now—this rougher, more grounded version of Edward. He feels more tangible. His edges, once sharp and calculated, have softened, and though she won’t admit it, this new version of him looks better, more real, more human. His eyes no longer gleam with pure arrogance but carry something deeper—experience.

“So,” she says, breaking the silence, her tone casual, “what’s it like, Eddie? Five years without me ruining your plans?”

He glances at her, a familiar flicker of mischief sparking in his gaze. That look—it brings back memories of their games, the cat-and-mouse dance they once thrived on. “It’s been quieter, that’s for sure,” he replies, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “Boring, really. Gotham’s lost a bit of its charm without you keeping everyone on edge.”

Selina smiles back, just the slightest curve of her lips, a hint of playfulness slipping into her voice. “Good to know I still have that effect on you.”

Eddie leans against the counter, the scruff on his face brushing against the rim of his glass as he takes another sip. He looks different, older maybe, or just worn in a way that makes him seem less untouchable. “You always know how to make things… interesting.”

For the first time tonight, they fall into an easy silence, a comfortable quiet.

But Eddie knows he can’t avoid the real reason he’s here forever. He clears his throat, his expression shifting, becoming more serious. “Look,” he starts, his voice softer, almost hesitant, “I didn’t come here expecting you to just hand everything over. I get it. After what I did… strapping that bomb to your neck…”

Selina’s eyes narrow at the mention of it, her jaw tightening, but she stays silent. She doesn’t interrupt him. Not yet.

“I’m not proud of that,” Eddie continues, his voice steady but low. “I didn’t understand the kind of pain I was putting you through until I saw it firsthand.”

Selina raises an eyebrow, her expression sharpening. “Firsthand?”

Eddie sighs, running a hand through his messy hair, knowing this is the part that will be hardest to explain. “Yeah. I’ve been… freelancing. Amanda Waller. Task Force X.” He pauses, glancing at her to gauge her reaction, but she remains unreadable, her stare cutting through him like a knife. “Let’s just say I’ve seen up close what those little bombs can do to people. What it’s like to live with that fear, constantly wondering if the next second might be your last.” His voice softens, regret seeping into his tone. “I’m sorry. Truly. I didn’t understand how bad it was until I had to watch it happen to others.”

Selina’s fingers tighten around her glass. The anger that flares in her eyes is unmistakable now, hot and sharp. “You didn’t just strap a bomb to my neck, Eddie,” she says, her voice cold, controlled. “You made me go through ten of your ridiculous challenges. Ten times I had to remind myself that my life was on the line because of your obsession.”

Her words slice through him, and Eddie winces, feeling the weight of her anger press against him. He takes a breath, forcing himself to face the truth of what he did. “I know… and I’ll never be able to make up for that. I was too focused on beating Batman, on proving I was the smartest in the room. I didn’t care who got hurt along the way.”

Selina’s gaze doesn’t waver. She holds his eyes, her voice steady and laced with accusation. “You didn’t care because it wasn’t your neck on the line. You watched me suffer for your games.”

Eddie’s shoulders sag, the guilt settling heavily on him. He knows she’s right. He had been blind to the real consequences of his obsession, too caught up in proving himself, too lost in the game. “I know,” he whispers, his voice barely audible. “And I regret it. Every part of it.”

And Eddie pushes forward, knowing he has to say this, even if she won’t forgive him. “I’m not asking you to forgive me, Selina,” he says quietly, his voice soft but resolute. “But I’m asking for a chance to at least make things right. I’m not the same person I was back then.”

There’s a long pause as Selina studies him, her expression unreadable. For a moment, he wonders if she’ll throw him out, if this is the end of the conversation. But she doesn’t move, doesn’t speak. Instead, she just watches him, her silence saying more than words ever could.

In the silence between them, Eddie realizes that forgiveness is not something he can demand from Selina—not now, maybe not ever. It's something he’ll have to earn if she’ll even give him that chance. The weight of this realization settles on him, heavier than any puzzle he’s ever faced. He watches as Selina crosses her arms, her eyes sharp, scanning him, searching for any hint of deception. She’s still the same—impossible to fool, always looking for the cracks in his façade. And yet, there’s a flicker of something in her gaze, a tiny opening where she’s not completely shut off.

She studies him, not fully convinced, but intrigued. He seems different—not fully redeemed, of course, but at least aware of the depth of his wrongs. The glint of arrogance that once defined him is still there, but it’s tempered now, blended with something new—something human. It makes him harder to dismiss.

“You really expect me to believe that running around doing odd jobs for Amanda Waller has made you a better man?” Selina’s words cut, sharp and biting, though there’s an underlying curiosity there too.

Eddie chuckles, but it’s a hollow sound, his smile fading quickly. “It wasn’t exactly by choice. But yeah, it opened my eyes. Watching those bombs go off, seeing what Waller does to people... it reminded me of what I did to you.”

Selina stares at him for a long moment, her expression inscrutable. She knows how to hold the upper hand, even in silence. Finally, she shakes her head, more resigned than angry now. “So, what? You help Waller, and you think that gives you a free pass?”

“No,” Eddie replies softly, his tone almost pleading. “It doesn’t. But it’s made me realize how far I went... how wrong I was.”

A tense silence falls between them again, thick with years of history and unresolved pain. Selina’s eyes remain on him, her expression thoughtful, guarded. “You always liked your puzzles, Eddie. Maybe this is just another one of your games.”

Her words sink into him, and he feels the sting of them as if she’s laid out his greatest flaw. He looks down, the weight of her accusation pressing on him. “Maybe,” he admits, his voice quieter, “but this time, I’m trying to solve it.”

Selina studies him, taking in more than just his words. There's something different about the way he carries himself. She notices it now—the change in his posture, the way he stands, more grounded, less twitchy than before. Her gaze sharpens, catching subtle details she hadn’t before. His frame is leaner, more defined. There’s a strength in him that wasn’t there years ago.

“You’ve been working out?” she asks, her voice curious, more interested than suspicious.

Eddie shifts, caught off guard by the sudden change in the conversation. His lips twitch into a small smirk. “Yeah, well... I found a new hobby.”

Selina tilts her head, amusement flickering in her eyes. “Decided to take up fitness in your free time?”

He chuckles softly, the tension easing just a bit. “Not exactly. Running from chaos is a decent workout. Waller’s assignments kept me on my toes. You learn to run faster when you know what happens if you get caught.”

Selina raises an eyebrow, intrigued despite herself. This Eddie, this version of him, is different. The arrogance is still there, but it’s layered now, tempered by something more real. There’s a newfound confidence in him—not the kind that comes from ego or riddles, but from something deeper, something earned through experience. He looks... different. Stronger. And, though she won’t admit it yet, maybe even more attractive than she ever thought.

“You know,” she says with a playful smile, her guard dropping just slightly, “I never thought I’d see the day. Eddie Nigma, runner... looking pretty good while doing it.”

Eddie’s eyes widen, clearly surprised by her remark. A flicker of warmth crosses his face, though he quickly tries to play it off with a smirk. “Coming from you, I’ll take that as a compliment.”

Selina chuckles, the sound light but tinged with the weight of their shared history. She leans against the bar, her posture relaxed for the first time since he arrived. “Maybe I’m just surprised. Figured you’d be hiding in a bunker somewhere, not keeping up with fitness.”

Eddie shrugs, that familiar mischievous glint returning to his eyes. “I like to keep people guessing.”

Selina watches him, her eyes narrowing slightly. He’s not the same Riddler she remembers. There’s something deeper now, more layered. And as much as she wants to hold on to her anger, to the betrayal he caused, there’s a part of her that can’t help but be intrigued. This version of him... he’s more compelling, more grounded in reality, yet still carrying that edge she remembers so well.

“Well,” she says, her tone softening just a little, “you’ve certainly managed to surprise me tonight.”

Eddie lets the moment settle, the tension between them easing slightly as he finally takes a moment to really look around the room. The space is sleek and modern, but with that unmistakable Selina touch. High ceilings, elegant décor, and just enough warmth to keep it from feeling cold or detached. It’s a reflection of her—sophisticated, confident, and undeniably dangerous.

“You’ve done well for yourself,” Eddie says, his voice light as he walks around the room, taking in the details. “This place... it suits you. Elegant, but with a hint of danger.”

Selina smirks, taking another sip of her drink. “What can I say? I’ve worked hard for it.”

As Eddie continues to look around, his gaze falls on a small collection of framed photographs on a side table. Most of them are solo shots of Selina, each one in a different city, always looking bold, always on the move. But one photo catches his attention. It’s of Selina with a younger woman, both of them smiling, arms slung around each other casually. The sight of it makes Eddie pause, his expression softening as he glances back at Selina, the curiosity evident in his eyes.

“Who’s this?” Eddie asks, gesturing toward the photo as he picks it up, his fingers tracing the frame lightly.

A hint of pride flickers in Selina's eyes as she glances at the picture. “That’s Holly. Holly Robinson. I adopted her a few years back.”

“Adopted?” The surprise in his voice is palpable, a mixture of curiosity and intrigue.

“Yeah, it might seem a bit out of character for me,” she replies, a playful chuckle escaping her lips. “But she was like I was when I was younger—on the streets, just trying to survive. I couldn’t leave her out there. So, I took her in and trained her. She’s family now.”

He studies the photo, a soft smile creeping across his face as he takes in the scene. In the picture, two young women are grinning broadly, arms slung around each other in a moment of carefree joy. “I think I’ve heard of her. Wasn’t she mentioned in some of Strange’s notes back in Arkham City?”

Her expression darkens slightly, the corners of her mouth tightening. “He was obsessed with knowing everything about us. Holly got caught up in his mess, but I did my best to keep her out of the worst of it. I wasn’t about to let him get his hands on her.”

“Strange always had a fixation on why you’d protect a street kid,” he recalls, nodding slowly. “Guess I get it now. He probably thought you were too much of a lone wolf to take on that kind of responsibility.”

A smirk returns to her lips, softening her features. “I wasn’t going to let him or anyone else mess with her life. Holly’s got potential. She’s been through enough without creeps like him digging into her past. The last thing she needs is someone like Strange ruining her chances.”

Eddie sets the picture back down, his brow furrowed in thought. “So, you’re training her? What’s the plan?”

Selina’s smile shifts to something more contemplative, almost wistful. “To take over when I retire. Eventually, Catwoman’s going to hang up her claws. Holly’s the one I’m passing it down to.”

“Wow. You’re grooming her to be the next Catwoman?” He raises an eyebrow, genuine admiration sparkling in his eyes.

“Why not?” Selina leans against the bar, her posture relaxed but her tone firm. “I’ve been at this long enough. Someone’s got to carry on the legacy, and Holly’s earned it. She’s got the skills, the drive. I see a lot of myself in her.”

A genuine smile breaks across his face, warming the space between them. “I didn’t think you’d be the mentoring type. You always seemed too... independent for that.”

“Neither did I,” she admits, the warmth in her voice evident as she leans back, a thoughtful look crossing her face. “But Holly... she’s special. She deserves a chance to shine.”

Eddie glances at the photo again before looking back at her, curiosity piquing. “So, where is she now? Out on a heist of her own?”

Selina chuckles, shaking her head. “No, she’s out with her girlfriend for the night. I gave her the evening off. She’s been working hard.”

“Girlfriend?”

“Yep,” Selina says, her tone lightening as she straightens up, a glimmer of affection in her eyes. “She’s happy. That’s what matters. Holly’s been through enough—she deserves all the joy she can get. I want her to have a life outside of this... chaos.”

For a moment, silence envelops them as Eddie processes this new side of her—a protector, a mentor. It feels unexpected but makes sense. Selina has always had a soft spot for those who remind her of herself.

“You’ve built something here,” he observes, glancing around the room, taking in the sleek decor and warm lighting that give the space a sophisticated but welcoming feel. “Not just the place, but with Holly. You’ve given her a life.”

Her expression softens, and she glances around the room, the memories embedded in every corner. “Yeah, I guess I have. It’s been nice to have someone to pass the torch to. This place is as much hers as it is mine.”

Shifting his weight, he takes a moment to really look at her. Time has changed her, but in ways that only seem to enhance her strength and beauty. “You look good, by the way. I mean it.”

“Oh? Fishing for compliments now?” she teases, a playful glint in her eyes, but there’s a warmth in her smile that invites sincerity.

“No, I mean it,” he insists, his tone sincere and earnest. “You’ve changed, but it’s a good change. Grew your hair out again, just like you did in Rome all those years ago.”

“Yeah, I guess I did.” Her smile falters slightly, fingers brushing through her long, dark hair absentmindedly, a hint of nostalgia in her expression. “It feels... freeing to let it grow.”

“I always liked it that way,” he admits, a hint of nostalgia flickering in his gaze as he takes in the way her hair cascades over her shoulders, catching the light in a way that makes it shimmer. “It suits you.”

Their eyes meet, the weight of unspoken memories bridging the gap between them, a silent acknowledgment that resonates deeper than words. In that moment, it’s not just about the hair or the past; it’s about everything they’ve been through together—the laughter, the struggles, and the shared secrets that bind them.

“Rome feels like a lifetime ago,” she murmurs, her voice soft and reflective, carrying a sense of longing. “So much has changed since then. I never imagined I’d end up here, running a home and mentoring someone. Life has a funny way of surprising us.” Her fingers absentmindedly toy with the ends of her hair, twisting it between her fingers as if trying to grasp the threads of time itself.

He nods, the weight of their shared history settling on his shoulders. “Yeah. A lot has.”

Selina’s gaze drifts as she reflects, her mind painting a vivid tapestry of memories—sunsets over the Colosseum, whispered conversations in dimly lit cafes, the rush of adrenaline during their escapades. “You know, you were always Eddie to me. I think Rome was the first time I started calling you that.”

Eddie smirks, but there’s a flicker of something deeper in his expression—nostalgia, perhaps a hint of affection. “Yeah, you did. I hated it at first... ‘Eddie.’” He rolls the name around in his mouth like a vintage wine, savoring the taste of it. “No one ever called me that. But coming from you... I guess I grew to like it.”

Selina’s lips curl into a teasing smile, the corners of her mouth lifting in delight. “Well, someone had to keep you in check. ‘Edward Nigma’ was way too formal for someone always getting himself into trouble.” Her laughter dances in the air, light and playful, a refreshing balm against the weight of their past.

He chuckles, shaking his head, the sound rich and warm. “And you were the only one who could get away with it.”

The playful banter ignites a spark of camaraderie, drawing them closer. As the memories swirl around them like fallen leaves in the autumn breeze, Selina leans forward, her eyes gleaming with mischief. “You remember that kiss, right? On that ship?”

Eddie’s smirk falters just slightly, but he nods, the flicker of a memory flashing in his eyes. “How could I forget?”

Selina leans in closer, her excitement palpable. “You kissed me. I realized it was you, and then I kicked you overboard... right into shark-infested waters.” The thrill of the moment surges back to life, electrifying the space between them.

“You’ve got it all wrong, Selina. You kissed me. Let’s not rewrite history.”He leans in as well, his smirk returning with a devil-may-care confidence. 

Her eyebrow arches, amusement dancing in her eyes. “Oh, please. It was Jon's toxin. I was disoriented. That wasn’t me thinking clearly.”

“Jon's toxin?” Edward chuckles, shaking his head. “Is that what you’re going with now? You sure you’re not just making excuses?”

“Excuses?” Selina narrows her eyes playfully, her lips curling into a smile that teases at the edges of mischief. “Eddie, I had no idea who I was kissing until you opened your mouth and started talking. Then I realized it was you, and, well... into the water you went.”

He grins, leaning in just a little closer, the playful tension thickening the air. “Maybe. But I think you’re just trying to cover up the fact that you wanted to kiss me.”

Selina lets out a soft laugh, her eyes sparkling with delight. “I wanted to kiss you? You’ve been inhaling too much of Waller’s fumes.”

He shrugs, his smirk growing wider, confidence radiating from him. “Hey, it’s fine if you don’t want to admit it. I get it. The kiss, the sharks—it’s all part of your charm.”

She shakes her head, clearly enjoying the banter, her laughter a melody that softens the sharp edges of their past. “Oh, so now my charm includes tossing you to the sharks?”

“Absolutely,” Eddie teases, his voice light and playful. “I’d say it was a perfect mix of seduction and danger. Very on-brand for you.”

A sly smile spreads across Selina’s face, her eyes glimmering with mischief. “Well, if you want to believe that, go ahead. But we both know you were the one sneaking around and got caught.”

Edward chuckles again, his tone playful, but there’s a glint in his eye that suggests he enjoys the challenge. “Caught? Or were you just trying to get rid of me before things got too... intense?”

Her smile widens, locking eyes with him, an electric connection igniting between them. “You wish, Eddie.”

The teasing lingers in the air, a vibrant tapestry of shared laughter and familiar jests that wraps around them like an old, well-loved blanket. It’s a comfort, a reminder of who they are together—a pair of misfits, united by their penchant for mischief and a knack for turning the chaos of life into an adventure. For a fleeting moment, they are transported back to the sun-drenched streets of Rome, where time stretched languidly like the shadows at dusk. They’re two clever minds, sparring in a dance of wits, savoring the game as if it were the sweetest of desserts.

But as the weight of reality begins to settle in like an uninvited guest, Edward clears his throat, the sound breaking the spell that had enveloped them. A faint blush colors his cheeks, betraying the way he’s been swept up in the nostalgia of their past. He looks down at his glass, swirling the amber liquid inside as if searching for answers within the depths of its depths. “It’s starting to feel like old times,” he muses softly, almost as if the words are meant only for himself. He lifts his gaze to meet hers, the vulnerability in his eyes revealing layers of unspoken history. “Before Arkham. Before... everything.”

Selina’s playful smile fades, replaced by a gentle understanding as she registers the shift in his tone. The lightness of their earlier banter gives way to something deeper, a recognition of the shadows lurking in their shared memories. She sets her glass down with a deliberate grace, her expression turning serious as she locks eyes with him. “Yeah. It does, doesn’t it?” The acknowledgment hangs in the air, heavy with the weight of what they’ve endured together.

In that silence, they sit with the truths between them—of loss, regret, and a yearning for simpler days. Yet deep down, he knows he can’t remain lost in the past forever; the ghosts of yesterday are not meant to be permanent companions.

He nods, his tone shifting to a more serious cadence, yet still gentle enough to ease the tension. “As much as I’d love to relive the good old days, I know that’s not why I’m here.”

Selina raises an eyebrow, her posture shifting as she leans back, arms crossed in mock defensiveness. “So... what’s next then?”

A pause stretches between them, laden with possibility as Eddie grapples with the right words. Just as he’s about to speak, Selina’s gaze flickers to the clock on the wall, her eyes widening in surprise as she registers the time—well past 10 PM. “We’ve been at this for hours,” she murmurs softly, almost to herself, as if the realization is both comforting and alarming. “It’s late.”

Edward follows her gaze to the clock, a twinge of disbelief washing over him at how quickly the evening has slipped away. “I guess we have,” he replies, a hint of regret lacing his voice.

Selina tilts her head, studying him with a thoughtful expression that hints at a deeper consideration. “I’ll think about it. About the money... and what you can do to make it up to me.”

He blinks, taken aback by her response. “You’ll think about it?”

Her smirk returns, though this time it’s more measured, the glint in her eye betraying a hint of playfulness. “Don’t get too excited. You’ve got a long way to go before I let you off the hook. But... I’ll think about it.” She sets her glass down and stands, stretching slightly, her movements graceful and fluid. “And since it’s late... you’re not going to make it far tonight.”

Edward glances at the clock again, then back at her, the surprise evident in his expression. “Are you... offering me a place to stay?”

Selina shrugs casually, her eyes sparkling with a mischievous glint. “What? Surprised I’d invite you in?”

“A little,” he admits, his expression a mix of surprise and caution. “Last time we had a situation like this, you threw me to the sharks.”

She chuckles, her gaze sharp, yet playful. “I know you won’t do anything stupid this time. Besides, you know exactly what I’m capable of.” She raises an eyebrow, daring him to challenge her, but her voice softens into an inviting tone. “Stay. At least for a bit. We can figure out the rest later.”

He hesitates, clearly caught off guard by her offer. “And you’re not worried I’ll try anything…?”

Selina’s smirk deepens, confidence radiating from her as she leans closer, the air around them electric with anticipation. “You won’t...” 

A smile tugs at Edward’s lips, knowing she isn’t bluffing. “Alright,” he concedes, nodding slowly, the decision settling like a stone in his chest. “I’ll stay until we figure things out.”

Selina gives him a small nod, a subtle acknowledgment that eases the tension coiled between them like a taut wire. As she moves toward the door, a gentle resolve softens her features. “Good. I’ll set up the guest room for you,” she says, her voice light, yet tinged with an undercurrent of familiarity.

She stands, gesturing for him to follow, her movements fluid and purposeful. “Come on, I’ll show you to your room.”

Edward trails behind her, their footsteps a soft symphony against the hardwood floors, each step echoing like a heartbeat in the stillness of the house. The quiet is heavier now, pregnant with the weight of unspoken words and shared histories, yet the tension has begun to dissipate like morning mist under the sun. Selina leads him down a hallway, pausing in front of a door directly across from another, the two spaces divided by only a thin barrier that feels both intimate and precarious.

“This is your room,” she states, swinging the door open with a practiced ease and stepping inside first. The room is simple yet elegant, radiating warmth and comfort. A large bed, dressed in soft linens, invites rest, while the soft lighting casts a gentle glow that dances off the tasteful furnishings. Edward glances around, taking in the cozy atmosphere that stands in stark contrast to the sharp, jagged memories of their past—a sanctuary amidst the chaos they’ve known.

Selina gestures toward the adjoining bathroom, her hand sweeping in a graceful arc. “There are plenty of towels, fresh sheets, and shower supplies in there if you need anything.”

He nods, but his gaze drifts back toward the hallway, curiosity piqued by the door directly across from his room. “Your room’s right there?” he asks, a hint of disbelief threading through his tone.

Selina nods, a small smile playing at the corners of her lips. “Yeah, I’ll be right across the hall. Don’t get any ideas.” Her tone is teasing, yet it carries the weight of caution, a reminder of their shared past.

He smirks, the surprise of her hospitality settling like a warm ember in his chest. “Wouldn’t dream of it,” he replies, his voice laced with mock innocence.

She raises an eyebrow, the gesture so effortlessly feline, as if every move she makes is imbued with the grace of someone who has mastered the art of control. Her body leans against the doorframe, but there’s nothing casual in the way she holds herself, every curve of her form relaxed yet poised, ready for action if needed. Her eyes glint beneath half-lowered lashes, challenging and assessing him all at once.

“Good,” she says, her voice a velvet warning. “Just remember, I know what you’re capable of. And you know what I’m capable of.”

The words hover between them, charged with a playful menace, and yet something more—a mutual understanding. It’s a game they’ve played countless times before, their lives always teetering between danger and trust, the boundaries of affection blurred by sharp edges. It’s like stepping onto a tightrope; they both know the risks, yet neither can resist.

Edward meets her gaze, a slow smile curling at the corners of his lips. He raises his hands in mock surrender, the gesture an offering to the tension simmering between them. “I’ll behave,” he promises, his voice light, though the twinkle in his eyes reveals the lie behind the words. He may behave, for now, but there’s always an edge with him, a part of him that thrives on pushing boundaries, even with her.

The faint smile playing on his lips gives him away—he’s amused by the dance they’re caught in, one step forward, two steps back. His words carry the weight of someone who’s seen what lies beneath Selina’s mask, and she, his. And yet, they circle each other, never quite touching the flame that always seems on the verge of igniting.

She straightens, her body unfolding with a sinuous elegance, stepping back into the hallway with a finality that crackles in the air. The playful tension still hums between them, electric, a live wire that neither is willing to cut. “Goodnight, Eddie,” she says, her voice softer now, as though her words are something fragile in the darkness. But beneath the softness lies something else—an unspoken promise, a thread that connects them, even as they retreat to their separate rooms.

He watches her retreat, his gaze lingering on the sway of her form as she moves with an effortless grace. There’s something inexplicably light in his chest, a feeling he can’t quite name, as if the weight of the world they both carry has, for a moment, been lifted. “Goodnight, Selina,” he calls after her, his voice carrying across the space between them, as if the sound itself might bridge whatever distance remains.

She pauses, her hand resting on the knob of her door, and glances back at him. It’s only for a moment, but the flicker in her eyes catches him off guard—something unnameable, something deep and buried beneath the layers of who she is, who they both are. It’s a look that suggests there’s more to be said, more to be done, but tonight, it will remain unsaid, undone.

The door clicks softly shut behind her, the faint sound like the closing of a chapter. He stands there for a moment longer, rooted in place, the quiet pressing in on him like a blanket. The stillness of the night wraps around him, and yet the tension that had once been heavy between them has eased, leaving behind a fragile peace. It’s strange, standing in this house, being invited in rather than thrown out. He shakes his head, still not quite believing the shift in their dynamic.

But something has changed between them. The dance is no longer the same—something new has taken root in the ashes of their history. It’s fragile, yes, but real, a truce of sorts. Perhaps a beginning, or maybe just a momentary pause before the inevitable chaos resumes.

As Edward steps into the room and quietly closes the door behind him, a small, almost involuntary smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. The quiet hum of the house, so unexpectedly calm after hours of conversation, seems to envelop him. The tension, though ever-present, has shifted into something softer, more manageable. It lingers in the air like a fragile truce, a promise of something unspoken between them. For the first time in what feels like an eternity, he senses a glimmer of possibility, a tentative understanding forged in the quiet after years of their tangled game. Two misfits, both too clever for their own good, caught in a web of their own making—still here, still standing.

He pauses for a moment, surveying the room with quiet curiosity. There’s something surreal about being here, in her space. His eyes skim over the sleek design of the room, the tasteful decor that so perfectly matches her—a blend of elegance and subtle restraint. It’s warm, inviting even, in a way that catches him off guard. This is Selina’s world, carefully curated, and somehow, tonight, she’s let him into it.

Letting out a quiet sigh, he lowers himself onto the bed, the mattress giving under his weight in a way that feels unfamiliar but oddly comforting. His bag falls to the floor, a gentle thud muffled by the thick carpet. For now, the house is silent, the night peaceful, and the thought crosses his mind again—he’s right across the hall from her. Just a few steps away.

He stands again, feeling the weight of the moment settle over him, and glances toward the bathroom. The day has been long, and a shower seems the perfect way to wash away the tension clinging to him. With a small bag in hand, he makes his way across the room and flicks on the light. The bathroom mirrors the sleek, modern design of the rest of the house, each surface spotless, gleaming. Fresh towels are stacked neatly, and every toiletry he could need is already waiting for him. Typical Selina—thoughtful, meticulous, even in her hospitality.

Edward turns on the shower, watching the water cascade from the nozzle, the steam rising as it heats. The warmth beckons him, a small oasis of calm amid the strangeness of the evening. Slowly, methodically, he peels off his clothes and steps into the stream, letting out a soft sigh of relief as the hot water hits his skin. It washes over him, soothing the tension in his muscles, quieting the noise in his mind, at least for a while.

The water drums steadily against him, and for a moment, he allows himself to let go, to breathe in the solitude. It’s all so unexpected—Selina letting him in, talking for hours as though no time had passed, as though they hadn’t been on opposite sides of their usual divide. The memories swirl with the steam—nights when their lives were entangled in danger and deception, the past threading itself through their present. Nostalgia tugs at him, though it’s tinged with the unease of old wounds still healing.

He leans against the tiled wall, letting the warmth of the water loosen the knots in his back, but his mind can’t quite settle. This reprieve, this moment, feels delicate, as if at any second, the carefully placed pieces could fall apart.

After a few minutes, Edward finishes up, reaching for one of the plush towels to dry himself off. As he stands before the mirror, wiping away the fog clinging to the glass, he catches sight of his reflection. His hand brushes over the rough stubble that’s grown over the last few days, fingers tracing the shadow of a beard. He tilts his head, considering it with mild curiosity. A part of him likes the disheveled look, the scruff adding an edge to the man he’s become.

But then, almost without warning, the thought crosses his mind—she might prefer if I shaved. The idea catches him by surprise, ridiculous even. He’s never been one to care what others think of his appearance, least of all Selina, who’s never needed him to be anything other than who he is. And yet, there’s something about the way they’ve fallen into old rhythms tonight, something that makes him wonder if appearances, however subtle, might still matter.

A small smile creeps across his face at the absurdity of it. Worrying about how he looks for her—it’s childish, foolish even. And yet, the thought lingers, a testament to the shift between them, the change in the air. After all these years, after all the games they’ve played, maybe there’s still something more.

He sets down the towel, running a hand through his damp hair, his reflection staring back at him with that same knowing smirk. The night, it seems, holds more than just quiet. There’s a current running beneath it, something unspoken, fragile yet undeniably present. The question now is whether it’s worth pursuing, or whether, like so many times before, it’s best to leave things as they are.

Decision made, Edward grabs the razor from the counter, focusing on the simple, rhythmic motion as the blade glides over his skin. The faint scrape of metal against stubble is oddly grounding, a task that keeps his mind from wandering too far. The mirror reflects him as he finishes—clean-shaven, just like old times. He tilts his head, inspecting the fresh, smooth surface of his jaw, and a flicker of satisfaction crosses his face. It’s strange how shaving—something so trivial—makes him feel sharper, like he’s reclaiming a bit of control amidst the evening’s unexpected events.

He wipes his face, the cool towel refreshing against his skin, and steps back into the bedroom, the quiet atmosphere welcoming him once again. The dim lighting casts a warm glow over the space, making it feel almost too comfortable—dangerously comfortable. Selina's touch is everywhere, from the carefully chosen furnishings to the faint scent of something floral and clean lingering in the air. It’s her domain, and he’s merely a visitor, though the hospitality she’s shown has been surprisingly generous.

Edward digs through his bag, pulling out the spare clothes he packed—fresh boxers, a white tank top, and a pair of basketball shorts, the perfect uniform for a night of rest. His travel-worn clothes, now crumpled and faded, have certainly seen better days. He shakes his head with a wry smile, knowing that his recent life on the move hasn’t exactly left him with the luxury of keeping up appearances. For a brief moment, his eyes flick toward the door, considering whether he should ask Selina if he can do some laundry. He chuckles softly at the thought—asking for laundry privileges might just push his luck. Better not to press the issue, at least not tonight.

With a sigh, he folds his worn clothes neatly and places them to the side, intending to deal with them in the morning. He slips into the fresh boxers and basketball shorts, the crisp fabric a relief against his skin. For a moment, he holds the tank top in his hands, debating whether to wear it or not. Something about tonight makes him feel more relaxed, more… open. He opts to leave it off, instead rubbing a hand over the patch of hair on his chest absentmindedly. His thoughts stray as he moves about the room, and he wonders, just for a second, if Selina sleeps naked. The question lingers for a beat too long before he shakes his head with a grin, chastising himself for letting his mind slip into the gutter.

It’s late, and he can feel the exhaustion creeping in. The bed looks more inviting by the second, the soft covers already folded back in silent invitation. Edward sits on the edge, the mattress giving slightly under his weight, and he takes a deep breath, letting the events of the evening settle in. The night feels surreal—talking with Selina for hours, sitting here in her house, of all places. He hadn’t expected any of it. Their conversation had stirred something within him, memories long buried and emotions he hadn’t fully prepared to confront. Some unsettling, yes—but others, if he’s being honest with himself, weren’t so bad at all.

He glances toward the door, as if expecting it to open, as if she might appear again, though he knows she’s likely already settling into her own room across the hall. There’s a quiet comfort in knowing she’s close, though it also brings with it a sense of vulnerability he isn’t accustomed to feeling. Theirs is a complicated relationship—has always been, really. Yet tonight, there was something different. Something that felt like a tentative truce, maybe even the beginning of an understanding neither of them had ever quite managed before.

Edward finally lies down, pulling the covers over him and sinking into the mattress. It’s softer than he expected, and for the first time in a long while, the weight of the world seems a little less heavy. He closes his eyes, letting out a long, slow breath as he tries to ease into sleep. Maybe tonight, things aren’t as bad as they seem. Maybe there’s hope for something new, something less fraught with tension and more grounded in the strange camaraderie they’ve shared for years.

Sleep remains elusive, slipping further out of reach with each passing minute. Edward shifts again, his body restless, but it’s his mind that refuses to settle. He turns onto his side, eyes staring blankly at the wall, tracing invisible patterns. The dim light from the hallway casts faint shadows on the ceiling, but it doesn’t distract him from the memories that won’t leave him alone.

Every time he closes his eyes, Selina’s face appears—her smirk, her eyes that held both invitation and danger, the way she tilted her head ever so slightly when she was sizing him up. He groans softly, rolling onto his back and throwing an arm over his eyes. He’s never had trouble focusing before; puzzles, riddles, conundrums—his mind lives for clarity. But tonight, his thoughts are a mess, caught between the past and the present, between who they used to be and who they are now.

He exhales sharply, trying to shove the memories aside. The conversations they’d had earlier were laced with the kind of nostalgia that’s both comforting and unsettling. After all, the two of them have always been on opposite sides, dancing around each other, playing the game but never quite ending it. The easy laughter they shared tonight, though, was different. There was no game, no stakes—just them, two people with a complicated history, finding common ground in the present. But that’s precisely the problem. The past is too close, still brimming with unresolved tension.

His thoughts drift back to seeing her earlier, before she knew he was there, moving through her home like she owned the world. She didn’t even need the armor of her catsuit—just her own sheer confidence, the kind that has always made her irresistible. Edward swallows hard, feeling heat rise in his chest as the image of her lingers. It’s not just the physical attraction; it’s the layers underneath, the vulnerability she tries so hard to hide but never quite succeeds. He’s seen it before, during their more dangerous entanglements.

The memory of their kiss on the ship in Rome comes rushing back, uninvited but vivid as ever. That night had been a storm—both literally and figuratively. He remembers the feel of her lips against his, soft and intoxicating, just before the shock in her eyes as she realized who he was. The second that recognition hit her, it was over. Her knee in his gut, and then… a swift kick into shark-infested waters. The corners of Eddie’s mouth twitch into a smirk despite himself. Typical Selina, unpredictable as always.

He turns again, burying his face in the pillow, trying to smother the onslaught of memories. Get it together, Nigma. He’s not here to relive old flames or play out some long-forgotten fantasy. This is business. He’s supposed to be here to solve problems, not create new ones. But his mind keeps betraying him, pulling him back to her—back to the way she called him "Eddie" all those years ago, with that teasing lilt in her voice that made him feel like she saw right through him. She still calls him that, with the same familiarity, as if no time has passed. And maybe it hasn’t—not in the ways that matter.

He closes his eyes, trying to focus on anything else, but it’s no use. The image of her smile, the way her hair looked that night in Rome, the warmth in her gaze when they weren’t at each other’s throats—it’s all too much. His chest tightens, a confusing mix of desire and regret swirling through him, making it impossible to find peace. He’s not even sure what he regrets more—the missed chances or the fact that he’s still so caught up in it all.

Rolling onto his back again, he lets out a frustrated sigh, staring up at the ceiling. He wonders what she’s doing right now, just across the hall. Is she sleeping soundly, completely unaware of the chaos in his mind? Or is she lying awake too, thinking about the past, about their brief moments of closeness and the countless times they’ve gone their separate ways? He tells himself not to care, but it’s a lie. He cares far more than he wants to admit.

Edward’s gaze shifts to the door. Just a few feet away, she’s there, a presence that feels both near and distant. The space between them feels heavier than it should, filled with everything unsaid. His heart pounds in his chest, the restlessness only growing as the minutes stretch into hours.

He tries to push the thoughts away again, to focus on anything else—anything at all—but his mind keeps looping back to her. To their history. To the strange connection that has always existed between them, no matter how hard they’ve tried to sever it. And now, here he is, lying in her guest room, knowing she’s just on the other side of the hall, and all he can think about is how much that unsettles him.

It’s going to be a long night.

Edward sits up with a sigh, the weight of sleeplessness pulling at his limbs. He glances at his phone—11:04. The short time that’s passed feels deceptive, stretched thin by the whirlwind of thoughts that won’t leave him alone. Running a hand over his face, he swings his legs over the side of the bed, trying to shake off the restlessness.

Maybe a glass of water will help.

The house is silent as he pads softly down the hallway, the only sound the creak of the floorboards beneath his feet. It feels strange, being in her space, moving through rooms that carry her presence in every detail. He tries to ignore the lingering thoughts about her as he enters the kitchen. The faucet hisses as he fills a glass, the cold water a welcome distraction as he leans against the counter and takes a slow sip. His eyes close for a brief moment as he tries to center himself, to drown out the swirling memories that keep pulling him back to her.

Just water. Clear your head. Get your mind off her.

He finishes the glass and sets it down gently, the quiet clink of glass on the countertop the only sound breaking the stillness. As he turns back toward the hall, his eyes flicker toward her door again. Closed, just like before, but somehow it feels different this time. The pull in his chest is undeniable—familiar, persistent, and unwanted. He forces himself to look away, shaking his head as he makes his way back to the guest room.

The door clicks shut softly behind him, and Eddie leans against it for a moment, exhaling a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. He’s ready to collapse into bed, hoping that maybe this time sleep will come easier. But just as he’s about to move, something feels... off. His senses sharpen, and a chill runs down his spine.

He freezes.

Selina stands across from him, leaning casually against the wall, as if she’s been waiting for him all along. The dim light casts a soft glow over her, highlighting the elegant black robe that drapes her frame effortlessly. Her hair falls in loose waves, long and wild, cascading down her shoulders in a way that makes her seem almost ethereal. There’s a knowing smile playing on her lips, one that sends a jolt through him.

For a moment, he can’t move, can’t breathe. His heart stutters in his chest, the thrum of adrenaline coursing through him as he tries to comprehend what he’s seeing. 

“Selina?” 

End of Chapter 2

[taoistyuri]

Like a Cicada to its Shell

seiga and her life pre-hermit.

link on ao3

posted under the cut if you wish to read here instead!

There’s someone in my bed.

It was quiet, yet the soft, lofty sounds of someone else’s sleeping breaths felt like they echoed through my skull. Furthermore, there was a light in the room, almost as if a torch had been lit, from a smooth, finely cut hole in the wall, pouring in moonlight.

I lifted my bed’s covers.

It was that scholar boy, Huo Huan, the one whose family asked for my hand in marriage, the one who had no life skills.

I remembered earlier as I undressed for bed, when I felt suddenly paranoid, as if being watched.

A sickening feeling blossomed within me and I ran out of bed to alert one of my family’s servants.

He was shaken awake, and revealed his thief’s tool.

It was vile, despicable, and most importantly, it was from a Taoist.

An immortal hermit, even.

My mind was full of thoughts of He Xiangu, my father Wu, and my various books of study. The conversation happening regarding Huan and his escapades escaped my mind, listless, and I made no effort to speak or show reaction.

As he made his way to exit, both of our minds were focused on that chisel, from the way he made sure to get it back.

A servant informed me that he had taken my fenghuang hairpin as well.

Violated.

“This robber’s tool… get rid of it,” I said.

“But it was our matchmaker!” he said with a chuckle, and wore it around his waist like a belt, already looking proud of his treasure.

I snatched it from his side, shoving it into a fold of fabric in my clothes. “No.”

“No?”

I scowled. “You stole something from me. And now, I unto you.” I made a move as if to break it.

I never did.

I was to be married to him.

I had no feelings for him other than disgust.

After the fiasco with our mothers, how else could I even begin to feel except for the start of something awful? Already, the embarrassment made me want to rot away into mush for the bugs to eat at the thought of what had been said. She made me feel violated. Yet, I paid my respects to her. Most of my time was spent alone and lost in thought.

I kept thinking about the chisel.

I kept thinking about the hermit it was received from.

I keep thinking…

I needed to get out of here.

When he was born, I felt nothing.

When he cried, I felt nothing.

When he suckled at my breast, cooing, entirely dependent on me, I felt nothing.

I entrusted my son to a nurse.

I couldn’t bear to look at him.

A mother was supposed to feel warmth and love for their child.

I felt a hollow space chiseled out of my heart.

I would carve out a hole in the room I was shut in to look at the moonlight sometimes. To feel the night’s air on my skin. To see the reflected light shining upon leaves and water.

The bamboo looked beautiful.

I was given freedom, but the family’s definition of freedom meant nothing to me.

If it was truly freedom, I would be long gone, blood full of metal, mind free of any inhibitions that kept me chained to the earth. Flying into a new world, a world where I could do whatever I wanted and go wherever I wanted to go, to be living for myself and no one else.

I did not want to stay.

I did not want to be on this earth, if it meant being stuck here.

I read my books on taoist immortals until the words blended together and my brain felt numb.

As my body’s strength waned and my hunger, once roaring and violent, became quelled and meek, I felt closer to He Xiang than ever before.

Huo Huang checked up on me many times.

He was loving towards me, as much as I hated it.

It didn’t matter. I felt little towards him other than feeling violated. What word could describe a boy who fell in love at first sight with one he had never met other than “foolish?”

It was always an idealized version of myself in his mind.

I knew what I needed to do, and how to do it.

The thought of being dead never made me feel more alive.

“We’ve been fortunate and loving in our relationship for eight years up to this point,” I rehearsed.

“Now it seems that we will be parting for a long time, with only a short while left together, but there’s nothing to be done about it!”

The words felt vile on the tongue, fake and insincere, but I felt giddy.

The chisel was mine.

I tied my hair into loops, using the chisel as a makeshift hairpin.

Not unlike what he had stolen from me.

Was it an immortal’s path to abandon their family?

Leaving behind a lover and a child, was I not unlike my father?

It didn’t matter.

I was getting what I wanted.

And I understood.

As they buried bamboo, I walked along the clouds.

[pararennial-archived]

*‵ ･ comets & cicadas ･ ′

There is something chilling about Benjamin Banneker's poetic assessment of cicadas and their likeness to comets. Excerpts of the analogy flash occasionally in her mind, like sepia-toned memories playing beneath closed eyes.

"... but they, like the comets, make but a short stay with us..."

She is on the rooftop, knees tucked against her chest while her eyes scan the night sky. The soft purple of dusk clings to the edge of where land meets the heavens before surrendering to the inky dark of night's domain. Constellations are captured within cobalt depths, mapping out pieces of her history ⏤ transmission signals between past and present. The line of communication is not apparent, but it's there is dialogue in the form of thin wires suspended within the atmosphere, wavering to and fro like waves. Eventually these strings start to tighten, she feels it pull within her. She cannot stay where she is for long. Something calls.

"... their lives are short, they are merry. they begin to sing or make a noise from first they come out of the earth till they die..."

When a butterfly emerges from its chrysalis, it is rebirth. It rises from the broken rind of its former life anew. From beneath, when gold emerges in the form of cracks along her skin, is this something new? Or something she forced herself to bury like some unknown precious mineral? Or something she lets sleep, dormant until it can't any longer and emerges out screaming?

She remembers how it burned when ichor overtakes blood ⏤ striking lightning, forming roots and branches out of gold ( is it no coincidence that they all look the same, as though Nature intended it? ). That was before it became as natural as a snake shedding its skin. She doesn't know what to make of it, and thus, she lets herself soar, as above, but tethered, so below.

"... the hindermost part rots off, but it does not appear to be any pain to them..."

Flowers, fungi, or bones. It's hard to determine on weathered marble bas-reliefs of women reverently holding the potential aforementioned aloft, bewitching many scholars alike. However, what still remains to be translated are the mysteries of which the ephemeral incessantly reoccurs, like a once-bare branch exalted in bloom in spring after winter. Perhaps incessant isn't quite the right world, but rather, inevitable.

Roxanne would have to guess that inevitability extends to cicadas having to dig their way past mulching petals, mycelium, and hollowed, splintered bone to breach the surface only for a short taste of freedom and merrimaking before they too, must return to the earth rotting away. She would also figure that it goes the same for comet tails pinching off and dissipating into the void of space when they return for their short, appointed hour in dramatic fashion. One would think borrowed time is a sad waste... a loss, but no, it's a small victory. At least to her it is. It doesn't hurt anymore.

"... for they continue on singing till they die..."

For now, she can celebrate what she leaves behind in the wake of the days she mourned what she thought she lost. She feels there is no sense of feeling the weight of being so disproportionate to the rest of the world, like an incorrect measurement of whatever this is. Bearing the burden of ancient ills on her shoulders and carrying out good will in the creases of her palms felt normal to her, at least now she thinks it should... while relieved, at times she wonders if such serenity in embracing this is as limited as the lives of comets and cicadas.

The soft cool of the summer evening and the chirping of crickets ground her again, edges of roof tiles softly digging into her legs to remind her that such familiarity is still to be found. Her neck starts to strain from her fervently staring past the Moon's pale face to the stars twinkling beyond. Message received. The wires run slack and she finds her way down with ease, pulling imaginary wavelengths close to her heart. This is something new.

[avas-wonderland]

“Breached”

(CW: gore, lots of it)

Something for @anomalousalchemist’s Danganronpa x SCP AU

————————-/

The Chaos Insurgency building is quiet for once tonight.

Crickets chirped outside the gates. Cicadas were droning from the grassy plains and the sky shimmered with stars. Perhaps tonight was to be the longest this building has ever been quiet for some time if not for the two captives that intel had “borrowed” from their rival company.

The corridors have a hollow hum in its interior. Tonight, it was disrupted by the squelch of fluids followed by a shrill scream.

A burnt hand belonging to a soldier plopped down onto the ground.

Joining it was a spleen, a rib, and a foot twitching with little sparks of light. Two webbed hands slammed into the body’s abdomen. Bolts of bright lighting roasted it’s corpse to a crispy shade of black. Around the corpse’s neck was a pair of handcuffs that once held #7948 captive, aka the anomaly that the soldier had the balls to call a “wimp”.

The Iris of its one visible eye, the other hidden under its bangs, stared daggers at the corpse with a coy toothy grin.

Sirens screeched an ear-piercing signal that sent a torrent of militia rushing to the corridor.

Guns that were blasting bullets now clattered on hard titanium tilted floor

What echoed through the building was the warbled roar that belonged to the figure who dashed along the ceiling. It dodged the bullets that left dents along a neat line on the ceiling, slithering swiftly into an open air vent.

“Don’t stand there, jackass! Get th-“

Another soldier had his sentence cut short when a pair of dark green claws punctured the flesh of his throat. Rows of teeth yanked at his uniform before his body was ripped in half by the claws.

A few soldiers shot at the reptile as quick as they could.

Whatever bullets somehow hit its body felt like nothing more than the bite of a mosquito.

Its eyes—a haunting hue of yellow—flashed bright with infuriated bloodlust.

A swipe of the anomaly’s tail decapitated the heads of three other sentries that charged towards it.

Looking down at the squirming guard in its grip, #682 lifted him up high above the floor

It tossed the two halves of the body onto the floor. A loud “thud” echoed and the corpse was slathered in a pool of his own entrails. The fragrance of blood wafted through its nose, a familiar smell he’s fond of

#682 growled a nearby soldier that backed away slowly from it in attempt to catch off guard with a bullet.

A snarling noise forced her to look up above the open air vent oozing with a red sticky trickle of down-pouring blood.

Sasha leapt out of the air vent, sticking the end of its tail straight into the brain of the unsuspecting sentry, making her drop her gun as it electrocutes her.

It’s tail slid out to rip off the sentry’s head with Sasha taking a hearty bite out of the the abdomen of its limp prey.

Blood spurted out, drenching some of the soldiers so much they they can’t see.

It scampered off the body to go and rip out the jugular veins of another soldier trio among the clutter of guns collapsing onto the tiles.

As vocal cords were being torn left to right, another group of soldiers stormed in only to slip on the puddles of blood below. Multiple skulls cracked against the titanium while a few had brains split open from the impact.

Sasha dove back into the vent from before, a soldier accidentally slamming their face into the vent edges and squishing their face straight through the glass of the helmet.

Hiro unhinged its jaw to chomp a couple soldiers in half, gleefully adding onto the carnage of the hallway.

Sasha emerged out of the vent again in a flash of an electrical adrenaline rush, paralyzing some more soldiers.

Red flares of light harmonized with the blaring sirens from above. A fitting setting for the eruption of insanity that stirred within the halls. The Insurgency’s steel plated walls—once clear steel—now painted with splotches of warm viscera and broken bones.

Hiro roared as its hands slashed open the throats of charging sentries, blood spraying in individual rays of droplets staining its skin and shirt.

Another soldier ran but tripped over a blue tail that clutched her and pulled her into an open vent.

Sasha emerged with a sparking, twitching corpse in its grip before tossing it to three more sentries, shocking them all along wit it.

Screams and sirens surrounded the area but the sound of the anomalies blood spilling drowned out the silenced voices.

Hiro ripped out a soldier’s liver before slamming it into his brain and dragging out the rest of his organs in a trail of sickly sweet stenches.

Bullet shells and torn or electrified bodies littered the floor.

Sasha pounded across the floor, emitting 800 volts of light and striking a group of soldiers upon instant contact before they could even aim their guns at it. She dove into the group with hands sparking wildly with volts.

A loud crash of thunder launched the soldiers into a bloody clump of mangles bodies.

Hiro jumped onto the wall behind a soldier, scaling the building. It ripped out their spine with his own teeth, tossing the open-spined corpse in the air like a chew toy.

The corpse slammed smack into a wall. It slid down, a splatter of blood slid down with it. The hinges holding the one slab of wall together fell apart.

It swung down and crushed three more soldier against the wall, splitting their waists from their torsos.

One moment, the two anomalies were chained up behind a solder after a lengthy capture. But now they were mauling any solder and every soldier they can get their claws on.

The corridor had become a dingy, dry-blood coated, gut spilled plethora or a massacre, all because the damn Insurgency had chosen to “borrow” them from the Foundation without any warning.

A call command rang out on the P.A system for the soldier to retreat.

Two loud roars, Hiro and Sasha respectively, sent the surviving guards to scurry through the guts and bones and through the exit. With the last of the soldiers who were barely alive, escaping via the call command, the corridor was silent once again with the exception of blood slowly dripping into a puddle from above the ceiling.

The sickly sweet smell of organs were in every nook and cranny of the corridor.

Yasuhiro was standing above a soldier’s crushed skull with Sasha standing before another soldier’s charred corpse.

Relief filled the two anomalies that looked at each other in the middle of the hall.

Sasha wiped the residue of blood off its face. She stumbled a little while hurrying towards Hiro, bloody footprints trailing from her webbed feet and tip of iys tail. The humanoid reptile approached the eel woman without hesitation.

Yasuhiro held Sasha tight,sliding down against a bloody wall with Sasha in its arms.

It lifted its feet up to its chest, cuddling the humanoid reptile.

“Huh….it feels like a date.”

Sasha’s voice is sore from roaring but not so sore that Hiro couldn’t hear it. And it heard Sasha loud and clear.

“We should do this more often.”

“Maybe…”

Sasha nuzzled against Hiro as he ran its hands through its hair. That didn’t stop them from hearing the clack of two familiar pairs of shoes on the ground.

“Oh for crap’s sake!”

A slightly exhausted from running Dr Akamatsu and a conceded Dr Gokuhara stood upon the organ-scattered hall of the corridor.

“Those damn soldiers don’t tget it…”

“Gonta shall contact breach center.” The tall man smiled.

Kaede gave him a halfhearted smile.

“Remind me to get a mocha while you’re at it..”

[crater-lake]

141

7/24/24

It feels dishonest to paste possible poetry from the Notes App, but alas:

Night Book

The deers skinny legs standing in the yard facing me like fence posts. It read me up and down and could not tell I was good. The deer is the whole wide world.

How it trotted the road twice. It ambled adagio.

Katydids, cicadas, humming nights music. Night. The hum of that. Whole shrubs jittered and crept. Street light ebbed and dripped and waxed. The suburban road jut far into the distance: single house upon single house upon single house. Am I ready for fiction? I might have to write my whole story first to get to the rest. And who cares for tankas about the summer? People crave novelty, confession, catharsis, and connection. I might make connection a big umbrella and put everything else under it.

The fog light bleeds into , or out, or with, or through. The fog is speaking by light. The Tappan Zee bridge, beacons mounting its rising pillars, bleeding light into light. It wanders indigo crested firmament, flits into the hollow. Night is contact with void: behold the fracture; horizons hug is broken, behold. Good fog confuses boundary between thing and un-thing. We call clouds that forget how to float, fog, to extinguish their sanctity. They walk among us: not special.

Fog puddles my windshield as I make huge turns on New York roads snaking through deep green foliage and low shacks shadow laden. I am driving my 2004 Honda Civic to get fucked by a stupid man named Victor.

Highway names: Saw Mill, Taconic, the Sprain. They zig zag each other, patchwork through the darkness. Growing up, my family took such highways on our passage to Fairfield: Henry Hudson, Saw Mill, Cross County, the Hutch, then the Merritt. The Hutch and the Merritt are the same highway in different states. The latter is much nicer curving through Connecticut, intoned with flush flora, peppered occasionally with elaborate bridges, low and flourished.

Which is to say a thing changes or doesn't change with its name: but the same road becomes new, an invisible border severing it. Imagine yourself somewhere.

I go to the house. Two coyotes, three deer. He's already there. He leads me to a filthy basement. It reeks of mildew, a proper subterranean space. I do like it. Things are strewn about. I am getting too tired to write this

Binder, ice cream, gaming set up.

Why would I clean? Having lived there is whole life.

You're hot. you said that last time. While putting it inside of me, he said, the gum you swallowed will live in your stomach forever. Ananya said the difference between ass and pussy is that ass keeps going and pussy stops. Who should be jealous of whom?

His house light coming on , looking for the cat, the door already wide open when I arrived.

I can't bear the insides of a story. I rather a poem. I am too impatient for fiction. I rather a poem. Get me to the bones, or whatever I am needing to climb, and have the reader connect dots. And make the story in their connecting or their failure to connect.

I understand I am tired tomorrow. I made the choice. So what?

[sanosoup]

now playing…

…𝐛𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧 𝐟𝐭. 𝐦𝐢𝐭𝐬𝐤𝐢 𝐥𝐲𝐫𝐢𝐜𝐬…

angst drabbles w/ bonten inspired by mitski lyrics!

♪ a/n: first post, why not make it sad ;) i might make a part 2 w others or maybe like another artist idk i just thought this might be a fitting post considering my theme wink. also this is just my interpretation of the little snippets of lyrics, def not trying to claim i know the actual meaning! this isn’t my best but i love the concept sooo pls forgive me if it’s a little rough 😰

♪ warnings: angst, mentions of heartbreak/toxic behavior?, unrequited love, mentions of drug/alcohol use + addiction, mentions of vomit (nothing graphic), fwb relationship, just unhealthy coping mechanisms :) 16+ ONLY (<16/ageless blogs dni with this post or my account)

♪includes: mikey, sanzu, ran & rindou

#—mikey

—

“And then one warm summer night

I'll hear fireworks outside

And I'll listen to the memories as they cry, cry, cry”

- fireworks -

—

mikey hates summer, the lengthy days, some dry to the bone, some dampened by the morning fog that tended to linger throughout the day. he hated this day in particular, and he hated how he could see everything transpire from his apartment window, and how he couldn’t even pry his lingering stare from the festival if he tried. mikey couldn’t tell if it was just his rampant imagination, or if he could truly hear the merriment, the giggles, the sound of two lovers hearts beating as a symphony down below in the festival. he sat perched, waiting, listening, watching for even just a glimpse of a face that looked enough like you from how high up he was. there was no one, after all, he’s the one who extinguished whatever flame the both of you shared with his calloused icy fingertips as though it were nothing.

mikey hated summer nights even more, how the cicadas wouldn’t seem to shut up, even in the city; how the festival was still blooming with light and joyous calls of each other’s names. he hated how everything reminded him of you, and he hated how he never let himself feel you anymore. the image of you, engraved in his mind had been long drowned in the sands of time, your smile was nothing to him but ash. he tensed upon hearing cacophony of words that rolled off of people’s tongues all at once, perhaps maybe one or two of those words sounded like your name, but it never sounded right. why should i mourn? he questions, when there is nothing for me to mourn?

the sky lit up deep into the night, fireworks booming and cracking across the sky like explosions of vivid lightning sent from the heavens. each one a different color, impossibly shimmery as they hissed on their way down, burning out before they could ever reach the ground. mikey hates that when the bright hues of the night sky illuminated his face from where he watched on his balcony, all he felt was the way you’d squeeze his hand every time another boom would erupt. it was a special memory hidden deep in the nook of his youth he had since forgotten, something that made the image of your face and sound of your voice, laughter, your sobs, all so vivid in his brain. a hot tear rolled down his cheek. he hurt you, so in turn, in the most raw moments of the night, he feels his skin set aflame and burn in silence. the pain, nearly unbearable, made his ribs feel so hollow and his hands feel so heavy; quiet tears flooded his cheeks and raced to his chin, bracing to fall to the ground. this is what he wanted, isn’t it?

#—sanzu

—

“I am a forest fire

And I am the fire and I am the forest

And I am a witness watching it

I stand in a valley watching it

And you are not there at all”

-a burning hill-

—

sanzu has lost count of how many week long benders he’s been on throughout the years; it always started with a pill, a needle, a lighter, anything he could touch, and he’d almost always end up in your arms. you were a soft warmth, like sun beaten leather, a rough contrast to the unstoppable red roaring flames that were his highs and his coming down. sanzu must admit, you had since become a routine of his, he almost always relied on you to come around when he felt himself start to sink; he had a sickly tender regard towards your frantic drives to hospitals or scurrying across your house to give him something to throw up whatever he could in. he felt the least alone when you desperately held him against your chest and he listened to your heart race, did you really care for him that much?

sometimes he wished he wasn’t like this, a good man perhaps, good enough for you. moments when his head wasn’t clouded by whatever ran through his body were moments spent pondering what could’ve been. he wasn’t sure why he did this to himself at times, but when he thought too much about it, it made him want to do it again. to feel that rush of falsified euphoric splendor, to be free, to fall, and to land right in your arms where he was finally safe again.

sanzu was falling, almost certain you’d be there to catch him, he’d let himself. what a surprise it was when his head hit the cold tile and he felt as though his brain was splattered across the floor in a lovely medley of everything he never was. he had flown too high, drifting across silver clouds and stars, that he never saw you leave your steady position on the ground. it was too late when he realized you were all too smart for him; smart enough to realize that the uncontrollable wildfire ignited in the both of you was sparked only by him. he’ll stand and burn, he’ll let you escape.

#—ran

—

“I could stare at your back all day

And I know I've kissed you before, but

I didn't do it right

Can I try again, try again, try again”

-pink in the night-

—

ran, as cold as he likes to be, can not help that he holds a special regard for you; you made him utterly sensitive, like a child, tears brimming in his eyes at the smallest of notions that you wouldn’t be around anymore. how could he be so careless with something as priceless as his affections? you were, after all, just a friend with benefits. though, he couldn’t help but feel something in his chest churn and beat for more than the quick, hollow touches the both of you shared. he wanted every touch you graced upon his warm skin to be calculated, well thought out, as if seeking more than carnal pleasure.

he was still awake, so silent and weak in these hours that a brush of wind could possibly turn him to dust, nothing more. beside him, you lay, nestled up to your chin in his sheets as your chest rose and fell slowly with the gentle breaths of sleep; he stared, afraid that something so delicate as your constant breathing would stop, that there’d be nothing he could really do about it at all. the thought horrified him, it played with the chords of his tender heart as he stared at your back dancing with the slight movements of breath as his only solace. ran could truly admire the expanse of your back, shoulder blades peaking out in the slightest, and soft skin lit only by the silver licks of moonlight peaking through the windows.

ran never wanted to stop looking at your bare body under the covers, he couldn’t hardly contain himself when you lingered in his bedroom, a silent announcement that you’d stay until morning; it was cruel, the both of you knew this, to sleep beside each other as if it were anything more than it was. yet, in a sense, his stomach leapt with joy to pretend as though it was; he was high off of that faint extra beat in his heart he always got whenever he lied. ran drew in a breath as you rustled in the sheets, the sound of your body flooding his ears and making his heart leap to his throat. his eyes grew watery as he watched you fall back into the deep abyss you had been floating in before, he would miss nights like this when they came to an end, nights where he pondered if you would truly be the only person he thought of like this. ran sighed, surely you were once in a lifetime, and surely he hadn’t held you close enough; then, he was certain, you wouldn’t have left him grasping for answers as though they were there at all.

#—rindou

—

“I found you

I found the door

But when I stepped through

There was no floor”

-i want you-

—

if rindou where to die right now, he would be satisfied. satisfied that he spent his nights in your arms and his days lingering over you; what did you feel like, again? he forgets, only to remember when he touched you again. you were perhaps a dream, so quick and nonsensical, yet he thought of you quite frequently throughout the day. it had been that way since high school, “they’ve got a boyfriend, y’know?” he knew; and he knew when you had broken up, when you had gotten back together with him, when you moved on from him, and when you looked for another option in someone else, eyes always grazing over rindou. rindou feels hollow sometimes, always wondering if you’d ever be able to fill such an obscure nook in his heart that no other lover of his ever had.

he waited for the moments in which you exchanged touches in between separate lovers like windows of spare time you spent with each other; though, he found himself addicted to it, wanting more than you gave him, and when he found himself courageous enough to ask for more, you had already found someone else to give it to. rindou occupied himself with girls, boys and nearly anyone else who didn’t remind him of you, but his wistful imagination always wandered to the idea of you when he knew it was so wrong of him to even ponder your image anymore.

there you stood that warm night in june, plain and lonely, and he as well. the both of you shared freshly broken hearts, raw from the feeling you had peeled from them and tossed to the street as though they never served you any good. rindou wanted your touch again, he looked into your eyes and could see the hunger you held as well; though, this time was different. he felt like nothing more than a fool for doing this to himself, making his heart so numb and calloused that he couldn’t feel anything except for the parts of his lovers that reminded him of you. yet, when he touched you, his tender affections had extinguished at the hands of his own cruel treatment. so in love with the idea of not feeling for you, that he truly gave up feeling, rindou felt his throat swell and his breath hitch as he struggled to feel sad or angry. he felt nothing, nothing besides the cruel sting of disappointment.

perhaps in another life.

play again?…reqs and askbox are open!

©sanosoup 2021. do not plagiarize, translate, repost, or edit my work.

[indianamoonshine]

Strawberry | Chapter 13 | Common Tongue

Summary: This chapter is titled after a Hozier song. Take that as you will.

Rating: M. If I see anyone minor interacting with this or hear of anyone reading it, I will block your ass.

TAG LIST: @t3a-bag @lumimon47 @dodgerandevans @hallway5 @dancingwiththeplanets @steeevienicks @orneryscandallousandevil @ficthots @gaiusfrakkinbaltar @reginagina-blog1 @loveme-tenderly @lastphoenixrising @rattlemyb0nes @rebellou @alljusthumans @gaiuswrites @lovecatsnotpeople @literallydontlook

“I’m a virgin,” you had said to him one night.

It meant nothing.

It meant nothing because, to him, you were the same with or without having slept with someone. Din knew that - had you chose him - it would be an honor. He would think no differently of you either way, and that even if the two of you never had sex, he was glad to have met you.

Now he thinks he may be addicted.

Part of him really wishes that you hadn’t gone this far; that the innocence would have lasted until whenever it was that he forced to leave. Because now he was in over his fucking head.

Behind the shed, you’d grabbed his hand and palmed yourself against the cotton of your underwear. The song of cicadas did a humbling job of masking your little pants or the way you whimpered beneath him. And, sure, Din did everything in his power to break traditional norms, but he wasn’t going to fuck you behind a shed for the first time. His heart broke when he separated himself from you and you whined underneath your breath in protest.

“Come on,” he huffed, lungs attempting to keep up. “Let’s go.”

|

Three minutes.

That’s how long it took to run from the main house to the cabin. Three goddamned minutes was a record. You don’t recall running that fast since becoming an adult. If your high school gym teacher has witnessed the velocity in which you just sprinted, she’d be amazed.

It was good old fashioned motivation.

Fortunately, Din’s barely taken his hands off of you so he managed to catch your clumsy ass when you tripped over the lip of the front door. The two of you had chuckled against the other before he asked, “Are you alright?”

“Yeah,” you giggle. You place a hand upon your cheek in feign distress. “But I think I may need to lay down…”

Your tone, which is laced with suggestive demure, has Din raising a brow. “Oh yeah?” he growls.

You nod sweetly, lips still pressed against his. “Mm hm.”

|

You’re so goddamn beautiful.

When he presses you against the plushness of the sheets, he admires the way your hair fans about you and frames your face. Your cheeks are flushed and your lips plump from his kiss, the natural pout of them more pronounced now that he’s bitten and sucked at the flesh. The brilliance of your skin glows beneath the yellow light, neck joining the expanse of your bust which heaves with endurance. He kisses down your pulse point until he reaches the neck of his t-shirt.

His t-shirt.

“Can I?” he whispers against the hollow of your neck, fingering the edge of the fabric.

“Yes.”

|

You’ve never been this exposed to anyone other than the occasional friend (when changing) or your sisters (also when changing). It’s been so long since you’ve gone outside of yourself - into the very thick of reality - so when he asked if he could reveal you to it, the urgent “yes” surprised yourself.

Still - it’s another kind of anxiety; not violent, but in the way. When he’s stripped the shirt from your body - carefully, as though he were unwrapping a priceless antique - it’s a natural instinct to cover yourself, confident of the way you weren’t.

“Take all the time you need,” he whispers against the flesh of your neck. “I’m a patient man.”

It should’ve been enough and maybe in an alternate universe it was. Maybe that version of you threw all misogynistic beauty standards out the window into the night, but in this present day-in-age, you took a minute to go over the mental checklist. What if you weren’t to his standards? What was the situation like down there? What would you do if he wasn’t all that you decided him to be?

How long would it take to heal from that?

Before your mother died she took your hand and made you promise: I will do everything I can to feel joy, as fleeting as it may be. There are lessons to be learned. She’d made you chant it in a monkish way, as though preforming a ceremony in the sterility of a hospital room strung with cheap tinsel and a sad, plastic tree at her bedside. You’d understood what she meant then like the way a student might understand the components of Ancient Greek; not until it is utilized can its full potential make any sense at all.

The philosophers - and your mother - be onto something.

|

Something like a muffled version of his name slips lazily through your lips. And while it’s dissected, pulled apart with a lazy and tense breath, it’s the first time his name has sounded poetic. Din never thought of himself this way; that his person could ever inspire such an organic response as the way you unwound beneath him. He’s laid with women before - three, he thinks - but he’s not positive he’s ever experienced a woman before.

Xian was good at what she did and she knew it; Din wasn’t oblivious to that but it lacked a certain something. The other times his body has been weaved together with another’s was faceless; just hookups he’s tried so desperately to forget. Hazy nights in which he woke up to in the morning, their backs to him, and identity indistinguishable. Eventually he just stopped trying.

It wasn’t until now with your fingers clutching at his hair that he realized how the act - the very dance itself - could be purifying. How it could wash away the very worst of similar experiences and how it made something that always felt cheap now priceless. The body is a temple, his elders would always say, and it never made any sense to him. The body is a fortress made to withstand hurricanes and torpedos. It was no place to kneel, to worship, to inspire anything other than sheer refuge.

How ironic, as kneeling was the very thing he was doing now.

Irony wasn’t the word. Fateful, he supposes, as he tastes the fruit that’s always been so forbidden to him. Your thighs clench around his head and the fingers that have been stroking his hair grip the sheets, white knuckling the starched weave, until a gasp is caught in your throat. And then there is nothing but the pressure of ignition until it crumbles around you, fizzing the air with something akin to champagne bubbles.

There is no nasally whine that follows afterwards like there always had been before you. No wild “yes!” that pollutes the air. Just the instability of a weakened chest, the grasping at air, and the delicious feel of your hand enveloping his after having pulled it from your sex.

|

You weren’t a stranger to penetration though this was was with exceptions; no one had ever done anything to you with foreign or, well, domestic objects. At the age of eighteen, your friends at the time had dragged you to the building on the east end of town that never officially existed until legality said that it did. La Boudoir Rouge was the place ‘vodka aunts’ went to cure the blues, bought mysterious items, and then hid the pink bags in the back of their closets.

So, yes; sex was a foreign exchange policy you’ve never found yourself involved in, but you knew the dynamics. You’d bought equipment and even enjoyed it more than you’d initially expected. Penetration wasn’t at all strange to you.

This made it easier, you think, as Din finally slides in. There was a stretch of course, and it took you a moment to get comfortable enough to brave any movement. Din drops his forehead upon yours, letting out a strangled breath through his nose, as you struggle to come to terms with the size. He’d given off an energy but…

“It’s so big,” you gasp once he reaches the spongey part of you. It feels stupid, it falls short on a botched intake of breath, but it’s the truth.

Din’s composing himself, silent in his endeavor to mold himself within you. His arms are pressed on either side of you, body flush against yours with his pelvis meeting your pubic bone. There’s another moment of silence before he kisses at your temple.

“Are you okay?” he whispers.

A smile graces your lips, though your eyes are clenched. “That’s an understatement.”

|

The pace is fast, sweat inspiring. It drips down your neck until it falls in the valley of your breasts and Din wants so badly to lick it from your skin, but he’s too distracted by the way you clench around him. It’s ironclad - it’s the best goddamn pussy he’s ever had.

He wants to tell you that but he’s unsure of how you’d react. You’ve been letting out delicious gasps and moans reaching an octave you’d never reach sober, but not you’re coherently vocal enough for him to say it outright.

And then you breathe it in a pathetic whine: “It’s yours, Din. It’s yours.”

He almost stops, but his body is hellbent on seeing this through. Whatever the fuck this was; a spiritual experience maybe. Perhaps he’d died after the last mission - broken and buried underneath mounds of dirt - and now rests in paradise where he fucks his way through eternity.

A raw, animalistic response possesses him, the fistful of flesh from your hips is replaced by the swell of you cheeks. He embraces you softly, but sternly enough to incite a whimper.

“What was that, chica bonita, huh?”

You throw your head back as he slams his hips against yours with more force, the excitement conjuring a great wave of adrenaline coursing through his veins. You try to speak but it fails to materialize.

He was balls deep and you were still shy by your interjection.

“What’s mine, sweet girl?” he whispers, mouth tickling along your collarbones. The contrast of gentle words and barbaric thrusts is something he’s never experienced during sex. Ever.

You let out one more mouthwatering whine before saying: “My pussy is yours, Din. Take it. Please, please…”

|

Suffice to say, that’s what does it. The two of you cum at the same time, like a synchronized dance, clutching one another so tightly it leaves red ribbons. Your fingernails had dug into his forearms and his at your waist in which his hands wrapped around. He lets out a deep, broken growl as you whimper, shaking like a leaf, and he pulls out just in time to paint your belly with pearlescent threads.

He collapses on top of you, knocking the wind from your fragile body. You’re absolute jelly beneath him, crumbled into bits, and would never be the same. Let’s stay here forever, you want to tell him.

Din presses his face into the hollow of your neck, listening to the rapid pulse beneath flushed and thin skin. Then he kisses the blood flow beneath once, twice. “My gorgeous girl…”

Stay with me. Stay with me.

You wrap your arms - which have settled from the convulsions - around his neck and hug him tightly against you.

Don’t leave me. Don’t leave me.

[caramellody]

I honestly expected at least a good 2-3? paragraphs for this au concept but OOPS i made it a proper au

[NOTE THAT THIS WILL CONTAIN MAJOR LMK S3 SPOILERS. IM TALKING LATE EPISODE SPOILERS FOR THE SEASON THAT GO DEEPER THAN THE SMALL COMMENT I MADE IN MY LAST POAT, READ AT YOUR OWN CAUTION]

basically the tl;dr for what im about to say is that the 4th ring hits tripitaka as as it was originally going to, that gets passed on through reincarnation to tang. bad times ensue

now for the longer ramble: courts still out on wether tripitaka dies on impact when he gets hit by the true fire, but i dont think he'd live for much longer. at least not without aome sort of divine power keeping him on some sort of life support.

regardless Sun Wukong feels REALLY guilty about it. and its one of the things that haunt him. and durring the events of season 3, he prays he doesnt walk into some random guy who just so happens to be the reincarnation of tripitaka because if they, in theory, did exist, they would have such a bad time.

but no need to worry about that! its all going to be fiiiine~

SWK not being aware of tang being tripitaka's (and for that mater, the golden cicada's) reincarnation mostly comes from the fact that Tang is well...Tang. hes very much not like the master he once served. add that to the fact that swk just flat out tried to not have as many talks with the fanboy scholar and it kinda makes sence why he probably wouldnt have seen it comming. or maybe he knew and he was denying the truth until it started back at him in his face.

regardless the thing was in tang the whole time and add that to the fact he never really activated his golden cicada powers until season 3 means that both the true fire that was implanted in him and his golden cicada ability that he had inherently, whatever it may fully be, are so intertwined due to centuries of being dormant that they're kinda fused into one.

(this is unlike mei's situation, where she constantly used her dragon abilities throughout the series proper. so in a way the true fire of samadhi and her powers were seperate since she was adept with the latter. Tang doesnt get that luxury.)

the few times it appears in season 3 also have his original power affected in a way, the times he pulls up his shields they posses a golden firey quality to them. and when the golden cicada appeared before him, it burns up rather then disolve into sparkles. and tang could tell something was very wrong if he starts the ritual, but MK was down and everyone else was being held at a grip by macaque. he was really left with two REALLY bad options.

Swk and nezha dont make it in time thats for sure. swk specifically was in such a rush to stop the ritual he didnt realize tang collapsing to his knees as his ring was triggered. macaque is very much like how he was in the episode proper. but hes also just a smidge more terrified because whatever is burning the glasses man alive is no longer just the true fire.

SWK and Nezha figure this out too. and Swk specifically is almost hollow to a sense. to everyone else, when Tang really rips into wukong, its tang venting out his frustrations of just how much swk has failed mk, a friend in the heat of a moment venting how much hes failed everyone. to Sun Wukong? it it brings him back to the journey, to the times tripitaka would call him out on his bullshit, and he knew it was unwarranted for the most part.

not this time. he knew he fucked up.

[cedarboots]

could we hear a little about 'planes is a gender' for the wip ask game? or perhaps the heron story as well? 👀

Thank you! Planes is a Gender (or whatever it will end up being called) is a story I started writing this summer, and I think a lot of US Southeastern summer ended up in it even though it is not set in our world. As far as I can make out it's a story about flying machines, falling stars, cicadas, and being a strange quiet kid on the verge of figuring out that they're going to be a queer adult.

Snippets here:

The cicadas had just begun to sing when the star-trapper came to town.

I was twelve that year, lanky and crowd-shy and uneasy in my skin, and what I liked better than anything was to climb the trees on the edges of the fields surrounding town and watch the sky. We were part of a wide stretch of farm country between several great cities, and the sky above us was always filled with travelers: nimble Grasshoppers lofting into the air and gliding for miles until they drifted down for another launch; fast, sleek transports, gleaming Kestrels and Clearwaters that pierced the clouds like darts; sidewinding sky caravans with their many propellers; even the occasional stately airship that cast a shadow over the whole length of Main Street.

From the top of a tree, I felt I could almost brush their underbellies with my fingers-- I recognized the craft that passed again and again, regulars on their routes, and dreamed wild dreams that one day they would take me with them.

...

I broke through the edge of the field and stood panting at the edge of the bank.

The road was down in a hollow between the two raised fields; the far one lay fallow, and in the midst of the high clover sat the strange craft, its props spinning to a halt.

It was built like a skycutter, I decided, but larger and more muscular than any trim little Wayfarer or swept-back Kestrel. The solid body and sturdy riveting made it look almost military. Still, it had the long wings and sizeable fuel tanks of a cutter. I liked her; she was a voyager.

The cockpit opened, and I froze. The pilot climbed out: a stocky figure in a noon-colored flight coat, who removed a heavy round helmet and tucked it under one arm.

I watched silently as the stranger sat down on the wing of the cutter and looked about, quite at ease. The sharp lines of that coat struck me as mechanical, as though its wearer belonged in the belly of that flying machine, another part made to measure.

I would go up and say something. I would. I took a step forward, teetering on the edge of the bank-- the pilot turned and saw me, and smiled.

[qitwrites]

|| 1 || 2 || 3 || 4 || 5 || 6 || 7 || 8 || 

Midoriya is the one that begins the entire ‘nervous system compression’ ritual.

Back at the training camp, when he was banged and bruised and tattered to all hell, bumping into Shoji had been the best-case scenario. Being wrapped up in his many, many arms had cocooned Midoriya’s body from further damage, provided him with great mobility, and Shoji’s grounding personality had been a major reassurance during a frankly abysmal situation.

After they’d finally recovered Bakugou, and after that tragically big reveal of All Might’s biggest kept secret, something in Midoriya had broken.

He was still doing his best to train his quirk, he was still doing his best to exist and thrive alongside his classmates, to study and work hard and eat well and sleep on time. For the most part, he was himself, and he was doing ok.

But then there were the nightmares. Nightmares in which Bakugou misses Kirishima’s hand, or All Might dies at the hand of All for One, or Midoriya somehow fucks up and gives the League of Villains One for All. There’s visions of his friends laying dead at his feet, of the world burning to the ground, and the utter helplessness of letting his friends down, letting his teacher and his idol down, letting them burn.

Sometimes, the world exerts a pressure on Midoriya that would put Atlas to damn shame.

2 weeks after the Kamino incident, when Midoriya is sitting at his desk, his dumbbell moving up and down as he pores over his notes, a wave of anxiety, sudden and heavy, rolls over him and he can’t breathe. There’s not enough air in the room, in the entire world probably, and his vision tunnels, darkening around the edges. He drops the dumbbell and clutches his head, trying to get his breathing under control, but it isn’t working, and he can’t seem to hear or see or breathe.

Distantly, he remembers the training camp. His memories of that time are tainted by the agony he felt when Dabi had vanished with Bakugou in his grip. He doesn’t remember the more fun parts, the training and the cooking and the overall learning experience. He just remembers pain.

And then, a small part of him, so small he almost misses it, remembers warmth.

He remembers how warm Shoji was. He remembers feeling, amidst all the panic and chaos, a sense of safeness in Shoji’s arms. He remembers burrowing in that space against his back, and he knows, even though they failed, that he was only able to find a way to help Tokoyami because Shoji gave him his support, took care of him, supported his weight and his burden, if only for those few minutes.

He remembers how warm Shoji was. And he realizes, even as he’s choking for air, that he wants to feel it again.

The walk from his dorm to Shoji’s feels endless. He stumbles along and drags his feet, and he’s not really seeing at this point, moving mostly from muscle memory. He usually visits Todoroki and Uraraka in their rooms, but he’d memorized the entire layout within the first three days of moving in. Shoji lives two floors above him, right next to Kirishima.

When he finally gets there, he’s hollow and empty and there’s still not enough air. A flash of worry pierces through him because he doesn’t want to bother Shoji right now. He doesn’t even know if its ok, what he’s about to ask for. He doesn’t know if it’ll help, if it’s what he needs. He worries, the way he always does, and the air around him is disappearing faster, and he just wants to breathe.

Somehow, before he can talk himself out of it, he reaches up and knocks, pulling his hand away quickly.

10 seconds. He’ll give himself 10 seconds to wait and see if anyone answers, and then he’ll leave and never bother Shoji again.

Shoji comes to the door in 4.

He opens up, clad in pajama pants and nothing else, his iconic mask covering the lower half of his face even in his own room. He looks at Midoriya patiently.

‘I-‘ Midoriya chokes out, voice rough and scratchy. ‘I am having a panic attack.’

Shoji’s eyes widen marginally. ‘Whoa, ok. How can I help?’

If his vision hadn’t started to tunnel again as he hears Shoji say that Midoriya might’ve noted how easily Shoji had understood the situation, and how quickly he was asking Midoriya what he wanted, rather than doing whatever he thought was appropriate. He knew what he was doing. Clearly, he’d done this before.

Midoriya tries to breathe in, and it gets stuck somewhere in his chest and everything hurts but he starts to ramble, ‘I read in a scientific journal somewhere that our nervous system controls our emotions and that when we are anxious, there’s a dissonance in how we function and there’s a quick fix for it, well maybe not a fix, but more like a way to help, if only a little. It’s like a nervous system compression.’

Shoji listens to him with a furrowed brow before carefully asking, ‘Are you saying you want a hug? Will it help you if I hug you?’

To put it simply, yes. Midoriya wants a hug. Midoriya needs a hug. His body physically needs to be grounded because there’s not enough air and he’s going to pass out if his breath keeps getting stuck in his throat and his fingers are numb and the back of his neck is cold and it hurts.

Midoriya nods because the words are getting stuck in his throat.

Shoji opens his arms slowly, and Midoriya looks up. Shoji holds his gaze and carefully moves forward, keeping himself completely in Midoriya’s line of sight.

‘I’m going to hug you now,’ Shoji says, ‘and I’m going to hold you tight. If you want me to ease up, or get off, just tap me anywhere once. If you want me to tighten up, tap twice.’

Midoriya feels himself starting to hyperventilate and then -

Warm.

Shoji is so warm. He exudes heat, his skin soft and warm and alive. He wraps himself around Midoriya, and he blankets him from everything, driving away the light, the distant sounds of Ashido yelling at Kaminari, the cries of the cicadas, everything. He holds Midoriya against his chest, and he holds him tight. Shoji is strong, ridiculously so, and he knows Midoriya is strong too. He holds him with the kind of pressure that actually lets Midoriya breathe.

And so he does. His shoulders start to slump as he takes one deep inhale followed by another, measured and timed. He follows the rhythm of Shoji’s breathing, follows the rise and fall of his chest, and his fingers loosen up, warming slowly. Hesitantly, he brings his hands up and puts them around Shoji’s middle and receives an encouraging squeeze.

From there, the tension seeps out of him, slow and heavy, draining out of every jagged edge and every crack in his body. When he feels another wave of anxiousness, he taps Shoji’s back twice, and Shoji squeezes, hard enough that Midoriya’s breath stutters, but also hard enough that the anxiety slips away, almost tangible in its intensity. Belatedly he realizes that he’s been crying, but he can’t apologize when his face is smooshed against his friend’s chest.

After what seems like forever, Midoriya is breathing again. He feels somewhat normal. He feels as close to normal as possible, at least. He has feeling everywhere in his body. Nothing feels stuck in his throat, and his mouth isn’t dry. His tears have stopped, and his hands aren’t shaking. His heart is beating, fast and strong and slow. He takes in one more steadying breath before tapping Shoji’s spine once.

The arms around him loosen slowly, opening him back to the world. The overhead lights are bright, almost too much, but Midoriya looks straight ahead, right at Shoji’s chest as he pulls his arms off and steps back slowly. Shoji keeps his arms on Midoriya’s shoulders, and he waits. Patiently, he waits for Midoriya to speak, he waits for him to make the next move.

‘I’m ok,’ Midoriya says, rubbing at his eyes. He sees Shoji nod and pull away his arms, always in Midoriya’s line of sight.

‘That’s good. Can you see and hear properly?’ Midoriya nods. ‘Awesome! And your breathing is ok?’ Midoriya nods again.

‘That’s great Midoriya, well done.’

Midoriya barks out a watery chuckle, and then he remembers his tears.

‘Oh,’ he says, reaching into his pocket to pull out a handkerchief, ‘I haven’t used this yet. Please wipe off my tears and possible snot.’ He turns beet red with embarrassment.

Shoji doesn’t laugh though, or even look disturbed. He takes the offered cloth and wipes his chest gently.

‘No problem at all. I will give this back after washing it.’

Midoriya shakes his head, ‘It’s my snot, it’s fine! I can just…’

‘It’s ok, Midoriya. I’ve got it. Really not a problem.’

They stand by the door for a while longer, not speaking but not really needing to either. Shoji is just endlessly patient, and Midoriya is breathing again, and the world feels ok.

When he feels brave enough, Midoriya looks up and catches Shoji’s eyes.

‘Thank you.’ It’s quiet, but his voice doesn’t waver.

Shoji gives him a nod. His eyes are softer, just a little bit. ‘It was not a problem at all.’

Midoriya worries his bottom lip with his teeth before breathing out with a huff. ‘I, um, I was hoping I could, maybe, if this happened again, I could come back to you for a, you know, a nervous system compression? If you’re ok with it?’

Shoji’s eyes go softer still, and he holds Midoriya’s gaze the entire time as he says, ‘Absolutely. I’m here when you need me. Don’t forget that, ok?’

Midoriya gives him a smile, small and tentative but true, and Shoji squeezes his arm. They say their goodbyes in hushed tones and Midoriya walks back to his dorm slowly, feeling more aware of himself than he has in days.

That night, he doesn’t dream. It’s the best sleep he’s had since Kamino.

[rugbypolycule]

what more could you do

pairing: arisu ryouhei x karube daikichi

characters: karube daikichi, arisu ryouhei

rating: general audiences, no warnings apply

words: 1788

summary: freshly dropped out of university and knee-deep in depression, arisu ryouhei breaks up with karube daikichi with no explanation. months later, unable to deal with the fallout, arisu goes to his apartment. wounds that have yet to fully scab over reopen.

ao3 link

Karube didn’t need Arisu. In spite of his poignant absence, the sun still rose every empty morning and set at frigid night. The cold still crept through the cramped apartment, through the creaking floorboards and in-between cracks in not quite sealed windows. The earth turned, it turned, and it turned without Arisu. In this, there was no argument.

So, Karube didn’t need Arisu. If the suffocating world outside his slowly encroaching walls continued its screaming persistence, then Karube too would refuse to bow out. He would grit his teeth, hunch his shoulders in his too-thin jacket, desperately not recalling an exasperatedly fond voice that would nag him to dress warmer. He would curse as he woke up to flecks of snow on his window pane and wrestle with his useless heater. He would not ache for the childlike wonder of someone who was no longer there.

Eventually, the snow would melt. The man who had left would take the rent money with him, and Karube would have to figure out where else he could take up space. Karube would go to work in a run-down bar in the sticky heat of the coming summer, cicadas filling the silence in his mind where a plan for the rest of his life should sit. Karube Daikichi would be, in all senses of the word, alive.

Even so, his chest was empty – so he filled it with tar. Karube was never particularly interested in smoking before the hole in his life abruptly dug itself. Now, the nicotine numbed the disquiet in his head, and his throat burned, and for a brilliant moment nothing felt real. For mere seconds, he could shed the sense of loss that hung around him like a bad smell. He tried his best to heave his heavy hurt out with every exhale, to no avail. He kept smoking, kept treading the smouldering ashes into the concrete beneath his boots outside his apartment building. Kept telling himself this was the last one, that this would be the last time he allowed himself to feel like this.

Eventually, the pack emptied. His hands trembled with it, fingers clenched around cool air. Pressure blossomed in the centres of his upturned palms, stomach knotted, the spaces between his ribs drawn tight.

He shoved his frostbitten fists in his pockets, steeled himself to face a space that was not his home. But as his eyes followed his cloud of exhale, they caught on a figure on the other side of the empty street.

Karube Daikichi realised he did not need a heart.

What was the point of a muscle which tore so easily? Which couldn’t regulate its sole function when it was confronted with such devastating eyes? His heart, this useless lead pump in his chest, that supplied blood to his forsaken limbs. To the legs that would halt for nothing tangible on this earth as they made their way towards Arisu. Like a pitiful asteroid in its hapless orbit around a star, Karube fell into place in front of the man who had left him.

‘Daikichi,’ was all it took to break him. To snap the thin wire that ran from head to heart, built to forbear embarrassment in times like these.

‘Don’t call me that. You don’t get to call me that anymore.’ His voice was abrasion in the quiet evening air. Arisu, tensed and taught, raised his hands in cautious surrender.

‘Sorry. Karube, then. Karube.’

There was always something wounding in the way Arisu said either of his names. As if it was something precious. As if he hadn’t swirled the taste of it in his mouth and resolutely spat it out at Karube’s feet. It made him feel untethered, strings cut all at once and without warning.

‘You kept paying the rent. You left, without telling why, and you never stopped paying the rent. Do you think I need your pity, Arisu? Do you think I need your father’s money?’

Part of Karube wanted to spit more poison at Arisu. To ask if living as a constant disappointment to his father was really so much better than living with Karube. To ask if he really did hate him that much, that he would run to someone who had never tried to understand him, who never tried to love him. Karube had given him so much love. Why did he throw it away?

‘It’s not pity. I would never pity you.’ Arisu’s speech was often soft and hesitant, but in this statement there was an unmistakable firmness.

‘So then fucking explain! You left, Arisu.’

‘I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.’

‘Why do you keep apologising? If you’re really that sorry then just…’

‘Just what?’ And his eyes. Glassy with unshed tears and rimmed with red from many previous. Arisu was a man exhausted. That his spine was curled forward, that his shoulders almost grazed his ears made him seem smaller and more fragile than Karube had ever known him to be.

The useless muscle in his chest constricted itself again. Karube’s veins throbbed with it. Had he ever really known Arisu? Had he ever meant anything to him? He bit his tongue to stifle the pathetic question he so miserably needed to ask. But brittle eyeteeth could only do so much against a brain on fire.

‘It’s not fair. None of this is… is fucking fair, Arisu,’ and he makes a fist around the urge to reach out, to touch his frost-reddened cheek, to gentle a thumb at the thin skin of his eyelids. He buried such bile once again in the pockets of his worn jeans, glared at the pavement like it would fix any of this. And he had to clench his diaphragm, swallow once, twice, to kill the sob that clawed its way up his throat. He could feel Arisu’s stare itching at his scalp.

‘I’m sorry. I’m- fuck I’m so sorry, Karube. Please,’ and the waver in his words stuck like needles in his skin, ‘you have to know that I’m sorry. It’s all my fault.’

And all too suddenly, a hand cupped his cheek. It was the cruellest thing in the world, the warmth of it. How Karube’s neck arched towards its softness, how Arisu’s palm was moulded to fit his jaw like they were fired in the same kiln, forged in the same fire. Who was Karube to stop it, when the seam of his lips smoothed ever so slowly against the length of Arisu’s thumb? How could he have halted the splintered shudder that parted his lips against the tendon of an unfurled fist?

Small, like the first patter of rain on a cloudy day, Arisu begged.

‘Won’t you look at me?’

Could he have? Was it possible stare bare-faced and guileless into the sun without burning? Karube was willing to go blind with it, if it was Arisu asking.

Some of Arisu’s tears had spilt, shimmering rivulets grazing his cold-stung features. Karube’s treacherous thumb carved its home in the hollow of Arisu’s cheekbone. Ridiculous. Both men, all fragile lungs and wounded eyes, stood holding onto one another as if he couldn’t quite believe he was real. As if the other would stay for as long as he was held.

Like breathing, like the most natural thing in the world, Arisu closed what little distance remained between them.

He kissed him, a whimper leaking from between the searing heat of their mouths. It was torturous, and roiling up the arched column of Karube’s throat came a smouldering ire. Arisu always did this, always dealt the blow while looking like the most injured person in the room. It made Karube want to hurt. Thus the kiss became more teeth than lips, a grab for purchase on whatever chilled skin was exposed to him. Karube kissed to mark, kissed to plea, kissed to hollow out a space for himself that had long since closed.

The inside of Arisu’s mouth was hot, and Karube was a man starved for warmth. His other hand settled, curling against Arisu’s jaw, and all at once Karube was cradling Arisu’s face. He crushed their mouths together again and again, lips stinging and teeth too blunt to cut deep enough to make it right. Karube’s rage rose like steam out of him in the slick kiss, leaving a gentle simmer deep down in his belly.

Arisu cradled Karube’s jaw like one would hold a baby bird. His fingers gentled against his jugular, feeling the searing jackrabbit pulse of his blood under the goose-fleshed skin of his throat. His chapped fingers ran feather-light up and down, ever-so-slightly grazing the beginnings of karube’s hairline. In days gone by, Karube’s favourite thing to do was let Arisu run his fingers over his scalp, working through the tangles in his long hair until he was satisfied. This caress now was more of an echo, ringing hollow in Karube’s chest. His lungs burned with it as he gasped for air into Arisu’s mouth, gasped for what he no longer had.

It was like being crushed.

Pulling away was like pulling glass shards out of Karube’s tongue. His lips stung and his eyes burned and his heart hurt.

‘Why are you punishing me for loving you,’ he choked out, mouth filled with sawdust, ‘why can’t I have you?’

The moment shattered, red string of fate slashed to pieces. Arisu recoiled and almost snapped back, spine ramrod, eyes red-rimmed and wild. The spell broke as Arisu remembered what he came here for.

‘I’m just here to drop off my key,’ he said, voice broken but tone flat as he could muster. Arisu was a different man with the same face, a crude impression of the object of Karube’s tragic affection. Nothing felt right in the cold street, not in Karube’s palm where the cruel metal of Arisu’s key was pressed, fingers moulded over it into a fist by Arisu’s pitiless hand.

‘Just like that.’ It wasn’t a question anymore. The air that had so violently filled Karube’s chest as they kissed had seeped out and then some, leaving him deflated and exhausted. What little hope he had left had been dying a slow death since Arisu turned the corner onto his street.

‘I’m sorry, Karube,’ and Karube didn’t doubt that he was in the slightest, no matter how much it made his ears burn and his pulse ache.

He replied, ‘thanks,’ as devoid of emotion as he could muster. Karube didn’t need Arisu. Not his hands nor his kiss nor his apology. Crossing the street and unlocking the door to the apartment he resolved to move out of as quickly as possible was as easy as breathing glass without choking. Karube didn’t need Arisu.

He didn’t look back.

[jjackrabbitt]

Miss Peregrine's, book 6, chapters 19-20:

"Yes, people are often surprised to learn i'm a vegan." hey i'm a fruit, ya want to eat me?

sorry

Hi Steven :^)

i'd really have liked a scene where Horatio had to either confront jack or had to confront who he was when he was part of the wights

i cannot verbalise how much i love that a neon pink and green cruise ship is being used to haul around an army of hallows

i know it's a smart move but cruise ships are so incredibly stupid and weird and goofy to me that it's just funny

who the hell does Sharon know that he can just get plastic explosives on short notice?

"when i'd gotten my feet hooked in and climbed a few rungs, i looked down at Sharon, bobbing in the rough current. / "I'll be waiting right here," he called, white toothed grin gleaming from his hood. he waved a paperback book. "take your time. I brought a novel!" *bats my eyelashes real cute*

oooooh i wish i knew more about linguistics and i could figure out where the hell Ransom came up with these old peculiar words, i want to know what the hell Malaaya exal gestealla is and how to pronounce it

fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck what is it with jack and putting people in pits

Jacobs pronouns are they/them (plural)

since hollows apparently have exoskeletons now, do yall think they can shed? like cicadas? i'm assuming that if they'd been given time to grow they'd eventually shed and leave their previous exoskeleton somewhere for someone to bump into until it decayed. would they get kind of would their exoskeletons get dull and misty like bugs? would that make them more visable? Answer me, Riggs

honestly, the hallow hivemind is one of the coolest mechanics in this world and i would have loved to see it explored more

that and the panloopticon and reviving collapsed loops

nooooo don't evolve to cross water youre so unsexyyyy

I still think Fiona should have been part of the solution to defeating jack. after all, she was part of what helped form him, and his whole "death only makes me stronger" schtick is directly opposite of her peculiarity.

also, why did that reincarnation soup include those specific things? why a worm, a hot stone, a heart, a tounge and a skull? i mean, the heart, tounge, and skull are all body parts, the Special Hot Stone i kind of get because heat is movement/life, but the worm? he has worms? he has little gut parasites?

"A thousand hallows couldn't stop me!" / about 10 seconds later: "despite his claims, twenty nine was apparently more hollowghast than jack wanted to tangle with at once."

i think a group of hallows should have a fun name, the way whales are pods and cats are clouders or whatever. if you feel like it, put in the notes what you think a group of hallows should be called.

noooo i like Ms. Babax

fuck.

[janekfan]

Repress

https://archiveofourown.org/works/26917357 

Jon missed Martin.

And how could you miss a man walking little more than a meter in front of you?

But he missed him all the same.

He was accepted by Martin, knew his place, knew what was expected, knew he was loved despite how wrong he'd become. But ever since Basira joined them it had been different. It was different when Martin teased him with her, and he knew it was just teasing but still. It made him less sure of himself.

Less sure of his relationship with Martin.

Even more self conscious about the screams and the sorrow and the statements he had to take before they tore him apart from the inside out and left behind a cicada’s hollow husk.

And the doubt that he’d been able to push away all this time, side by side with Martin in this wasteland, raised its ugly head, washed away the warmth that came with him.

This is your fault.

Basira is right.

Martin can’t possibly be okay with this, with me.

Needing to take statements.

Of course he doesn’t want to hear them.

No one should hear them.

Disgusting.

Wretched.

Feeding off the fears of the people trapped in this place.

Using them for my own gain.

“Jon?” He looked up from his feet and the misplaced concern he saw in Martin’s face made the guilt rise.

“Hm?” Martin waited until Jon was beside him again to take up his hand, press his lips to the back of it.

“You’ve been quiet.” Jon tucked himself up under his chin, nuzzling into his jumper and ignoring Basira’s scathing look. His head hurt. Filled with buzzing, humming, crooning static.

“Just thinking.” The crease between Martin’s brows deepened but there was no lie to suss out.

“Okay.” He kissed the top of his head and Jon melted, tangling their fingers together before following after Basira.

Jon was dragging his feet, slowing down more and more with each step further through this realm. He had yet to take another statement, too embarrassed to ask, and he walked with his eyes closed to block out the glare, following the tug of where to go without having to look. He felt flooded with fears, statements begging to be let out, be told, feed the Eye, and he ached for it, stumbling more than once. He didn’t notice Martin’s presence beside him until he spoke.

“Jon, it’s.” If he stopped, he’d never start again, but Martin was in the way. “Hey, it’s been a while since you’ve. You know?”

“Haven’t needed to yet.”

Liar!

He was miserable and unwell and his head was pounding in time with his heartbeat but he shouldn’t need to do this, it’s not human and he thought he was becoming okay with it because Martin was becoming okay with it but now. Now with Basira in the ranks each step was a constant reminder that he wasn’t. He wasn’t human and probably never would be again. None of them have gotten through any of this without being changed.

The Eye was deafening, shouting, shrieking, demanding he give in and he pushed away from Martin on shaking legs, staggering a few feet away to be sick and he hated that he was literally “vomiting his horrors,” as it had been so eloquently stated before. The bitter taste of ink blossomed on his tongue, splashed onto the thirsty ground, and black ichor appeared like a brush stroke on his arm when he scrubbed it over his mouth.

“Jon!”

“No, it’s. I’m fine.” He turned back to him to prove it, taking another step only to drop to his knees when they buckled. “Headache. S’all.” Covering his face with both hands to block out the eerie light, the sky like that before a bad thunderstorm perpetually, aware of the weight of that gaze, pushing him down, down, down.

“We need to keep moving.”

“Just wait a moment, Basira.” Martin shot her a sharp look on his behalf. “Jon. Tell me, darling. What’s wrong?” Jon flinched when she scoffed, just a moment, a moment with Martin, please.

“Nothing, n’nothing.” Martin pressed his forehead to Jon’s, surrounding him, murmuring.

“It’s okay, just you and me here right now.” Some of the tension slipped away, replaced by trembling need.

“Pressure. Jus’...I. Not sure. So much fear and terror filling me up, like it’s. It’s crowding against the door.”

“Jon--” But it was pouring from him in a rush now, all the insecurities he’d been trying to ignore and the pain in his head overwhelming.

“I’m s’sorry, I’m, I’m trying not to l’let it out. I know. I know you don’t like it and Basira--” That small burst of energy was all he had left and his next words were a hoarse whisper Martin had to strain to hear. “It hurts.” Martin’s hand came up to cup the back of his neck.

“Jon, I don’t want you to hurt yourself trying to stop whatever this all is.” Shivering, Jon swallowed audibly. “You’re right, I don’t, I don’t like it.”

“I’m sor--” This time he guided his face into the hollow of his throat and he hid there, arms snaking around his middle, fingers digging into the fabric of his jacket and clinging for dear life to his anchor, his reason.

“Let me finish.” Gently, Martin stroked his hair, lessened the ache by the smallest degree and it was bliss. “I like it even less when you hurt like this.” Martin pressed soft kisses to the skin he could reach and Jon sighed. “Alright?”

“Alright.”

“Alright.” Jon held tighter, tears welling up at the thought of letting him go, at the thought of being so exposed when he was feeling this fragile with Basira just meters away. Maybe he could hold out just a bit longer but no, the headache was crescendoing and he felt his limited grasp on the nausea slip just that much more, the words on the tip of his tongue vying for a way out. “Jon?” Once he started it wouldn’t matter anyway, he’d be lost to it, cut off from everything except his statement. But he couldn’t let go, instead rubbing his cheek against Martin’s shoulder.

“Would you?” Stay? He wanted to ask. Couldn’t ask. It was too much to ask. “I m’mean.” He tried to pull away and found himself held fast.

“Until you start. Then I’m running.” He could feel the smile, hear it in his voice, so he sat back and Martin thumbed a stray tear from his cheek before taking his hands in his own and Jon gave himself over to the Eye.

His head was cradled in someone’s lap, Martin’s of course, with his slow, careful fingers carding through his messy curls and he would maintain later that the gutteral noise of acknowledgment he made was completely intentional.

“Hullo, Jon.” He blinked dumbly, fuzzy and thick. “Looked like a doozy, that one.”

“Don’t really remember it, f’I’m honest.” It was comfortable here with Martin and his soft touches, but-- “Basira’s itching to get going.” Martin leaned down and pressed a dizzying kiss to his lips, stealing all the breath from his body.

“Let her wait a minute.”