#Origins writing... finally

[ghost-qwq]

Advertising my fic because my boyfriend said I should : "What Am I So Afraid Of?"

 In Vault 101 no one ever enters, and no one ever leaves. Butch DeLoria spent nineteen years stuck with the same people, same food, same damn life in that vault. People in the vault aren’t the best when you’re stuck around them for so long. Especially not the doctor's kid. James Maxwell’s special little “angel”, Cyrus. That dork wasn’t even worth being on Butch’s mind… if that’s the case, how come he thought about him so much?

[justalazyauthor]

Everytime I finish a chapter, one of two things will happen:

1. I continue writing like hell, and come out at the end with more material than I could ever need (the next step is editing hell)

2. I go blank immediately, and lose my motivation to write anything for a month (the next step here is procrastination)

[pussyfever23]

white lotus is insanely good at showing capitalism and the state of western society as a prison that it is. the entire point of this ep was i think that so many characters got so close to breaking out of the cycle only to end up stepping back into the cage of it, locking it after themselves, and willingly throwing out the key.

piper, who like so many young people saw the injustice of the world and felt helpless in the face of it. wanted to give up her privilege and get away from her family who represented everything she hated only to let those values she resented pull her back in. the desire for comfort, the privilege of watching the world end from your comfortable seat at the top, the practiced line of “if we don’t enjoy what we have it’s a waste”. that was her breaking point and she will never go back. 30 years and she’ll be undistinguishable from her mother.

gaitok, whose story mirrors piper’s so closely in how he rejects his entire worldview because barely anyone is strong enough to uphold it in a system that will break you if you try to oppose it. to have once felt so helpless in the face of evil and to side with it since you can’t defeat it. to be pushed to find the violence within yourself when all you ever wanted was to treat the world kindly.

belinda, whose formative experience was being wronged by a millionaire, to have money and convenience prioritized over her, to experience the fickleness and complete lack of backbone of someone who has enough money to afford to have no morals. and to give up everything she believed in, all qualms about greg’s blood money, all dreams grounded in the reality of mortals to advance up to the realm of the wealthy. and to repeat what was done to her with the exact same carelessness and fickleness. to be so swept up in money that pornchai immediately becomes just inherently lesser to her.

rick, who had plans to kill the man who murdered his father and didn’t go through with them only to see that man again and get enraged by his words, again, and still, choose to control himself. he did not believe in therapy for a second at the beginning but, when everyone thinks he gets up from the table to give into murderous impulses, he actually seeks out mental help. only to be denied. to be denied when he comes to the therapist with tears, begging, willing to change and willing to believe in a better future he wants, needing just one chance, just someone to talk him through and believe in him in return. only to be turned down because another appointment is already scheduled. because the customer is king and because there is a line to wait in. he can’t take a chance he’s never given in the first place, so he reverts. the cycle never breaks.

laurie, who stays with the friends who make her miserable. lochlan, who drinks the seeds following in his family’s footsteps again but lacks conviction to fully commit, even in death. i could go on.

nothing ever changes. the status quo remains and the cycle continues and the wheel is never broken. you can never escape and, if you’re the one who the system benefits, why would you want to in the first place? lock your cage, throw the key away and enjoy a piña colada that won’t kill you anyway while the world burns.

[mustfindcreativeusername]

Sometimes I remember he died, he was dead for real, but SO MANY people loved him SO MUCH that he was brought back to life and got to have so many more adventures and get old and eventually retire and yes it's a fictional character but sometimes I think about that and I have to lie down and have a cry about it. We love you Sherlock Holmes

[eowynstwin]

peristalsis - iv

selkie!soap x reader. depression. suicidal ideation. strangers to "lovers." social isolation. self loathing. hint of neurodivergent reader. manipulative soap. . Running away from life to the Scottish Hebrides, you meet a man who won't leave you alone. . Masterlist. Ao3.

previous

The other side of the bed is empty the next morning, when you wake up.

You feel it as the dregs of sleep slough off—an absence of weight. The heavy drape of the bedsheets around you. The lone sound of your own breathing, and nothing more—

It shouldn’t punch a hole in your chest. You shouldn’t be surprised in the slightest. What is for other people is not for you.

But you are. It does.

The little speck of hope that has survived every attempt of yours to exterminate it had flared a little brighter, fed by Johnny’s attention. A distant star in a clouded sky, finally reaching earth with its light. Stupid. You know better by now, and it should too. You’ve done this before, a hundred different times, a hundred different ways. The outcome is always the same.

You sweep your hand over the empty spot—

It’s still warm.

Your eyes snap open. At the same moment, you hear movement from somewhere else in the cottage, and then, through the open bedroom door, the warm aroma of coffee and cooking food wafts in.

You sit up. Pull the sheets up with you, clutched to your chest.

“Johnny?” you call. Tentative. Unsure.

“Aye!” a cheerful brogue responds from the kitchen. “Don’ move a muscle, I’ll be right there.”

Something sharp and hot pushes through your veins; the corners of your vision darken with it.

You realize you’ve stopped breathing, and inhale. Your need to be contrary subsumes completely underneath your shock. You sit completely still, suspended in place, as something sizzles in the kitchen.

He traipses into the room in nothing but an apron, carrying a tray with two plates of food and two mugs of coffee, which he sets on the end of the bed before he slides into the empty spot beside you.

You stare as if at a wild animal—if he notices your surprise, he doesn’t take it into account as he curls an arm around your neck.

“Mornin,’” he says, dragging you in for a kiss.

A long kiss—his mouth parts yours to permit his tongue, which he slides against yours as his fingers press upward into the soft underside of your chin. He inhales deeply before his lips leave yours, and you reel, listing toward him, as he pulls away.

“Sleep well?” he asks, hand dropping to your sternum to drag his fingertips between your breasts.

You blink several times. “Uh. Yes.”

“Bet you did,” he says with a grin. Then, he taps your neck—ink-blotting soreness with ungentle fingertips. “Sorry about this. Got too into it.”

He does not sound sorry in the slightest.

“It’s fine,” you say anyway, still blinking in whiplash.

He leans away to pull the breakfast tray up into both of your laps. “Made a classic English breakfast this time, but you eat what you like, bonnie.”

A classic English breakfast turns out to be eggs, sausage, bacon, beans, seared cherry tomatoes, and toast, which Johnny digs into with the gusto of the starving. You select a crunchier-looking strip of bacon and break it between your teeth, but you don’t pay much attention to the taste.

Johnny. His mohawk is mussed from the night’s sleep, and other than the apron, he really does appear to be completely naked. It seems like the first thing he did, when woke up, was not shower or dress, but head to the kitchen to start cooking.

For you. Again.

“Why?” you ask aloud.

He turns to you, one cheek rounded with food, dark brows lifted over bright eyes. “Hm?”

“Why did you make breakfast? You could’ve just left.”

Surprise on his face, freezing his expression. Then, consternation, dragging it down. “I wouldnae do that to you, bonnie.”

He says it so gravely—as if even the notion that he would make an early getaway amounts to betrayal on the deepest level.

“It’s,” you say, “it’s fine. It’s not like this…like…”

Like this meant anything. But didn’t it? You meant to punish yourself, with him as your scourge. A necessary reminder—a bitter pill you must swallow, over and over again.

Who better to deliver it than Johnny, because, hopes aside, he with his rockstar grin and wandering hands had not given off the slightest indication that he would stay the morning after a one-night stand. Let alone get up before you to make breakfast.

You had relied on that.

“I wouldnae do that,” he repeats.

Instead—here he is. Warm, bare shoulder against yours. Lashes dark over an insistent gaze.

You break eye contact, looking at your plate. “Whatever,” you say, for lack of any other response.

You pick at your food—it’s good, same as the meal he made you last night. Not pretentious, like he’s trying to impress you, but genuine and hearty. Tasty, the way breakfast in bed should be.

Puzzle pieces forced to fit together, despite belonging to different areas of the composition. A round peg the perfect diameter for a square hole. Incongruous. Confusing. Untrustworthy.

You continue to study him out of the suspicious corner of your eye as he goes back to eating, though it isn’t exactly any hardship. It seems to be a rare sunny day on the island, with warm, buttery light streaming in from the window. It catches the dark hair on his forearms, casts the sculpted expanse of his freckled shoulders in stronger repose.

You see it again—the wound on the side of his head. Nearly hidden by the dark stubble of shaved hair, but not invisible.

“What happened?” you ask.

He looks at you with a question on his face, and then sees the direction of your gaze. He nods to himself, as if he’s been expecting you to ask this whole time.

“Told you I served,” he said, setting down his fork. Then he notices you aren’t eating much. “Ach, bonnie, don’ let it get cold. You eat, and I’ll talk, aye?”

Begrudgingly, you spear some egg and clamp it between your teeth. He smiles indulgently, and continues.

“So you met Price. Was on an operation with him in London. Chasin’ this real bad fucker in the subway tunnels. He was tryin’ to set off a bomb, but we got to him first. Well, we chased him off the payload, anyways, n’ I’m demo, so I’m the one can defuse it.”

He looks at you. You bite down on a corner of toast.

“Guess he figured that part out, ‘cause not long after I get to the wires he comes back. Nearly takes Price out, so I get after him. Stupid mistake. Price can take care of himself, an’ we had backup. Fucker ended up shooting me in the head.”

Halfway swallowing that same bite of toast, you choke. “You—you got shot in the head?”

He nods. “Aye.”

You look again at the scar near his temple. A starburst, in a whorl of dark hair. Dead center in the silhouette of his profile, as if a paper target at a shooting range.

“Johnny—how the fuck are you still alive?”

He leans back against the headboard, folding one arm behind his head, exposing a thatch of curly dark hair in his pit. He runs his hand through the back of his mohawk, mouth canted at an angle.

“Got no fuckin’ idea, bonnie,” he says.

The expression on his face is, perhaps, the most human you’ve ever seen it. Consternation, maybe. Confusion. Aggravation. You’re not sure what you would call it, but just looking at him, you understand that that exact question is one he’s been asking himself since it happened.

Asking, without finding an answer.

“I’m,” you stammer, “I’m sorry. That’s a stupid thing to—I’m sorry.”

He turns to you and smiles. Chagrined, but forgiving. “It’s all right, bonnie. Have some coffee for me, why don’t you?”

You lift a mug and sip. He’s added cream and sugar to it, the way you’d made it yesterday morning.

“So, I survived it,” he goes on. “Woke up in the hospital a few days later. One in a million chance, they said, but I still had to learn to walk again, an’ I was out. Out, out. Medical discharge, thank you for your service, enjoy the rest of your life. The boys went off to kill the guy in Kastovia or Russia or somethin.’”

Quick as the bullet in his brain. Matter-of-fact. The story ending without him, with no hand reaching out to pull him back in.

Well, not quite—

“And then John Price came here with you,” you say.

He gives you a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes; strained, much like the only smiles you have to offer these days. “Nah. Came out by myself. He came after I’d been here awhile. Told me he was ‘worried about me.’”

The way this conversation is supposed to go, this would be the part where you would say of course he was worried.

“But he didn’t get it,” you say instead, seeing it etched into the grooves of his expression.

Johnny, in exile, alive when he shouldn’t be. Reckoning with the fact that everything he cared about did not care nearly as much about him. Figuring out how to live without anyone else.

Breakfast turns inert on the plate when you look down at it.

“No,” Johnny says, private and intimate, thick as molasses. “He didnae.”

“You seem okay now,” you say, diaphragm pushing the words up your trachea like debris on an incoming tide.

The Johnny you know—the smug, satisfied prick able to laugh at anything and everything—slides back into place.

“Yeah, can’t hide that from you, can I, bonnie?”

He looks at where you’re still holding the sheet to your chest, to the imprint of his teeth on your neck, and then back into your eyes. You know exactly what he’s about to suggest, and you intercept as he opens his mouth to suggest it.

“I’m still eating breakfast,” you say, forcing a whole cherry tomato into your mouth. It pops and squirts between your teeth.

He grins—too knowing. “Ah, that’s alright. M’ takin’ you to Callanish today, and I’ve got a’catch your supper first,” he says.

With that, he slides the tray fully onto your lap and rises, stretching his arms above his head with his back to you, tensing and releasing the muscles as if for your benefit.

“Callanish?” you ask, swallowing.

“Aye, on Lewis.” Then he turns around and, beating a forkful of eggs halfway up, kisses you on the mouth. “Why don’t you take a walk? Pretty today. I’ll be back ‘round noontime.”

Something hard in your chest, held tight between your lungs. Pressure bending the lid upwards.

“I didn’t say I was going,” you reply, but Soap just laughs at you.

He disappears from the bedroom, and you hear him retrieving his clothes from wherever he’d thrown them the night before. You start to shake with the effort of holding in, listening with straining ears as he dresses.

“Left some lunch in the fridge for you!” he calls, and in a stroke of bright luck you hear the front door open and shut before there’s any chance for you to respond.

Wind strokes its fingers through the thatches of the roof. Stillness retakes the vacated space.

You eventually bring the dishes to the sink, tray held in front of you like a shield, as if wary of some predator hiding just around the counter. You approach the fridge and crack it open carefully, imagining a wire you don’t want to snap. There’s a sandwich on the middle shelf, sitting on a plate, wrapped in cellophane.

It breaks open.

Finally, you are alone.

You take the walk.

The sky is nearly cloudless, and the sunlight has transformed the island’s greys into a storm of jewel greens, with what is likely the last warm breeze of the year dancing across fronds of tall grasses. Clouds tower in the sky as if composed and painted there. You lock up the cottage behind you and find a walking trail to put your feet on.

Johnny.

It’s as quiet on the island as you’d hoped. No road noise. No humming power lines, or distant radio on someone else’s balcony. You can hear tiny insects singing together in the sedge, sea birds calling to each other. The voices of colliding winds arguing like old friends in the wide sky above you.

No other walkers on the path. It’s out of season for tourists, the nice weather a rare gift for the people who belong here and them alone.

Johnny.

You’ve tried to be happy. You have.

All you know is that when things start going well, it doesn’t last long.

You don’t know when it began—years ago, maybe, when you first noticed it. The pattern. Something you think of as a chill; rapid cooling, thermal shock cracking the facade.

It happens like this: you find out about group chats you aren’t a part of. Dinners you weren’t invited to. Conversations you might’ve enjoyed, that happened without you.

A problem. A serious one. But you were solution-minded.

For a long time, you puzzled it out. Acknowledged that the common denominator was you, in every circumstance—and so you looked at yourself. Found your flaws. Stared open-eyed into the mirror and confronted your own lack, internalized that no one owed you what you wanted from them just because you wanted it.

Love is action, isn’t it?

So you tried. You really did. You wrote down people’s birthdays. You invited them out for coffee. You commented on their Instagram posts. You messaged first, every time you’ve thought of them, memorized details about their lives, gave them plenty of space to talk about themselves—

After all, no one wants a friend absorbed in themself. People like to be remembered. Thought of. Considered.

You read books others recommended. You watched their favorite movies. Spent evenings catching up on shows they liked so that you could always have something to talk about with them, because that’s how it happens, right? Mychorrizae for the roots between trees. Fertilized ground.

It worked, for a while. And you nurtured the hope that, perhaps, there would be space for you, that something wonderful might eventually germinate.

Maybe conversations would loop back to you. Maybe all you’d done would be returned in kind.

Exhaustion bared a preliminary truth: it would not.

Puzzling more. The next solution presented itself—people don’t stand in front of mirrors all day. If all you do is echo them, what interest will they have in you? You provide nothing new, nothing more than what they already have.

Human beings love novelty, after all. Something new and shiny to turn in the light at different angles. You needed to gleam so brightly that what you’d been seeking all along could see you well enough to find you.

So you worked on yourself.

You took classes you’d been swearing to take for years. Joined a gym looking for endorphins. Dove into crafts, walking groups, trivia nights at the bar. Wrote out a cleaning schedule for your small apartment and kept to it. You spritzed your pillows with lavender, and ate more fruit.

Joined forums for things you liked. Got certifications for work and then chased down the raises they entitled you to. Went to interesting restaurants, found tiny little card shops or foreign grocery stores to explore. Learned to make Pad Thai from scratch.

Rounded yourself out. That’s what you did—you took the raw block of yourself and chiseled down into it, to set free whatever you found inside.

For another while, it was enough. Endorphins make people happy, and all that. And it seemed to be enough, becoming to attract; drops of water usually obey the laws of cohesion.

Only, in the middle of it, you observed the exact same phenomena as before.

Mirrors of yourself in others. People making the same efforts—which bore a richer harvest than you ever had available to reap. Bounties so plentiful they could barely hold it in their arms.

And you, close beside them, trying, and trying, and trying.

Hairline cracks forming.

In the end, still alone.

The teeth of the preliminary truth fit into the lock holding all the rest, and turned open the latch. They flooded your stomach in a rush, expanding, shattering their container, so abundant that they left no room for anything else. And they all connected, ligaments spiderwebbing inward to an undeniable nucleus—

There is something deeply, deeply wrong with you.

Invisible to you, but obvious to everyone else. A thing you cannot fix. A thing you cannot medicate. A thing you cannot self-care away. Unobservable when you look at it; happening just outside your perception.

Something you manage to hide, even unaware of its existence, only for a short while, before it spills out of you and makes a mess for all to see, entirely without you knowing it.

You do not know what it is. You’ve looked and looked and looked for it, and have not found it. You’ve sanded all the edges of yourself, hoping you might unknowingly catch it—but whatever it is must grow back, like a lizard’s tail or the arm of a starfish.

It must be ugly. It must be so shocking that when it rears its head, people feel so sorry for you for bearing it that they’d feel guilty rejecting you outright, and so they recede from you slowly. Masking pity with compassion, and hoping you won’t notice.

There is nothing good enough about you to accommodate for whatever it is. No matter what you do, you cannot make up for it.

So here you are, on a dying island in the North Atlantic. Far away from temptation—from what you can only, inevitably, ruin.

Hounded by a man who it would be madness to think cannot see that.

You watch one foot swing in front of the other, barely leaving any prints in the hard, packed soil exposed by every walker who’s come before you. You hadn’t brought sunglasses with you, assuming that you wouldn’t need them, and the late morning light is too blinding to look too far ahead of you.

Johnny.

It isn’t about you, whatever his interest is. You see that very clearly now.

You picture him—a special forces grunt, riding high on his own masculinity, suddenly cut down. Ripped away from everything that made him him. Cut off from anyone who might be halfway capable of understanding how that might feel.

And you—a lone woman, marginally fuckable. Obviously flawed goods. An empty well of self-esteem waiting to be filled.

Someone he can impress with a wink and a flex, and make himself feel better taking care of.

He’s enjoying getting to play suitor—that’s all. You don’t think you’ve seen many women your age on the island, so for him, this must be a rare opportunity. You can’t, you suppose, blame him too much. You understand what he’s doing, and why.

You’ve done it yourself. Chosen a likely candidate and thrown all your feelings at them until you’ve felt better.

That’s how people are, in the end—that’s how you are. People look to others to get what they want out of them, and in Johnny’s case, he’s getting it. Not even two days, and you spread your legs for him. You let him come inside of you with barely even a token fuss, because he felt you up and smiled the whole time doing it.

He’s using you. The same way you’re using him.

It’s a shitty thing to do. You are a shitty person for doing it.

And so is he.

Maybe that’s why you’re letting him.

When you return to the cottage, you find the door unlocked, and Johnny on the couch with a romance paperback open in one hand. He turns to grin at you when you walk in, and tosses the book on the coffee table without marking his place when he rises. Today, he’s wearing a dark sweater over yet another kilt, but this time—

“Your—fur, thing, is missing,” you say, in lieu of greeting.

He looks down at his hips, patting his thighs with his hands. “My pelt? Ah, yeah.” He grins. “Threw it off in a hurry, can you blame me? Couldnae find it. I’m no’ worried, it’ll turn up. You ready to go?”

You frown. “I guess.”

“Good! I packed your bag for ya already, but you migh’ wan’ to check if I missed anything.”

Your frown harder. “You—what? You packed my bag? Why would I need that?”

You swear his eyes twinkle at you. “Is a six hour boat ride up to Lewis, hen, an’ six hours back, no’ counting how long y’wanna stay at Callanish. Probably dock overnight.”

“I never said I wanted to go!” you snap, marching past him toward the bedroom.

“A’thought we were past that!” he calls after you.

You find your carry-on open on the bed, and furiously upturn it, dumping everything out—it disgorges its contents like intestines spilling from a slit belly. Three romance novels. Toiletry bag, phone charger, jewelry bag, a shirt mismatched to a pair of pants it’s crumpled up with. One pair of socks. No bra, no panties—and you think Johnny might have a shred of decency after all, but when you go to your suitcase, you find your carefully folded rows of underwear haphazardly unfolded, thoroughly pawed through anyway.

Johnny comes into the room as you stand up with appropriate undergarments in your hands, ire shoving smog from your lungs.

“You’re no’ gonna need those, bonnie,” he says with, the ever-present smirk.

“Fuck you,” you snap. You have never wanted to slap someone so much in your life, but somehow, you know he would catch your wrist in the attempt, and just use his grip to pull you in.

And you’d let him.

“Yeah, that’s why.”

You scoff, and go to repack your bag, folding your clothes and tetrising everything together so it will stand on its own when put down, ignoring Johnny’s leering until you turn around. You make no effort to hide how much you’re grumbling about fucking assholes with fucking boats thinking they’re going to get laid again just because they got their dick wet once.

You sling the carry-on over your shoulder once it’s packed and zipped—fully intending to complain the whole way, even as you go along with his nonsense.

It doesn’t feel good, exactly, but you don’t quite feel your stomach up in knots. You feel clear, at least. You know what’s going on. You know the limits of this dynamic. You can deal with it.

“Oh, one thing,” Johnny says, then sticks one hand into a pocket in his kilt.

He withdraws your phone.

Whole again, back together with a gleaming new screen. Nested back in its protective case.

“Saw you dropped it, so I took it to Castlebay to get it fixed,” he says, holding it out to you like a dog proud of the task it’s completed. “No’ a lot of signal ‘round here, but wanna make sure you can get to me if you need to.”

The words enter your hearing like cotton swaps, blurring the deeper they penetrate. You take it from him without a word. You tap the screen—there almost certainly had been signal in town, and repair places usually charge phones for free.

Nothing.

Just the time, and the stock background you never changed.

Stone lungs in your chest. In—one, two three. Hold. Out—three, two, one.

“Thank you,” you say, the words dropping like pebbles from your tongue.

“You’re welcome,” he says cheerily. “An’ I didnae know wha’ y’liked to read so I picked my favorites.” He quirks his brows. “Thought we migh’ get some ideas.”

“Okay,” you say. “Let’s go.”

He makes you brush past him on your way out of the bedroom, and follows on your heels close behind, enough that you can smell him, axe and diesel and salt spray and all.

Too close—because, when you catch sight of something odd, you stop in your tracks, and he runs into you, having to catch you before he knocks you over over. Hands wrap warm around your upper arms, big enough to shackle.

There—wedged in the lintel, above the front door. Barely visible from this angle. A sliver of white spattered with grey. You’re not sure what you’re seeing, until—

“Johnny, is that your—pelt?” you say, frowning.

You point toward it; Johnny’s chin rests on top of your head, hands squeezing. Chest hot at your back.

“Look at that,” he murmurs. “How did that end up there?”

It looks well-packed into the angle of the thatch roof meeting the wall; nothing tossed away in a hurry, the way you imagine Johnny undressed the previous night, could have ended up where the pelt is now.

It was obviously shoved there.

Moonlit eyes dance in your dreaming memory.

You turn around to look at him. You open your mouth to speak, but there are no words waiting to leave it—and he beats you before you can come up with any.

“Why don’ you head down to the beach, an’ I’ll lock up here?” he says, looking down at you with pleased, half-lidded eyes.

A killer whale will toy gleefully with its prey. For hours, flinging it back and forth, punting it through the air with powerful flips of its tail. Whatever animal unlucky enough to have encountered it has no escape—it spends its last moments thrown skyward, soaring through the only habitat it could never understand, before spinning back down to sea, pulled back home by gravity’s ignorant love.

Too stunned on impact to be able to swim away. Still breathing—the body unaware that its life has already ended. Until the teeth closing around its neck is the only mercy it will beg for.

“Okay,” you gasp out, stepping back away from him. He watches as you escape, smiling slightly. In no rush.

Out the cottage door and down the path on shaking legs—you retreat to the kayak waiting on the sand, heart pounding against your sternum again, bolting from something that isn’t chasing you. Your nerves feel raw beneath your skin, unclosed circuits buzzing.

The short burst of warm weather is rapidly cooling; a passing breeze carries the chill of a cold night oncoming. You realize you left Johnny’s jacket in the cottage, but—you’re not going back for it. You don’t want to see whatever you left behind there.

Then you hear Johnny’s footsteps approaching. You jolt, tense—readying to flee. Turning, all you see is him holding the plated sandwich as he crosses the beach, jacket draped over the bend of his elbow.

“Forgot some things after all,’” he says, grinning—teeth clean and sharp.

“Oh,” you say, trying to keep the tremble from your voice, “yeah.”

You take it from him, and see that your hands are shaking. If he notices, he doesn’t comment.

If he notices, he’s probably enjoying it.

“Let’s get goin’ then!” he enthuses, taking your bag and setting it in the kayak.

There is no pelt around his hips.

next chapter early access

a/n: I won't lie, this was a rough one to write. Part of the prose of this chapter is inspired by september is a weary month by Yasmin Belkhyr. Not sure if this is the proper attribution but it's all I can find.

[uravitypng]

previous

soulmate hanta who is completely oblivious that it's almost shocking. the way you skirt around the subject of soulmates whenever someone brings it up, while nervous and looking everywhere that isn't in his direction.

you think you've been careful, you think you've tried to not put hanta in a difficult position and people do let the topic go when you try to avoid it. they don't think your soulmate is hanta but they know something is up.

hanta doesn't. for someone who spends all his time with you, thinks about you all the time, and always pays attention to the little things you do he doesn't notice something is up about the topic of soulmates. you act like he acts around the subject so it doesn't weigh on his mind at all.

soulmate hanta used to get asked a lot about his soulmate. denki whining about how he hasn't found his soulmate yet. "i know they're out there somewhere! it just sucks that i haven't found them yet! aren't you in the same boat? loads of people have already found their soulmates or are uploading pictures online trying to find them! there's a whole reddit page dedicated to it, it's so frustrating."

"i don't care about my soulmate," he responded flatly and kaminari looks at him like he's grown two heads.

one day in your second year of ua iida and hatsume walk around campus stuck together, glued to the hip. it seemed super out of character for him. he didn't even tell anyone he found his soulmate, not until the following week where asai asked about why he was spending so much time together with her. hanta regrets being in the room when that happens. "she's my soulmate."

"what?" midoriya looks so excited for him. "so many people have found their soulmate now! there's not many people that haven't, i'm so happy for you iida. speaking of soulmates how are you and uraraka tsu? you found each other before i found todoroki and before most people found there soulmate."

he drowns out her answer but when hearing his name he's back to paying attention, that is, before hearing the full question and wishing he was anywhere else. "sero you still haven't found your soulmate right? i'm sure you will soon."

"thanks midoriya but i'm not interested in meeting my soulmate." his phone is face up on the table, it beeps and he sees a text from you, his whole face lights up. they all see your name flash on his phone, a photo of you and him on his background, they never bring up his soulmate again.

in your third year of ua mina comes bounding into the dorm shouting about how she's found her soulmate. "i've never even really spoken to yui before but i've always thought she was pretty and her quirk is so cool! sero have you posted a photo of your mark online? you never know if someone will come across it and it'll be you introducing yourself or they'll recognise their handwriting."

"even if i did find my soulmate it wouldn't matter." she's about to ask what you mean but you walk into the room, his eyes trail yours with fondness she's never seen in his before and drops the subject.

people don't ask him questions anymore. he doesn't care about his soulmate because he has you.

soulmate hanta who, even though he doesn't get asked about by his friends anymore, still has to see online articles and speculation from fans all over social media. 'have the famous ua alumni war heroes found their soulmates?' 'i'm still holding out hope that me and cellaphane are soulmates !!!!' 'cellaphane and froppy spotted together out of their hero suits.'

after reading the headline, 'PROOF that reveals pro hero cellaphane's soulmate,' he made sure to never enter that restaurant in the thumbnail with you again. the whole article is full of photos taken by fans and paparazzi of the two of you. there's a lot of them but it makes sense to him with how much time you spend together. there's more regular photos like you two on patrol or walking down carpets together on your way into the entrances to a gala and some not so regular ones that fans have taken without either of your knowledge or consent but that's one of the cons about being a hero.

there's a photo taken at the cinema when you went to see the new studio ghibli film the boy and and the heron. you can tell it's the two of you even though it's dark, his elbows and your hair gives it away. you're leaning against him and sharing popcorn, his arm resting on the armrest.

there's a photo of his tape wrapped around your hand, while you're both grinning, it was christmastime and you were shopping, you couldn't find any tape so he said he'd give you some of his.

there's a blurry photo taken of the two of you in a small cafe, it looks like it was taken in a hurry. you and hanta are sitting across from each other at a table and you've got your mouth open, hanta's leaning forward with a fork, going to feed you some of his food.

there's dozens of photos and it just makes him want to be more careful when going out in public with disguises.

'PROOF that reveals pro hero cellaphane's soulmate.' hanta wishes that was true.

he looked at the first comment but clicked off when it was someone talking about how you're 'couple goals,' the amount of likes on that comment was astonishingly high for two words.

soulmate hanta doesn't care if people see his soulmate mark, he doesn't even think about so when he lifts up his jumper and his shirt lifts up as well during games night bakugou scowls.

he doesn't remember random words and sentences his friends said to each other nearly a decade ago now. but this. he knows this. on hanta's hip, in your handwriting, is his soulmate mark.

bakugou knows your writing well, he made you study. he'd put a timer on his phone and you'd sit together studying until the timer ran out, he'd talk you through anything you didn't know and understand. he'd snatch your paper out of your hand after it got graded and read everything you wrote. bakugou is one of the reasons you passed your classes, he's probably the only reason you passed your classes. that's why he knows that's your handwriting and seeing that it's your handwriting just pisses him off.

'why the hell is soy sauce face always looking at her like that if she's his soulmate and they're destined together.'

someone else could think that they're together but just haven't announced it to the public but bakugou knows that isn't true. he knows you're single, he's a hundred percent sure you are. it's true that something is definitely up about your soulmate situation and now he's got a clue of what that might be but whenever he makes a comment about how being single is good for his career because he can focus more on being number one you agree with the same sentiment.

'does that mean she rejected him? i don't know about that. would someone spend that much time with someone they rejected? what if they never realised. no that doesn't seem possible.'

"yo bakugou, you good? you're just kind of staring at sero with daggers in your eyes." kirishima asks noticing that bakugou hasn't taken his off of sero for awhile.

bakugou is straightforward, he's honest, he speaks his mind, he cares about his friend even if the public doesn't understand that. he gives his friends nicknames that people don't understand, even though he's the number one hero he still get's backlash for that. even with the backlash the nicknames stay the same, his first two friends at ua still get called 'shitty hair' and 'shitty women', he still calls denki 'dunce face', jirou 'ears' but he cares about them all.

all that caring is amplified when it's comes to you and you're involved, he's protective of you- emotionally. ever since he's met you you've been competing on who's better, you're the number ten hero always saying that you'll take his place soon, he knows you can handle yourself but when it comes to emotion- he worries. without him would you be friends with all the people you are now? you were worse at making connections with people than bakugou was and that's saying something, all because you were so quiet and worried about your soulmate situation.

he knows there's speculation that you're his soulmate but you both ignore it, he doesn't love you, at least romantically. it's definitely an emotion he can't put his finger on though, he guesses it's likely brotherly love but he's an only child so he can't be sure about that.

"why the hell do you act all lovesick all the time when your soulmate is spending everyday with you?"

hanta's mind goes blank. what the hell is he talking about? "huh, i- what?"

bakugou tuts, 'why is he acting like he doesn't know?' "i'm not a fucking idiot. shitty women's handwriting is on your hip."

hanta's eyebrows furrow, "i think i'd know if one of my best friends was my soulmate bakugou. this isn't her writing."

"holy fuck, you are an idiot. i've spent enough time studying with her to know."

"you obviously didn't if you think that." hanta retorts. 'there's just no way that's her writing.' he hasn't actually seen your handwriting that much and certainly not in recent years. it's one of the things he hasn't committed to memory about you but he knows for a fact that's not your handwriting. 'wait was does my soulmate mark even say?' he doesn't remember, he hasn't properly looked at it for so long now.

hanta lifts up his top again to read what it says, tilting his head trying to read it upside down. bakugou answers his silent request knowing that he wouldn't have asked and tells him what is says.

"i don't remember hearing 'thanks sero, you were great too,' but... wait, that... that does look a bit like her handwriting." he stares at the mark, trying to think back.

"yeah, plain face that's because it is." bakugou crosses his arms and looks at him annoyed.

soulmate hanta thinks everything bakugou just said to him through. "hold up," hanta lets go of his top again letting it drop down and moves around the all the furniture to go into a back room. he's so glad this game night is taking place at his. he leaves without anymore explanation and starts rummaging around in his spare room where he keeps things from the past, from ua and before that.

in one of the cardboard boxes at the back is notes from you that he's kept. they weren't meaningful or particularly very sentimental but they were notes you passed him in class. you sat far away from each other and would do mad libs and hangman. he didn't focus on the way you wrote each singular letter at the time.

you'd give him notes that said things like '6 letters. clue: current annoyance' he was able to win that fairly easy. after winning, writing back 'is mineta a current annoyance if you're always annoyed at him?'

you'd pass back a note for him that read, 'write me back: celebrity name, colour, adjective, object, colour, emotion, animal! after class - if you can read the completed filled in sentence without laughing or smiling you get to choose the film for tonight' it was always hard for him not to laugh or smile, especially when he had to say things like "hawks always wanted an orange handsome dildo-" he couldn't keep it in and grinned after that, you ended up choosing the film.

hanta can't pinpoint the exact moment he started to crumple up the paper, holding it tightly in his hand. he's figured it out, that's your handwriting! he clutches onto his shirt and takes deep breathes. he has to tell you! you have to know! you're meant to be together the proof is right in front of him, the proof is forever marked into his skin. it'll be a shock to you and he knows it's probably not the best to spring it on you but you have to know.

leaving all the notes scattered across the floor he quickly gets up to talk to everyone. "bakugou's right!" bakugou rolls his eyes at that. "i-i can't believe she's actually my soulmate. i have to go."

"wait what, go where?" kirishima questions. kaminari overlaps him, at the same time congratulating him.

"she's not on duty tonight, i have to tell her!" no one really has a proper chance to respond before he's already left.

"should we leave?" kirishima looks around the room.

"nah, we've already opened our drinks and booted up the tv. we'll go later." kaminari picks up his beer.

soulmate hanta who rushes over to where you live, banging on the front door loudly. you wonder who's knocking at such an hour and so noisily at that. it's not abnormal for hanta to come by but he's with the guys tonight and he doesn't knock like this, he usually knocks the same pattern which he refers to as his own chime of a doorbell. you open the door and you're surprised to see hanta, looking at you... strangely? "oh, hanta! i wasn't expecting you. weren't you supposed to be hosting games night tonight? is everything okay?"

hanta doesn't answer the question and instead asks, "can i come in?" he says in a low voice and licks his lips, wetting them. your eyes quickly glance at the movement before looking back up at his almond eyes. you move to the side for him to come in and shut the door behind him. you don't think something's wrong, at least it doesn't look like something's wrong by the way he's looking at you and his posture. he's looking at you for a second before pacing around the room, you don't press him on anything you just stand where you are and wait for whatever he needs. he stops his pacing and turns back to you, the intense look in his eye almost makes you want to squirm out of embarrassment for being seen that much. "i need to tell you something."

"okay," you respond, prolonging the end of the word. you're confused.

"we're soulmate!" hanta almost shouts at you. with knitted eyebrows and a bewildered expression you repeat okay. "w-w-what do you mean okay?" didn't you just hear me?" hanta's in disbelief and he scans your face.

"i mean... i heard you but i don't know why you're telling me something we both know." you don't even have time to feel anything other than puzzled. this situation should be making you feel heavyhearted or heartbroken but instead it's just filled with questions of 'why is he bringing this up? we already know this.'

hanta splutters, "why are you acting like you already know this?"

your mind goes blank.

"what?" you whisper, your mouth is dry and your limbs feel heavy. ''why is he acting like this? he doesn't seem drunk or high. is he being controlled by someone? there's no way he'd be this cruel.' you open your mouth breathing softly and you're finding it hard to keep your breathing steady. "why are you being like this hanta? it's cruel." your voice is even quieter than it was.

hanta's eyes soften as he sees you and goes to reach out to you before stopping himself. "i'm not trying to be cruel, i'm just trying to understand what you're saying. i've just found out you're my soulmate and i needed you to know... but... but you're acting... you're saying that you already know. i don't understand why you've kept it a secret."

you blink slowly, trying to process everything hanta's just told you. "what do you mean that you just found out? i haven't kept anything a secret. i knew from the very beginning we met. you tripped over my bag and praised me after a practical lesson. did you really forget?"

soulmate hanta's eyes widen. "forget?! i didn't even know. you really think i'd forget the woman i've been in love with since i saw her is my soulmate."

you have questions but all you can focus on is, "you love me?" you ask- softly. shyly.

hanta goes bright red. "w-well yeah, of course i do." you giggle and he smiles affectionately at you, he loves hearing you laugh especially when he's the one getting you to do it.

"i love you too," you let him know sweetly.

hanta grins, "really?"

you hum and nod your head. "did you really not know?" hanta shakes his head. "how did you find out in the end though?"

hanta rubs the back of his neck and appears guilty as he responds, "oh, that... well, it was bakugou. he saw my mark and knew it was your writing."

you pout at him, "god, you didn't even realise yourself." hanta chuckles nervously. "what am i going to do with you hey? my oblivious soulmate." you wrap your arms around him and hug him, your face on his chest, gazing up to make eye contact.

soulmate hanta grins when he hears you call him your soulmate and reciprocates the hug, holding onto you and squeezing lightly for a second. "i can't imagine what it must of felt like for you, i'm sorry. all those wasted years we could of had together if only i connected the dots better. i promise i'll make it up to you."

there's plenty of time to talk about your feelings, to express to him how you felt rejected. there's your whole life for that but right now there's something better. "oh, how are you going to make it up to me?" you say teasingly and smirk.

hanta chuckles loudly and grins, "what do you have in mind?" one of his hands that was holding you sneaks in under your top. neither of you have ever done this before but soulmates are made for each other, you'll know each other's body better than you know your own because, at the end of the day, you're meant to be.

[fatedroses]

Elidibus informing Emet of a pivot in their plans in the most messed up way he can manage.

[noctunis]

brain worms about pre-nibelheim sephiroth who has to wake up extra early for his duties at shinra, despite his soft mumbling about it being too early. he’ll rise up from the bed, the sheets lowering in a smooth, velvet pool at his legs — until he catches sight of your hair peeking out under the covers from the other side of the bed. his brows’ll raise a bit, cat-like eyes flickering over your figure before he slowly leans over you to see if your eyes are open; a low sigh escapes him once he realizes they’re not.

his skin, foreign to the new wave of temperature, pebbles at the cool as his feet touch the cold floor. he can feel some of the small tangles in his hair and he cringes, immediately heading straight to the bathroom in need of a brush and some hair oil. but when he walks out — he’ll hold his breath at the sight of your figure that’s shifted positions in your sleep.

(he contemplates army crawling to get to the door considering how small the room is, before scoffing at how ridiculous the idea seems).

so he practically tip-toes through the rest of the room before making his way towards your kitchen, a warm feeling washing over him when he sees the small tupperware you packed filled with the contents of last night’s dinner. the post-it loosely stuck to the lid reads, ‘for seph’, with two small hearts drawn next to it. his lips are threatened to be tugged into a small smile.

he’ll cook you breakfast with a concentrated face, furrowed brows and all as he tries his hardest not to make noise with the pots and pans. while the eggs are on the stove, he’ll slip back into the room to grab his stuff for work; protective measures he wears under his armor, shoes, et cetera et cetera before rushing down to complete the rest of breakfast. before you, he didn’t cook much — the first morning he had woken up with you and you asked him how he liked his eggs, he didn’t know what to say. instead, he asked how you liked yours.

(a soft laugh and a shake of your head before you turned towards him again. “it’s rude to respond to a question with another question, you know.”

sephiroth half-heartedly cocked his head at your answer. his mouth opened to apologize before you ended up speaking before he did with a casual, “i don’t mind scrambled.”)

so you served him scrambled eggs, his favorite (now). to be honest, he hasn’t tried any other type of cooked egg — but in any dish with eggs, he’ll always look to you before asking if you could scramble them, even if the recipe calls for over-easy.

a deft hand grips the spatula firmly as he scrapes all the food into another tupperware, decorating it with some small garnish here and there to make it look extra tasty for you when you when you wake up — but when he’s on his way back to the bedroom and placing the food on your nightstand drawer, his eyes stay glued to you.

his chest softens at the sight; your head resting on the satin pillow with your lips slightly parted. his hand, now leather clad with the rough texture of his gloves, come to swipe away at your baby hairs stuck to your face. lashing fluttering at the sensation, you squirm a bit and sephiroth holds his breath as he silently curses himself. to his relief, you grumble something before turning your head to the opposite side, your hands coming to rest at your stomach.

his head turns curiously as he studies you for a bit, the back of his throat tightening a bit once he swears that he sees you lips upturning in your sleep and a small mumble of something indistinct. a sharp exhale leaves him before he rips his eyes away and they fall back on the food. his hand goes to a nearby shelf where he spots a pack of old sticky notes. brushing off the dust and ripping one off, he grabs a pen off your nightstand before writing your name, slanted cursive decorating the note before he sticks it on the lid.

you stir in your sleep a bit more, your hand coming down to the rest upon the sheets right where sephiroth would be, the lack of body heat making you pout as all you’re left with is the coolness of the blanket. he notices this, and it only makes it harder for him to part with you. even when he was sure that his heart was full to its content, he found a large gap as it slowly formed in the shape of you.

sephiroth looks back at the food — before grabbing the post-it with a sigh and clicking the pen again. he looks back up at you, and then draws a little heart next to your written name.

𐙚 taglist ; @xiansiii @snoopicle @ch3rryfiles

𐙚 requests are OPEN — january fourth, 2025

[dekariosclan]

Imagine Gale as a talented and impressive young man, able to compose the Weave at will, skilled in a way that few can match, and favored by the Goddess of Magic herself. Imagine that because of these accomplishments, he’s caught the eye of a few up-and-coming magic adepts, and he falls in love with one of them—his first real love. Gale isn’t one to toss the ‘L’ word around lightly, so when he tells them he loves them, he means it; he gives himself over to them completely.

And in return, they love him for his potential. For his status. For the magic he can command. They love the wizard they see on the surface, but not the man underneath. They are attracted to his power, but not to him.

So of course the relationship fails, after the thrill of his magic wears off. But because Gale is a resilient young man and he’s caught the eye of so many, he soon falls in love with another.

And then it happens again. And again.

And each time Gale’s heart is ravaged, his ambition to become a better wizard grows, because he’s being shown time and time again that his magic ability is all that matters.

So much so that, by the time Mystra decides to elevate him from Favored to Chosen to Lover, he welcomes her with eager, desperate arms. Because if all his worth is in his magic, and that’s all he has to offer, and that’s all anyone wants from him, who better to love him than the Goddess of Magic herself?

Except…there’s a nagging voice in the back of his head that whispers she doesn’t really love him. There’s anxiety in his heart as time passes, and he reaches both the limit of what his talents can do and what Mystra will allow him to do. And most troubling of all: a growing panic that, just like his other lovers, she will soon grow tired of him and discard him if he can’t improve his magic any further.

He tries pouting, and pleading, and begging her to let him take more power, to let him be more for her, but she refuses. Smiles patronizingly. Tells him to be patient. But Gale can’t be patient when his power is tied so closely to his self-worth; he can’t be patient when doing so in the past has only ever lead to heartache.

So he does what he believes will be a Grand Romantic Gesture, one that will finally put him on equal footing with the woman he loves. Instead, it turns out to be a folly that dooms him and destroys his talents. And just as he’d always feared, Mystra tosses him aside the moment his magical gifts are gone—because what’s left of him holds no value for her.

————

Imagine Gale in his tower, alone, afraid, the ever-hungry orb in his chest, with only his tressym there to help him. No other friends to speak of. His colleagues forced to keep away for their own safety. His magical talents utterly stripped down, so that even when he does try and distract himself with illusions, he’s bitterly reminded of what he used to be capable of. Waking every morning wondering if it will be his last, ending every day full of loneliness and disappointment.

…and then he meets Tav.

At the lowest point in his life, at his most vulnerable, when he knows he’s going to be considered a burden, he meets this stranger and their group. So he does what he can to be useful—assigning himself to be camp cook, offering up his (now meager) magic skills, turning the charm up to 11—as he desperately hopes this will somehow work out. He’s pleasantly surprised when, after providing only minor details of his condition, Tav agrees to help him. He’s even more surprised when they actually follow through.

Imagine how Gale feels as Tav treats him kindly. As he grows to trust Tav, and then grows to like them. Imagine his surprise as he opens up and shows them more and more of himself, and they don’t turn him away.

But then his condition worsens. And he has to reveal everything: the foolish mistakes he’s made, and how dangerous he is as a result. He clings to Tav’s hand as he shows them his folly. He’s at their mercy now, and he knows this might be the last time he’ll ever feel the touch of another being, if they decide—and Gods, why wouldn’t they decide?—to cast him out.

…but they don’t. They don’t. Instead, they tell him to stay.

Imagine the relief Gale feels. The gratitude. And perhaps…just a hint of something more. Something that he dare not name, but that flares to life every time he thinks of how warm their hand was in his. Something that feels dangerously close to jealousy, when he’s had too much to drink and sees Tav smiling at another…

But he knows these are all foolish thoughts, because he has nothing to offer Tav. They are wonderful just as they are, but he…he is an empty shell of a man, a discarded husk of a wizard, and while they might tolerate him, he could never believe they might actually want him.

And besides, he still thinks of Mystra. He still longs for Mystra. She who cast him out, but to whom he still feels tethered. Sometimes he needs to cocoon himself in the weave, just to try and calm his fears and bring some joy back to his life, because magic is his life. And sometimes he just needs to see her face, even though that hurts as much as it heals.

One night he’s lost in thought, having conjured Mysta’s image after settling down at camp. Thinking that even if she hadn’t ‘loved’ him—certainly not in the way he’d loved her—she’d given him enough otherwise, hadn’t she? She’d amused him and been amused by him, they’d shared countless pleasures, why hadn’t he been satisfied with that?

Gale is so lost in thought he doesn’t realize Tav has come up behind him. Until they ask a question, startling him out of his trance. He’s a bit shaken, so he tries to turn the conversation from Mystra to the weave itself. And then a wonderful idea occurs to him, something that he’d been toying with already: what if they were to conjure the weave together?

He can show Tav how important magic is to him, let them experience what he does, perhaps even impress them a bit. But most importantly, share a moment with them. As friends would do…

He’s elated when Tav agrees. He leads them through the steps effortlessly, and they’re a surprisingly good student, following his instructions correctly (if a bit clumsily). He’s as excited as they are—perhaps even more so!—when they succeed in channeling the weave.

It’s such a pleasant, familiar feeling for him, like coming home to his tower in Waterdeep. Even as the weave connects him with Tav and makes them one, he’s easily able to hide his innermost thoughts, because he’s done it so many times before.

…but he’s forgotten that Tav has not.

————

Imagine Gale knowing every romantic partner he ever had only wanted him because of how he could raise their status, or how he could amuse them, or how he could command magic for them. And, each time, he was happy to oblige them, even desperate to oblige them, because if that was the price of their love, then he was sure it would be worth it.

But it still all came to nothing.

Now imagine Gale connected in an intimate way with someone he likes very, very much—while being what he considers his lowest, most worthless, and most humbled self. As far from the powerful, impressive wizard he once was as he could ever be. And suddenly a vision enters his mind from the lovely creature standing next to him. Only, to his complete and utter shock, it isn’t one where he is providing them with a service, or wowing them with his magical ability, or granting them some kind of power from one of the spells he commands.

Instead, when he sees their desire laid bare before him, it’s a vision of kissing him. Of holding his hand. The two most basic forms of affection and physical connection. The two things that he would still be able to offer them even if every last ounce of his remaining magical abilities were stripped from him. The two things he could share with them even if he was no longer Gale of Waterdeep, and just plain old Gale Dekarios instead.

Imagine the embarrassment and trepidation he feels at first, because surely he is mistaken?…and then the elation when he realizes that he is not. So much elation that his concentration is broken, the weave dissipating as he forgets about channeling it, as he forgets about Mystra. Because all that matters to him now is the image before him—the most pleasant and welcome image he’s seen in a very, very long time.

Imagine how that would feel…and how besotted, enamored and completely devoted he’d be to Tav afterwards. To know that someone finally—finally—just wants him.

Just imagine.

[webrollus]

post-finale oj & suitcase

[samosadude]

transistor au me and some friends were tossing around…

[ghost-qwq]

Did I post something about my fic when I was in the middle of writing chapter 7?... yeah :(

[pan-fried-kirke]

WIP is at 86,500 words so far and I'm so aaaaaaa this is the most I've ever written I think at all for a single project and I still want to keep going? what is this witchcraft?

im so proud of myself but still wtf??

[self-made-purgatories]

From the Half-Empty Loveseat and the Cuck Chair to the Miracle on the Biobed

Master Post for my Season-3-to-TMP Spirk Breakup Meta Analysis Series

People complain all the time about the odd, out-of-character writing in Season 3 of Star Trek TOS. They also complain that there is no canon explanation for the reason why Spock left Kirk and Starfleet to attempt kolinahr by the start of TMP. Why are these two things both so weird?

But, consider this: What if these two weird things are related? What if the odd actions are not out of character at all? What if Season 3's subtext leads directly to Spock's abandonment of the life he built in Starfleet, and more specifically, to his separation from Kirk by the start of TMP?

What if we're actually watching a painful behind-the-scenes Spirk breakup unfold in real time?

A few months ago, before I had ever seen TMP, I watched "Requiem for Methuselah" for the first time and the vibes were so weird that I started to dissect the subtext by writing my way through it. And the subtext kept getting deeper, episode by episode. And so I kept writing about it. And then I finally saw TMP, and I suddenly realized that, not only was I right, these things are all connected. Season 3 and TMP are not actually doubly weird; they are two related weirds that cancel each other out. And, even better, the pain and angst of Season 3 eventually leads to a happy ending in TMP!

To create this series, I wrote over 20,000 words on the subject in the space of a few weeks. (Thank you, hyperfixation.) Recently, a couple of the posts are making the rounds again. People keep reblogging segments of the series, so apparently there is an audience larger than my weirdass self and the void I am shouting into.

So, for your pleasure and convenience, I have reassembled the full series here in chronological order. Some of them are short, silly posts, and others are lumbering behemoth posts with tons of subtext to comb through and mull over. Enjoy the journey with me.

PART 1: END OF SEASON 3

1. The Half-Empty Loveseat and Other Tragedies Or, the Episode Where Kirk Broke Spock's Heart (and Mine) - S3 E19 Requiem for Methuselah

Spock has had a rough Season 3 so far. But this is the first time that Kirk's behavior is the direct cause. Kirk's blind cruelty causes irreparable damage to both Spock and their relationship.

2. they're still fighting, aren't they and one type of music - S3 E20 The Way to Eden

Vibes are off between Kirk and Spock. Spock finds reasons to be elsewhere and pointedly spends more time with a fun hippie guy than with Kirk.

3. From the Half-Empty Loveseat to the Cuck Chair - S3 E21 The Cloud Minders

Watching him sleep, watching him flirt, shouting in his face: Spock and Kirk try to act calm and professional, but tension bubbles under the surface.

4. why. WHY does it make me so fucking happy to watch this one man ogle this other man's ass like this - S3 E22 The Savage Curtain

Does this mean their fight is over??

5. To Hell and Back: The Seven Deadly Sins of Spock’s Inferno - S3 E23 All Our Yesterdays

In the tradition of ancient epic stories, Spock takes an allegorical journey to hell with McCoy as his guide, and his unusual behavior there – a descent into madness by way of all Seven Deadly Sins – gives us a peek into his ongoing internal struggle.

6. Running "Interference" - S3 E24 Turnabout Intruder

"He says, finally, resigned, 'I believe you.'" I'm pretty sure Spirk have broken up for good now. Their relationship is strained and it has affected their prior intimacy of knowing each other inside and out.

PART 2: THE MOTION PICTURE

7. The Betrayal of Irritation - TMP Part 1

Spock attempts kolinahr. But of course, it doesn't work. He is running away from life, away from love, away from Kirk, rather than running towards enlightenment. It was never going to work. 

When Spock returns to the Enterprise, he emanates a carefully constructed façade of aloof disdain. "I don't care," he seems to say. But if he didn't care, he wouldn't have come at all. And now that he is here, anything is possible.

8. "To Come Alongside and Lock On" - TMP Part 2

Two very small but very important details precede Spock and Kirk's reunion on the bridge of the Enterprise.

9. Feeling Trapped, Crisis of the Self, and the Hidden Meaning of Spock's Two Steepled Fingers - TMP Part 3

Spock's steepled fingers are a self-soothing gesture that first appears in "Plato's Stepchildren" and recurs in TMP during the kolinahr scene and a tense faceoff with V'Ger. What does this gesture tell us about Spock's inner struggle?

10. Yes, He is Here. But He is Still Gone: The Five Stages of Grief (and Seven Sorrows) of Heartbroken Kirk - TMP Part 4

Kirk openly experiences all five stages of grief in regards to Spock's cold return. Meanwhile, the bookend to Spock's experience of the Seven Deadly Sins in "All Our Yesterdays" is this: Kirk's experience of Seven Sorrows, seven metaphorical knives in the heart given to him in rapid succession by Spock's return.

11. sidebar: loyalty, obedience, friendship - TMP Part 5.5

In which I go a little nuts in the notes of someone else's post into greater detail about the three times Spock refuses Kirk's invitation to sit down.

12. Bare Feet on Holy Ground: A Story Of Doubt and Acceptance. - TMP Part 5

McCoy is the voice of reason, but love transcends reason. When Kirk finally lets go and reaches the Acceptance stage of grief, a miracle occurs: The steepled fingers are gone. All that is left is Spock's hand in Kirk's.

And they live happily ever after.

[rainintheevening]

The Star Prince

Once upon a time there was a boy called the Prince of the Stars. He was their shepherd, and led them out every night into their places. He made a place for new stars being born, and made sure old stars had a good death. As the Prince of Stars, he carried his very own bright shining silver star, just a little one, set into his breast beside his heart. It always shone, soft and true out of the black cloak the Star Prince wore, and sometimes on a clear night, you could see it twinkling in the heavens as he danced through his beloved night sky.

The Star Prince had a few dear friends in the Man in the Moon, and the Queen of the Clouds. When the Queen would come by, she and the Star Prince and the Moon Man, would have tea together, and sit in the fluffy clouds, and talk all night long. The Man in the Moon made a lot of jokes, and laughed loudly, while the Queen of the Clouds was very lovely, and graceful, and soft. They had both been around a lot longer than the Star Prince, and he learned much from them. They were the closest thing he had to a mother and father. Some nights the Man would be away from the Moon, and then the Prince of the Stars would curl up under the arm of the Cloud Queen, and listen to her sing by the light of the stars.

One night when the Man was out of his Moon and away, the Prince and the Queen had tea together as usual. They sat together, and the Star Prince got very warm and sleepy. “Wake me before sunrise,” he told the Queen of the Clouds, and went straight to sleep.

But she did not wake him. When the prince opened his eyes it was well after sunrise, the stars were in complete disarray, and the King of the Sea was shaking him gently. But worse than all that was the pain in his chest as he sat up, and he put a hand to his heart, only to discover that his own precious star was gone. It had been cut out, but he could not believe it, and he fled from the worried Sea King, off into the starfields, with all his charges skittering after.

He could not think who had taken his own heart-star from him, except for the Queen of the Clouds. But she was his friend, she could not have done such a thing! He wrapped his dark robes tightly about himself, trying to hide the hole and hoping no one would notice. He decided he would ask the Queen of the Clouds about it the next night, when they had tea with the Man in the Moon.

But when they met again, the Queen of the Clouds behaved as if nothing at all was amiss, making jokes with the Moon Man, so that he laughed loudly, and the Star Prince quickly gave up trying to be heard. He was afraid, and confused. He thought the Queen had betrayed him and stolen his light, but she smiled at him the same way she always did, so perhaps he was wrong. He also didn’t like admitting his own star was gone, for how could he be Prince of the Stars and lead all those other lights if he had none of his own?

So in the end, the Prince of the Stars said nothing, and decided he would try to find his heart-star all on his own. Many nights the stars went astray and out of their places in the dance, as he searched through the clouds, and even snuck into the Moon one day. But there the Man caught him, and demanded to know why the boy was sneaking around, why he would try to steal from an old friend. The Star Prince burst into tears. “I am not trying to steal!” he cried. “I only want back what was stolen from me!”

He told the whole story to the Man in the Moon, even showed him the scar that had slowly grown over his chest, and then the Man in the Moon was very quiet for a time. “I am sorry,” he said at last, “that you have lost your light. But the Queen of the Clouds would never do such a thing to you. She loves you like her own child, and I have known her too long. It must have been someone else.”

The Star Prince was quite sure it was the Cloud Queen; he did not know who else it could have been. He had hoped the Man in the Moon would believe him, would trust him, and help him ask the Queen to return his star. But when the Moon Man turned him away, the Star Prince’s grief turned to anger, and he rose up that night, gathering all the stars around him and into his train, and came down to confront the Queen of the Clouds.

He took her by surprise for once, as she talked close with the Man in the Moon, and that was when he saw it. A gleam of silver light between her fingers, and she turned towards him, and hid her hands in her pockets.

At first she showed shock and sadness, reaching tender fingers out to brush his scar, but when he drew back, when he insisted that it had been her, and that she must return his heart-star, she turned stormy, and her mocking laughter was like thunder. “Silly star boy,” the Queen said. “Why would I ever want your star? Who would take a little thing like that? How could you betray our old friendship like this?” And her tears were hailstones, even as the clouds rushed in to smother the Star Prince.

The Prince fought bravely, but he was young and small, no match for the grey Queen. It was the stars’ fire that saved him that night, as they burned hot enough to warm him, to cut through the fog, but still he was buffeted and battered, and finally fell from the sky, half-alive as he drifted down through the dawn air.

It was the King of the Sea who caught him, who lifted the Star Prince in his arms, as gentle as any father. The sea had always rejoiced to see the stars, though they rarely came close enough to speak, and the King was worried about the Star Prince, as nights now brought confusion to the sailors who needed the stars patterns to find their way. He wept his own salt tears as he carried the boy home, grieved by the grey face so still and dull, the blue eyes shuttered, and the limp darkness of the silky cloak that had always flowed around the Star Prince.

The last few stars winked out, as the Sea King laid the Prince of the Stars in his daughter’s arms. “We must heal him,” the King said.

“His light has gone out, and his heart is broken,” whispered the Princess of the Wind. “This will not be easy.”

They did their best for many days, with the help of Mother Earth, but still the Star Prince grew very weak and ill, whispering and weeping in fits, never seeming to know them. He begged them not to take his heart, pleaded with them to leave him alone and not hurt him. From the things he said, the King and his daughter pieced together the story, and understood that the Queen of the Clouds had stolen the Star Prince’s star, taken it from him by force, and so they treated him with more kindness than ever.

At last, as the sea continued to rock him, and the earth continued to warm him, and the breeze continued to tell him he was loved, he grew calmer, and fell into a deep healing sleep. For nigh on a week, while clouds covered the darkened skies, and storms beset many ships, the King of the Sea tenderly carried the Star Prince over the swelling waves, close to his heart. His daughter, the Princess of the Wind, had been deeply angered by the injustice done to the boy from the sky, and she had sworn to go fight the Queen of the Clouds and get back the heart-star.

The Prince of the Stars woke at last one grey evening, and he lay for a time against the shoulder of the Sea King, watching the rain on the waves without speaking.

“I am lost,” he said at last.

“Are you?” said Mother Earth from a nearby island. “Or have you simply been found in a place you did not expect?”

“Ah, my wife always speaks in riddles,” the King said, chuckling as he set the boy down gently on a rock. “But take heart, Prince. All is not lost,” and he smiled gently into the tired eyes that looked up at him. “My daughter, the Princess of the Wind, has gone to rescue your star. She alone is strong enough to fight the Queen of the Clouds. Out of her love for you, and her wish to see you shine again, she has gone to war.”

The Star Prince could not believe the Sea King’s words. “Why would she do that? How many sailors have died because of me?”

“None,” said the King of the Sea. “Between myself, my daughter, and my wife the sailors have had had no more casualties than they may in any storm season. None of this is your fault, child.”

The Star Prince sat for a while, listening to the waved on the shore, and he heard them repeating the King’s words over and over, while the rock grew warm under him. He did not smile, and his once blue eyes were as dark as the stormy sky.

That night the Princess of the Wind met the Queen of the Clouds in the court of the sky, and denounced her for her cruelty, demanding she return the star at once. The Queen refused.

“Then I shall fight you and throw you down, or die trying,” said the Princess.

The Star Prince, sheltered in a cove by Mother Earth, while the King of the Sea went out to save whom he might, heard the howl of the hurricane winds, and saw the flashing of the lightnings, and he found he had begun to hope. He wanted the Princess to win and get his heart back. There was so much courage and strength in the roaring air, he began to think she could do it. Still, Mother Earth was glad when he fell asleep, lulled by the storm; he was still weak and had not truly recovered from his ordeals.

When the Prince of the Stars awoke, he saw the Sun rising into a clear blue sky, the air was still and soft, and he could hear seabirds singing. When he sat up, he caught his breath, for lying on the sand next to him was the Princess of the Wind. She slept, her long white hair strewn about her, but in the hand held to her breast, he could see light, slipping between her fingers.

The King of the Sea, weary as he also was from the long night, came quickly to wash the boy’s tears away.

“She has triumphed,” he murmured, looking down at his daughter with love and pride. “The Queen of the Clouds has been thrown down, and your star has been found.”

The Sea King would have woken his daughter, but the Prince caught his arm. “No, let her rest,” and his eyes had a little bit of light in them when he looked back to the King. “I can wait.”

So they sat together, watching the light on the waves, and the Prince hummed softly in his throat, a soft, sad melody that made the Sun beam just a little warmer and brighter. The King of the Sea dozed off too, and the Star Prince smiled to himself as he watched his family rest, grateful for all they had done for him.

When at last, as the Sun sank toward the west, the Princess of the Wind stood before him with her long white hair drifting around her, and held out his little glowing star in her cupped hands, he could not speak, but his eyes shone blue as the sky. And when he took back that gem of living light, laying it next to his heart, fire sprang into the sky, and from the far-distant starfields, sleeping stars woke up, and began to sing.

The Princess of the Wind laughed, the King of the Sea roared, and Mother Earth exclaimed, “Found in a place you did not expect! Not lost! Did I not say so?”

The Prince of the Stars looked into the earth-dark eyes of the Princess of the Wind, and taking her hand, pulled her into a dance, to the song of the seabirds and the setting Sun. And as they danced, the wind caught them up, carrying them up above the waves and the islands, and into the evening sky.

The Star Prince held on tight to the Princess’s hand, even as he felt as if he might burst with joy. He had his light, his star burning next to his heart, shining brighter than ever before, and he was whole again.

That night the stars sprang out to their places all at once, all of them blazing with joy to hear their shepherd call them out again, call them to dance. The Prince of the Stars stood tall, with darkness curling gently round his shoulders, and silver light spilled through the cracks of his scar, fracturing into a thousand rays that dazzled the Princess of the Wind.

That night the Man in the Moon came humbly to beg for the Star Prince’s forgiveness, and the Star Prince granted it so sweetly that the Moon Man went away in tears, and was not seen again for several days. But he became better friends with the Sun Queen in that time, and she was a stronger, more faithful companion then the fickle clouds, and from their places they kept watch over the Prince of the Stars and the Princess of the Wind, and guarded them from all the harm they could.

But that night the breeze sang softly between the stars, and they twinkled with the laughter of a thousand bells, and the heavens rejoiced for the beauty of a broken heart put back together with the love of a family.

Finis

[crsssie]

Concept: Jaime having a lot of left over adrenaline from a fight so he fucks the reader up against the nearest wall

post-fight. - jaime reyes x reader (nsfw warning!)

it happens more often than Jaime admits, but less often than you complain to him about it for.

Jaime has you pressed against the back of the wall in some run-down alleyway, only half of his suit deactivated as he's rutting into you desperately, the sweat and blood still on the back of his armor, his sweat running down his sides as you cling onto his biceps for life, exhausted panting and whimpers slipping past your lips as you stare at him disappear into you with a lewd squelch each time.

"I'm sorry." He whimpers into your ear. "You just— looked so good, mi vida, I just—"

You moan as he presses his lips to yours, desperate to muffle the moans coming out of your mouth, yet wanting to keep listening to them. Maybe swallowing them would work.

It doesn't, but Jaime does get the reward of you biting his bottom lip as he feels you spasm around him, your orgasm ripping through your body as you gush around him, and Jaime only speeds up to chase after his own high, pulling from your lips to tell you how pretty you were, whimpering and moaning quietly over you, eyes raking your body to see how dazzling you were when covered in a layer of sheen from the sweat.

and when he feels his own orgasm rip through him, chest pressed to yours as he gasps into your ear, he makes sure to clean you up, tongue pressed to your you, drunk on the taste of you and him mixed together, hums from his chest shooting up your spine and causing your fingers to fly to his hair, whimpering.

and when he finishes, his suit finally comes off completely as he holds you in his arms, mumbling into your ear about how good you were for him, how he was sorry for taking the adrenaline out on you again, pressing you to his chest as he lets you fall limp in his hold and get some well-deserved rest, he presses a kiss to your forehead and takes care of the rest. After all, it's the least he can do for you.

reblogs are appreciated ( •́ω<;)✧