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abyssembraced · 6 months ago

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so for that meme. ghost reaching the abyss for the first time.

Send me a quote/scene from my muse’s canon, and I'll explain what went through their head during it! (Accepting!)

The door before them crumbled into particles of light. With the mark of King seared into them, no secrets could remain sealed.

A platform ahead, ending in open air. They stepped onto it. Cold metal, unlike the fossils and stone that preceded it. They looked down.

Dark. Their pale shell the only illumination offered. Deep. Couldn't see the bottom.

A calling, below.

They descended.

Platform to platform. Into the depths. Pits of spikes. Broken shells of fallen bugs. Shadow Creepers crawling about (harmless. Source of SOUL if necessary). Corpses increasing in number.

...Familiar.

They've been here before. But when? They didn't know. Yet the calling in their core persisted. They continued on.

Misjudged distance. Missed the next platform. Desperate flutter of wings. Reaching out with claw. Missed. Falling. Familiar.

Impact with ground. Floor of shells. Rise. Careful not to stumble. Familiar.

A shadow emerged from the depths. Living darkness took shape into a creature.

Familiar. Familiar.

So, so familiar. They knew this being, this darkness. Why this was, they did not know (could not recall?), yet it was an undeniable fact, the truth of which they felt with utmost certainty. This being and them, they were... Alike.

There was a word to be used. They did not know it.

They had felt like this once before, had they not? That broken, Infected vessel of Lightseeds had evoked a similar sensation of Alikeness. Albeit lesser, far lesser, than what they felt toward the shadow before them now. Obscured by the Infection back then, perhaps, or for some other reason.

They stood still, watching, as the other, in turn, took proper notice of them. As it floated toward them, drawing ever closer.

PAIN.

An explosion upon their shell, their insides, their mind. Emotions transferred to them from the Alike. Feelings of... Bad. They did not know the words.

Enemy. Danger. Fight back.

The fighting stopped. The being's form split apart by their blade, curling into an orb of shadow once more. Returning to the earth.

Silence.

...

Their nail is returned to their back.

A calling, below. Deeper. Yet there was no distance left to fall. Perhaps, if they pressed onward, some tunnels would lead them further down.

They continued on.

#.🪲#🪲 ghost ic #ask #hymns-across-the-stars #🪲 verse | during the infection #((didn't mean for this to take so long! i'd started writing an ooc answer when i first got the ask))#((but. then i decided that an ic one would be more interesting dgshshf))#((but just. thinking about the siblings....))#((they Hurt! two masks of damage. and part of that is probably because ghost's body isn't fully void yet at that point in the game))#((their outer shell is still that of a pale being. which. as a light-aligned entity is *very* weak to void. just as radi is))#((but also. on top of being void creatures. shades are the culmination of regrets. of sorrow and despair))#((and i think it'd be neat if when you touched one. you'd get blasted with all those negative emotions?))#((they deal both physical *and* psychic damage dgdhsfhf))#((that wouldn't apply to ghost though. both because they've got better control over their body thanks to void heart))#(((same reason why no one around them dies to Void Exposure) but also because they aren't really a shade in that same way))#((but also. thinking about *why* the siblings would attack ghost in the first place...))#((shades are sorrow and regrets given form. and much of that likely does come from the dead vessels themselves))#((the ones conscious enough to feel fear as they fell or starved to death. as they watched their kin suffer the same fate. alone in the dar #((whatever remains of the godlings who were consumed and transformed by the void that surrounded them before even hatching from their eggs)#((but also... perhaps some of that despair came from the pale king himself. unspoken regrets about the things he felt he had to do))#((the abyss felt it. took it. and it took shape.))#((and well... ghost's own shade in-game is only hostile to ghost themself. it's not bothered by any other creatures))#((and the king's brand seems to cause other bugs to mistake ghost for the pale king))#((if only for a moment. before they truly see and recognize who actually stands before them))#((but what of a creature so consumed by the pain and regrets that form them?))#((who can only sense the presence of the sorrow's source and not the true creature simply bearing his mark?))#((and are by nature of their being drawn to it? drawn to harm it? to smother the king in the regrets he left behind?))

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quibble-auk · 3 months ago

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@thebrokenmechanicalpencil

Yeah, I did the Dropmix angst I promised. Taking my feelings out on him. He’s going through it man.

This works in both Canon and the Horns and Razors AU, probably some time after that blurb I sent you about happened. But it does technically line up with the normal timeline.

Dropmix and Theremin hurt/comfort. Just what we need.

—

Warnings!

Ownership/slavery (is that a warning?) Drugging. Implied sexual abuse. Implied rape. General angst? Idk I feel like there are more but I think I got them all?

—

Theremin couldn’t help the sigh of relief when he walked into his room to find Dropmix laying on the couch. The medic felt his plating sag and his shoulders slump as he exhaled, exhausted. The white mech leaned against the small table next to the door, eyes scanning over the dark form of Dropmix.

He hardly slept the night before, waiting for his partner to return. When he hadn’t Theremin had started searching the Pits, at least, as much as he could before his early shift began. Throughout said shift he had been restless, mind preoccupied trying to conjure up where his Conjunx could be. When it had ended he rushed back to his room, hoping that Dropmix would have slipped back in at some point.

The gladiator had.

Theremin pushed himself away from the table towards the large couch, his feet slightly dragging on the ground. He examined his Conjunx’s form, medical programs scanning for anomalies and injuries. Aside from a couple small scratches and dents, Dropmix was untouched. The places his paint had been chipped off or someone else’s had rubbed onto him didn’t register to the programs, though he still noted them.

But Dropmix was untouched for the most part. The medic smiled softly, another wave of relief washing through him. It meant that his lover hadn’t dragged himself to one of his hiding spots because he was too weak to return.

Dropmix stirred, opening his eyes to look up at Theremin. His plating shifted, pressing into himself as he quickly diverted his gaze. He slowly sat up, eyes firmly locked with the ground and clawed hands curled into fists in his lap. The medic immediately took notice of how dented and scratched the mech’s chest plates were, like someone had been trying to pry them apart.

His Conjunx’s shame was radiating off of him in waves.

Theremin sucked in a breath as he moved to stand in front of the other. Without much thought he reached forward, his hand gently cupping the side of Dropmix’s cheek. He paused for a moment before he spoke, voice low and tone soft, “Dropmix?”

The gladiator might as well have flinched, his plating pressing tighter as his brows furrowed. Dropmix lowered his head, pulling away from Theremin’s touch. A stressed huff escaped him, “I’m sorry.”

His voice was so heavy with guilt that Theremin had to fight back the urge to pull him into an embrace. He had seen Dropmix fight in the arena countless times, heard the clang of metal against metal, watched his Conjunx tear through enemies with the precision and ruthlessness of a warrior. But this was different. Dropmix wasn't facing an opponent. He was fighting something far more insidious: the guilt of his own perceived failure.

The medic breathed deeply, studying Dropmix’s features. He knelt down, trying to meet his eyes. His hands settled gently over Dropmix’s fists, a quiet reassurance, “What are you apologizing for?”

Somehow Dropmix managed to shrink even more. His voice got quieter and his expression shifted to something almost pained. “I’m a terrible Conjunx.”

Theremin’s chest tightened at the words, his spark clenching in that familiar, aching way it always did when he saw Dropmix like this. He shook his head, still trying to catch the others eye. The medic squeezed the other’s hand tighter, rubbing his thumb over Dropmix’s knuckles gently. “No, you're not,”

He paused, watching as Dropmix shied away even more, plates quivering as the medic spoke. Theremin pulled the larger mech’s hand closer to him, his touch still gentle.

“Dropmix,” Theremin said again, his voice a quiet but firm anchor. “You’re not a terrible Conjunx. You’re not. You’re doing the best you can.” He paused, letting his words settle between them. “No one is perfect. Not even me.”

The gladiator’s shoulders tensed, a low, frustrated noise escaping his throat as he shifted uncomfortably. For a moment Theremin thought he would pull his hand away, but it remained in the medic’s hold. Dropmix stubbornly shook his head, vents hissing softly. “But you don’t frag it up all the time.”

The dark mech huffed, “You never hurt me, or disappear without telling me when you’ll be back,” Dropmix’s voice managed to somehow get even quieter, hardly above a whisper as he hunched over in defeat, “You're never disloyal.”

Theremin sucked in another sharp breath, spark skipping in his chest. He knew what this was about, pieces of the puzzle slowly clicking into place. Dropmix not returning from wherever his masters had summoned him, the paint transfers, the scratches and dents, how ashamed his Conjunx was. It all painted a picture that Theremin was all too familiar with.

He knew that most mechs found gladiators attractive—for Primus sake, his own Conjunx was one—and he also knew that when a gladiator was brought out to show off they were drugged in some way to keep them compliant. The masters didn’t want to deal with the backlash if one of the gladiators got out of line and injured a rich mech at a party.

Typically, they would give them high grade and instruct handlers to keep a close eye on them. For the most part that was enough. The gladiators loved having their egos stroked by adoring mechs, they had no issue when the visitors got handsy or intimate.

But Dropmix had never been fond of high grade nor the parties that he would be dragged into.

So, the handlers would slip a little extra sedative into his energon after a match, just enough to ease his anxieties. But the dark gladiator’s owners were a different story. The more compliant Dropmix was, the more guests were willing to pay to attend the private event. They would get him to drink high grade one way or another. And when that didn’t work they would drug him enough that he didn’t know how to say no.

Theremin’s grip on Dropmix’s hand tightened as the weight of what his Conjunx was trying to convey became more apparent. The medic felt his frustration rise—not at Dropmix. Never at Dropmix. At the mechs who had done this to him.

Again.

His own righteous fury welling up deep within him. He knew it was pointless, it didn’t matter what he did—he could shout at them all he wanted or refuse to go to his shifts—it wouldn’t change a damn thing. It couldn’t undo what happened.

He managed to keep his emotions in check, his plating only bristling slightly. Theremin forced himself to relax, to keep his plating from flaring and his touches gentle and soothing. He fought back the urge to grab Dropmix’s face and make the gladiator look at him so he could drill it into his head over and over again that it wasn’t his fault. No matter how much he wanted to yell, throw something, or punch a wall, he stayed firmly planted in front of his partner.

“Dropmix,” Theremin began, tone certain and firm but still gentle and caring. He strained to keep himself composed, “Please look at me.”

Dropmix’s gaze flickered up for a moment before quickly darting away, unwilling to meet Theremin’s eyes. The medic’s spark clenched tighter, but he didn’t let his own frustration slip through. He knew that Dropmix wasn’t avoiding him out of malice—this wasn’t the gladiator being stubborn or prideful—it was because he felt like he had betrayed his Conjunx. He had betrayed what was his.

Theremin sucked in a shaky breath, expression shifting to something more desperate and broken as he pleaded with the gladiator, “Please, Dropmix, please look at me.”

The medic waited, silent, his hands still gently holding Dropmix’s. The larger mech didn’t move, and as the seconds dragged on Theremin felt his composure break a little more. He grimaced and hesitantly brought his hand to the gladiator’s cheek. He lightly caressed his cheek, fingers just barely brushing against the other.

His fingers lingered against Dropmix’s cheek, his touch barely there, as if he feared that too much pressure would make the gladiator pull away completely. For a moment, there was nothing—just the quiet hum of their internal systems, the dim lights casting long shadows across the room.

Then, slowly, Dropmix turned his head just enough for his eyes to meet Theremin’s. They were dim, haunted, carrying the weight of something neither of them had the power to undo. But there was something else there too—a flicker of longing, of exhaustion, of the desperate need to believe the words Theremin had spoken.

The medic let out a quiet breath, his expression softening as he pressed his forehead lightly against Dropmix’s. He closed his eyes tightly for just a moment, the smallest bit of relief running through him when he felt Dropmix press back. Theremin’s hand shifted to sit at the back of the gladiator’s head, just above his neck. He let them sit like that for just a moment longer before he spoke, “It’s not your fault. You’re not disloyal or unfaithful at all. I’m not mad.”

The dark mech tensed at the words. He was silent for just a second, struggling to express his thoughts. Eventually, Dropmix managed to speak, voice hoarse and broken, “I didn’t try to stop them. I didn’t even try, Theremin, I should have at least tried.”

Theremin frowned, keeping his forehead tightly pressed to the other’s, pulling Dropmix’s hand close to his chest. His chest tightened at the words. He and his Conjunx had gone over this time and time again but it never made it easier. Not for either of them.

“You couldn’t,” The smaller mech murmured, his voice steady despite the ache in his spark. “You were drugged, Dropmix. You were out of control, not by choice, but because they made sure of it.” He squeezed the gladiator’s hand, trying to anchor him.

Dropmix let out a shuddering vent, his entire frame trembling as he clenched his free hand into a fist. He let out a low growl, most likely directed at himself, “I should have done something.”

“You couldn’t,” The medic repeated, firmer this time. “And even if you had tried, what would have happened?”

Reluctantly, he pulled away, a hand going to tilt Dropmix’s chin towards him so he could look him in the eye. He gently thumbed his cheek as he smiled bitterly, “They would have punished you and then done it anyway. You did what you had to. I’ll never be upset at you for that.”

The gladiator shook his head dismissively, too stubborn for his own good, “You should be. I would have been fine.”

Theremin couldn’t stop himself from scowling at the large mech. The idea that he could ever be upset with Dropmix for this stung. He held the other’s hand tighter. His voice dropped, eyes narrowing, “No, I shouldn’t. I won’t. I don’t want you to get hurt any more than you have to.”

Dropmix’s vents hitched, his entire frame trembling as if he were trying to hold himself together, trying to resist the need to collapse under the weight of it all. His eyes darted away again, but Theremin wouldn’t let him retreat into himself, he tilted his head up gently again. “Dropmix, look at me.”

The dark mech complied, hesitating for just a moment as he looked up to meet Theremin’s eyes. His expression was pained and guilty, his plating pressing so tightly against his frame it had to hurt. Dropmix’s clawed fingers twitched in the other’s hold, but he didn’t pull away. His vents shuddered as he examined Theremin’s gaze.

The medic’s fingers pressed a little more firmly into Dropmix’s jaw, grounding him, his other hand still cradling the gladiator’s in his own. His voice softened, but there was no mistaking the intensity behind it. “I don’t care what you think you should have done. I care that you’re here. That you came back to me.”

He exhaled, lowering his head slightly. “I care that you’re safe.”

There was a brief pause before Dropmix let out a weak, humorless chuckle, shaking his head. “Safe,” he echoed, voice dripping with bitterness. He scoffed dryly, eyes darkening as he expressed his inner thoughts, his brows furrowed skeptically. “You think this is safe?”

His free hand flexed, claws twitching against his scratched plating. He looked down for just a moment before he looked back at his Conjunx. His voice lowered, straining “I’m theirs, Theremin. They’ll just do it again. You know that. I belong to them.” His voice cracked at the last word, shame curling around his tone like a vice.

Theremin flinched as if struck, breath hitching. His grip on the gladiator's hand tightened. The words physically hurt—he hated hearing Dropmix talk about himself like this, hated the truth behind it. Because it was true. They both knew it. But it didn’t make it right.

“You deserve to have someone who can say that they’re yours and mean it,” Dropmix looked down again, growling. His voice remained broken, though it was clear that it was directed more at himself than Theremin, “It was idiotic of me to think that I could ever make this work, that I could have this.”

Theremin’s spark clenched painfully at the words. His entire frame trembled with the sheer force of his emotions, but he forced himself to stay composed, to stay gentle, because Dropmix didn’t need his anger right now. He exhaled sharply, shifting his grip, threading his fingers through Dropmix’s own, refusing to let him pull away.

“Stop,” Theremin murmured, his voice soft but unwavering. “Stop talking about yourself like that.”

The medic paused, sucking in a deep breath before he pressed on. His thumb still rubbed slow, grounding circles against Dropmix’s knuckles. He sternly looked into the other’s gaze, doing his best to remain composed. "You are not theirs, Dropmix," he said, quiet but fierce. "They might own your body, but they will never own you. You belong to yourself."

Dropmix’s eyes widened slightly, his gaze finally locking onto Theremin’s fully. Emotions crossed his expression for just a moment before he could reel them back in. But Theremin saw it—saw the desperation, the yearning, the part of Dropmix that wanted so badly to believe him but couldn’t.

“You belong to me.” The medic said, voice trembling with quiet, smothered rage. "And I belong to you," he pressed on, voice dropping lower, softer.

The gladiator hesitated, his vents shuddering as he tried to pull away again—but Theremin wouldn’t let him. Not this time.

“I know exactly who you are, Dropmix, I know damn well what it meant when I asked you to be my Conjunx. I chose you. I still choose you.” Theremin sighed, shaking his head. “I don’t want someone else. I don’t want someone who isn’t you.” He shifted, moving so that their foreheads pressed together again, as if that would somehow make Dropmix feel the sincerity in his words.

“They can put their mark on you, they can drag you away whenever they want, they can—” his voice caught, his fingers tightening around the gladiator’s own, “—they can do whatever fragged-up thing they want, but they don’t get this.” He pressed Dropmix’s hand against his own chestplate, over the quiet hum of his spark.

Theremin pulled away to look Dropmix in the eye again, “They don’t get you.”

Dropmix sucked in a trembling vent, his eyes locked onto Theremin’s as his fingers twitched against the smooth plating beneath them. “But I—”

The white mech shook his head sternly, cutting the other off, “It doesn’t matter what you do, what they make you do. I’m yours. And your mine. Understand?”

The gladiator inhaled sharply. For a long moment, he said nothing.

Then, he leaned forward, large head resting on Theremin’s shoulder as he pressed himself into the smaller mech. His plating trembled slightly, breath hitching, as he pressed his head into the nape of the medic’s neck. Theremin let out a shaky exhale, his hands instinctively moving to wrap around Dropmix’s frame, holding him close. His fingers traced gentle patterns along the seams of the gladiator’s plating.

They sat there in silence, nothing but the quiet hum of their systems and the soft, uneven vents from Dropmix filling the space between them for several minutes. But the silence was broken by the gladiator’s weak voice, “I’m tired, Theremin.”

Theremin swallowed, his throat tightening at the words. He shifted his arms, holding Dropmix a little closer, a little tighter, as if sheer proximity alone could shield him from everything weighing him down. The medic rested his chin on Dropmix’s shoulder, his eyes shutting as he exhaled.

“I know,” he murmured. “I know.”

There was nothing he could say that would erase the exhaustion, the guilt, the helplessness. No words could fix what had been done or undo the way the world had tried to break Dropmix over and over again. But he could hold him. He could be here.

For now that was enough.

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